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HARPER'S  CYCLOPAEDIA 


OF 


BRITISH   AND  AMERICAN 


POETRY 


EDITED  BY 

EPES   SARGENT 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1881 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1881,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  tlie  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PE,EFA.CE. 


Poets  have  multiplied  during  the  present  century  as  at  no  previous  period.  Never 
was  the  accomplisbment  of  verse  so  general  as  now.  "  Weren't  we  in  the  luck  of  it," 
said  Scott  to  Moore,  "  to  have  come  before  all  this  talent  was  at  work  ?"  If  the  remark 
was  apt  in  their  day,  how  much  more  so  is  it  at  the  present  time !  Works  in  verse, 
that  would  have  made  a  reputation  a  century  ago,  fall  now  almost  unnoticed  from  the 
press.  It  is  hard  for  the  most  diligent  critic  to  keep  pace  with  the  fertility  of  our 
poets.  The  present  compiler  had  despaired  of  doing  this  long  before  he  had  proceeded 
far  in  his  labors.  The  consequence  is  that  there  have  been  omissions  for  which  no 
better  reason  can  be  given  than  that  they  were  unavoidable.  An  apology  under  such 
circumstances  would  be  out  of  place. 

It  cannot  be  overlooked,  too,  that  much  of  the  best  poetry  of  recent  times  has  been 
the  product  of  feminine  genius.  The  progress  of  women  in  enlarging  the  sphere  of 
their  occupations,  and  competing  with  the  employments  of  the  stronger  sex,  is  repre- 
sented in  no  department  of  intellectual  work  more  signally  than  in  verse.  Every 
month  new  poetry,  far  above  mediocrity,  if  not  of  really  superior  quality,  is  sent  forth. 

This  is  a  sign  to  be  welcomed.  True  poetry,  like  the  religious  prompting  itself, 
springs  from  the  emotional  side  of  man's  complex  nature,  and  is  ever  in  harmony  with 
his  highest  intuitions  and  aspirations.  It  cannot  be  poetry  if  it  conflict  with  these. 
Its  cultivation,  therefore,^apart  from  all  calculations  of  profit  or  of  reputation — since  few 
can  now  realize  their  dream  of  fame — must  always  be  an  elevating  pursuit.  There  are 
some  great  truths  for  the  expression  of  which  the  speculative  understanding  is  less 
fitted  than  that  which  is  the  issue  of  right  feelings  and  noble  impulses.  That  poets 
have  not  always  practised  what  they  have  preached,  only  shows  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
man  to  act  up  to  his  best  ideals. 

It  is  profoundly  true  that  poetry  is  to  be  found  nowhere,  unless  we  have  it  within 
us.  Here,  as  throughout  all  nature  and  all  art,  we  receive  but  what  we  give.  And 
so  it  is  that  great  poets  like  Goethe — of  whom  it  was  said  that  his  praise  of  some 
of  the  younger  poets  of  his  day  was  "  a  brevet  of  mediocrity  " — often  detect  in  what 


304710 


Pit  E  FACE. 


may  strike  an  inferior  judge  as  commonplace,  something  to  which  the  broad  poetical 
nature  may  respond. 

In  poetry,  as  in  other  forms  of  art,  tastes  must  differ  widely,  not  only  among  dif- 
ferent persons,  but  among  the  same  persons  at  different  periods  of  their  lives.  The 
youth,  in  whose  estimate  the  verse  of  Byron  once  had  the  highest  place,  often  finds 
himself,  as  he  grows  older,  transferring  his  affections  to  Coleridge  or  "Wordsworth. 
Tlien,  too,  it  frequently  happens  that  our  fondness  for  a  certain  poem  may  lie  uncon- 
sciously in  some  early  association  with  it,  or  in  the  fact  that  it  was  admired  by  some 
one  near  and  dear  to  us.  We  shut  our  eyes  to  minor  flaws,  and  are  "pleased  we  know 
not  why  and  care  not  wherefore," — wholly  regardless  of  the  critic's  shrug  or  even  the 
grammarian's  objection.  All,  then,  that  the  compiler  can  do  is,  while  admitting  largely 
what  he  may  regard  as  best  and  highest,  to  remember  still  that  in  the  exercise  of  his 
individual  taste  he  must  not  arbitrarily  rule  out  the  representation  of  any  legitimate 
style  or  topic.  Some  of  our  best  humorous  poems,  like  Thackeray's  "  Ballad  of  Bouilla- 
baisse," have  in  them  an  element  of  pathos  which  redeems  their  character  as  poetry. 

There  are  many  minor  poets  who,  by  some  felicity  of  subject  or  of  treatment, 
have  produced  one  successful  piece,  but  never  repeated  the  achievement.  Like  the 
boy  who  shot  an  arrow  through  a  ring,  but  would  not  make  a  second  trial  lest  he 
should  fail,  they  have  been  constrained  to  rest  their  fame  on  the  one  little  waif  by 
which  they  have  been  made  known.  This  class,  and  such  anonymous  writers  as  have 
produced  pieces  that  the  world  does  not  allow  to  become  obsolete,  are  largely  repre- 
sented in  the  present  volume ;  and  our  Index  of  First  Lines  will  be  found  a  conven- 
ient concordance  for  the  discovery  of  many  a  poem  which  everybody  remembers,  but 
few  know  where  to  find. 

In  the  introductory  notices  of  poets,  in  reference  to  the  most  distinguished,  the  aim 
has  been  to  condense,  or  to  sum  up  briefly,  the  most  interesting  incidents  of  their  lives, 
and  the  choicest  characteristics  of  their  writings.  In  doing  this,  occasional  forms  of 
expression,  not  designated  by  quotation-marks,  have  been  adopted,  with  alteration  or 
abridgment,  from  biographer  or  critic;  but  credit  has  been  given  in  cases  of  any  im- 
portance. Original  matter  has  been  largely  introduced;  but,  inasmuch  as  the  license 
of  a  compiler  has  been  used  to  enrich  the  work  with  all  that  is  most  apt  in  the  W'ay 
of  facts  and  of  criticism,  whether  new  or  old,  no  pretensions  to  uniform  originality  in 
these  respects  are  made.  ^^^^  Sakgent. 

Boston,  December,  1880. 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTE. 

The  concluding  pages  of  this  volume  were  put  in  type  only  a  few  days  before 
the  genial  and  cultured  editor  passed  away  from  the  scene  of  his  labors.  It  was  the 
crowning  work  of  a  life  devoted  to  literature.  Projected  several  years  ago,  it  en- 
grossed Mr.  Sargent's  thoughts  and  time  almost  to  the  very  last  day  of  his  life,  and 
every  page  passed  under  his  careful  supervision.  Although  he  did  not  live  to  see  it 
published,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  putting  the  final  touches  to  it,  and  of  knowing  that 
his  work  was  finished. 

Mr.  Sargent  was  eminently  fitted  for  the  preparation  of  a  work  of  this  kind.  Few 
men  possessed  a  wider  or  more  profound  knowledge  of  English  literature,  and  his 
judgment  was  clear,  acute,  and  discriminating.  Pie  designed  this  volume  especially  for 
household  use ;  and  he  could  have  desired  no  kindlier  remembrance  than  that  associ- 
ated with  the  innocent  pleasure  and  refining  influence  it  will  carry  to  many  a  domestic 

fireside. 

Harpek  &  Broth  EKS. 

Franklin  Square,  New  York, 
February  22, 1881, 


^VITH    CONTENTS. 


Adams,  John  Quincy.  page 

To  a  Bereaved  Mother 535 

Adams,  Sarah  Flower. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee 608 

The  World  may  Change  (from  Schiller) 609 

Thy  Will,  uot  Miue 609 

Addison,  Joseph. 

Hymn 127 

Ode  from  the  Nineteenth  Psalm 128 

Paraphrase  on  Psalm  xsiii 128 

Cato's  Soliloquy  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul.  129 

Ode :  How  are  Thy  Servants  Blest 129 

Aiken,  Berkeley. 
Uncrowned  Kings ^ 552 

Ainslie,  He-w. 

Sighings  for  the  Sea-side 441 

The  Ingle-side 442 

Aird,  Marion  Paul. 
Far,  Far  Away 733 

Aird,  Thomas. 
The  Swallow 580 

Akenside,  Mark. 

The  Soul's  Tendencies  to  the  Infinite 186 

The  High-born  Soul 187 

Mind,  the  Fount  of  Beauty 187 

The  Ascent  of  Being 187 

Through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God 188 

Akin,  Mary  Elizabeth. 
Psalm  cxxxvii 568 

Alden,  Henry  M. 
The  Ancient  "  Lady  of  Sorrow  " 881 

Aldrich,  James. 

A  Death-bed 691 

To  One  Far  Away 691 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey. 

Lines  on  Brownell 773 

Piscataqua  River 867 

Before  the  Rain 868 

After  the  Rain 868 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey.  page 

Unsung 868 

Sonnet 868 

Alexander,  Mrs.  Cecil  Frances. 
The  Burial  of  Moses 836 

Alexander,  Joseph  Addison. 
The  Power  of  Short  Words 667 

Alexander,  William. 

Waves  and  Leaves 797 

Jacob's  Ladder 797 

Alford,  Henry. 
A  Memory 692 

Alison,  Richard. 

Hope 22 

Cherry-ripe 22 

Allen,  Elizabeth  Akers. 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep 850 

Till  Death 850 

Allingham,  William. 

Song ., 825 

The  Touchstone 825 

Autumnal  Sonnet 825 

AUston,  Washington. 

Sonnet  on  Coleridge 350 

America  to  Great  Britain 350 

Anonymous  and  Miscellaneous  Poems  of  the 
15th  and  16th  Centuries. 

Chevy  Chase 62 

Sir  Patrick  Spcns 65 

Give  Place,  You  Ladyes  All 66 

Tak'  Tour  Auld  Clonk  About  Ye 67 

The  Heir  of  Linne 68 

The  Nut-brown  Maidc 71 

Sir  John  Barleycorn 75 

Truth's  Integrity 75 

The  Twa  Sisters  o'  Biunorie 76 

Dowie  Dens  o'  Yarrow 78 

Robin  Hood's  Rescue  of  Will  Stutly 79 

Begone,  Dull  Care 80 

Man's  Mortality,  by  Simon  Wastell 81 

Robin  Hood  and  Allin-a-Dale 81 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Anonymous  and  Miscellaneous— Cojifirtwrf.        pace 

Waly,  Waly 83 

Echvurd 83 

Love  Mc  Lillle,  Love  Me  Long 83 

True  Loveliness 84 

Lines  by  One  in  the  Tower,  by  Chidiock  Tycliborn  84 

Bonnie  George  Caniiibell 84 

Silent  Music,  by  Tlioinas  Camptou 85 

Tlic  Heavenly  Jeiusaleni &5 

Helen  of  Kirlvconnell 8G 

Anonymous  and  Miscellaneous  Poems  of  the 
17th  and  18th  Centuries. 

Tlic  Lincolnshire  Poacher 156 

The  Twa  Corbies 156 

Still  Water,  by  Thomas  D'Urfcy 156 

Tlie  Jovial  Beggars,  by  Richard  Bromc 157 

Harvest-home  Song 157 

Time's  Cure 157 

"  When  Sliall  We  Three  Meet  Again  ?" 158 

God  Save  the  King 158 

Winifreda 158 

Wliy  Should  We  Quarrel  for  Riches 159 

The  Fairy  Queene 159 

The  Maiden's  Choice,  by  Henry  Fielding 160 

The  White  Rose 160 

From  Merciless  Invaders 160 

Willie's  Visit  to  Melville  Castle 160 

Our  Gude-man 161 

Jock  o'  Hazelgreen 162 

Love  Not  Me  for  Comely  Grace 1 63 

How  Stands  the  Glass  Around  ? 163 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England 164 

Annie  Laurie,  by  Douglas  of  Fingland 164 

The  Soldier's  Glee 164 

England's  Vote  for  a  Free  Election 685 

Anonymous  and  Miscellaneous  Poems  of  the 

18th  and  19th  Centuries. 

Merry  May  the  Keel  Row 537 

Oh  Saw  Ye  tlic  Lass  ? 5'^7 

The  Pauper's  Drive,  by  Tiionias  Noel 527 

Sonnet :    December  Morning,  by  Anna  Seward. . .  528 

Song  of  Birth .528 

Song  of  Death 528 

Young  Airly 539 

Love's  Remonstrance,  by  James  Kenney 529 

Sonnet :  Comparison .530 

The  Crocus's  Soliloquy,  by  Miss  H.  F.  Gould....  .530 

The  >Ianaging  Mamma .530 

A  Riddle  on  the  Letter  H,  by  Miss  Catherine  M. 

Fanshawc .5.30 

Sweet  Tyrant,  Love,  by  James  Thomson .531 

The  End  of  the  Drought .531 

Tiircc  Kisses  of  Farewell 532 

Tiie  Sailor's  Consolation,  by  William  Pitt 533 

Wiiere  is  He?  by  Henry  Neelc 533 

Heaving  of  the  Lead 533 

Coming  Tlirougli  the  Rye 533 

Oh  !    Say    Not    Woman's    Heart    is    Bought,  by 

Thomas  Love  Peacock .584 

Love  and  Age,  by  Thomas  Love  Peacock .534 

Go,  Sit  by  the  Summer  Sea 534 


Anonymous  and  Miscellaneous— Con^mt^d.        pace 
To  a  Bereaved  Motlicr,  by  John  Quincy  Adams..  535 

Again .535 

Never  Dcspai  r .536 

My  Philosophy .536 

Pi-ogress 536 

Reliquiic .537 

Faith 537 

(ienius 537 

Delrdre's  Farewell  to  Alba 538 

The  Mystery  of  Life,  by  John  Gambold 538 

Fame  (from  the  German  of  Schiller) .539 

The  Clown's  Song 539 

The  Song  of  the  Forge .540 

Sunrise  Comes  To-morrow .540 

Where  Are  Ye  ? 541 

Come,   Sunshine,   Come !    (from    the    French    of 

Charles  Vincent) 542 

When  the  Grass  Shall  Cover  Me 542 

Battle  Hymn  and  Farewell  to  Life  (from  the  Ger- 
man of  Theodore  Korner) 542 

The  Going  of  My  Bride 513 

Erin,  by  Dr.  William  Drennan 543 

The  Swans  of  Wilton M4 

Hymn  to  the  Stars 544 

Summer  Days 545 

With  a  Rose  in  Her  Hair 545 

A  Hundred  Years  to  Conic,  by  William  G.  Brown.  .546 

Lines  on  a  Skeleton .546 

Sonnet;   The  Seen  and  the  Unseen 546 

Thou  Wilt  Never  Grow  Old,  by  Mrs.  Howarth...  547 

Happiest  Days 547 

I  Am  the  Lord ;  I  Change  Not,  by  Arrah  Leigh.  .547 

Invocation  of  Earth  to  Morning 548 

Ode  to  Washington,  by  Mrs.  A.  B.  Stockton .549 

Rcquiescam,  by  Mrs.  Robert  S.  Rowland 549 

The  Departed  Good,  by  Isaac  Williams 549 

A  Spring  Song,  by  Edward  Youl 550 

My  Treasures 550 

"  I  Would  Not   Live  Alway,"   bj'  Rev.  William 

Augustus  Muhlenberg 551 

The  Beautiful,  by  E.  II.  Burrington 551 

The  Joy  of  Incompleteness 5.52 

Uncrowned  Kings,  by  Berkeley  Aiken 5.52 

Wonderland,  by  Cradock  Newton 552 

Mischievous  Woman,  by  "The  Ettrick  Shepherd."  5.53 
The  Water-drinker,  by  Edward  Johnson,  M.D.  ..  553 

G  lenlogie 5.54 

The  Place  to  Die,  by  Michael  Joseph  Barry .5.54 

To  My  Wife,  by  William  Smith 555 

Love  and  Absence,  by  James  Ashcroft  Noble 5.55 

Dreams 5.55 

Epigram,  by  S.  T.  Coleridge 555 

The  First  Spring  Daj-,  by  John  Todhuntcr 5.5<J 

Unbelief 556 

On  a  Virtuous  Young  Gentlewoman  Who   Died 

Suddenly,  by  William  Cartwright 5.50 

The  Way,  by  William  S.  Shurlleff 5.56 

Anster,  John. 

The  Fairy  Child 443 

The  Days  of  Youth  (from  Goethe) 442 

The  Soul  of  Eloquence  (from  Goethe) 443 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Armstrong,  Edmund. 
From  Darkness  to  Liglit 

Arnold,  Ed-win. 
After  Deatli  in  Arabia... 
A  Ma  Future 


PAGE 

.  913 


Arnold,  George. 

lu  tlie  Dark 

Cui  Bono? 

A  Summer  Longiu^ 

Arnold,  Matthew. 

Lines  on  Bjrou 

Self-Dependence 

A  Wish 

Dr.  Arnold 

Austerity  of  Poetrj'. 


851 
851 


858 
858 
859 


394 

783 

783 
784 
781 


Askew,  Anne. 
From  "Tlie  Fight  of  Faith". 


Aubanel,  Theodore. 
Thirteen  (translated  by  Miss  Harriet  W.  Preston). 

Austin,  Arthur  Williams. 
From  "  The  Greek  Anthology" 


Austin,  Mrs.  Sarah. 
The  Passage  (from  the  German  of  Uhland) 

Ayton,  Sir  Robert. 
On  Woman's  Inconstancy 


Aytoun,  William  Edmondstoune. 
The  Old  Scottish  Cavalier 


Bailey,  Philip  James. 
Love,  the  End  of  Created  Being. 
Thoughts  from  ' '  Festus  " 


Ballantine,  James. 
Its  Ain  Drap  o'  Dew. 

Baillie,  Joanna. 

To  a  Child 

Fame 


Ballou,  Maturin  M. 
Flowers. 


Banim,  John. 

Soggarth  Aroon 

From  "Damon  and  Pythias,"  Act  V. 

Barbauld,  Anna  Letitia. 
Life 


Lines  written  at  the  Age  of  Eighty-three  Tears. 

What  do  the  Futures  Speak  of  ? 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous 

The  Unknown  God 

For  Easter  Sunday 


919 


641 


451 


35 


ri3 


734 
735 


G43 


266 
266 


772 


504 
505 


226 
236 
227 
227 
227 
S38 


Barbour,  John.  page 

Freedom 3 

Barham,  Richard  Harris. 

The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims 405 

Song 407 

Barker,  David. 

The  Covered  Bridge 742 

The  Under  Dog  in  the  Fight 743 

Barker,  James  Nelson. 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood 372 


Barlow,  Joel. 
From  "The  Hasty  Pudding". 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne. 
Auld  Robin  Gray 


246 


236 


Barnes,  William. 

Plorata  Veris  Lachrymis 673 

Sonnet :  Rural  Nature 673 


Barr,  Mary  A. 
White  Poppies... 
Out  of  the  Deep. 
A  Harvest-home. 


939 
939 
939 


Barr,  Matthias. 

God's  Flowers 848 

Only  a  Baby  Small 848 


Barry,  Michael  Joseph. 
The  Place  to  Die 


Barton,  Bernard. 
To  a  Grandmother. 

Farewell 

A  Winter  Night... 


554 


368 
369 
369 


Bates,  Charlotte  Fiske. 

Satisfied 923 

After  reading  Longfellow's  "Morituri  Salutamns."  923 

Woodbines  in  October 93d 

Evil  Thought 923 

The  Power  of  Music 923 

Sonnet :   To  C.  F 923 

The  Telephone •. 934 

Hopes  and  Memories 934 


Baxter,  Richard, 
Thy  Will  Be  Done. 


106 


Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes. 

The  Soldier's  Tear 501 

I'd  be  a  Butterfly 503 

She  Wore  a  Wreath  of  Roses 503 

The  Premature  White  Hat 503 

Beattie,  James. 

Nature  and  Her  Votary 218 

Life  and  Immortality 219 


vm 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Beattie,  James. 

Morninj^  Melodies 

Arrai^jniueut  of  Providence. 


PAGE 

.  219 
.  220 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Melanclioly 40 

Civsur's  LumeiiUition  over  Pompcy's  Head 46 

Sonj;  from  "  Valeiitininn  " 47 

On  tlie  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey,  by  Francis 

Beaumont 47 

Invocation  to  Sleep 47 

Sons;  from  "  Kollo,  Duke  of  Normandy  " 47 

From  " Tlic  Humorous  Lieutenant" 47 

From  "  Tiie  Maid's  Tra.u'cdy  " 48 

From  "  The  Custom  of  the  Country  " 48 


Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell. 
To  Sea ! 


Beers,  Mrs.  Ethel  Lynn. 
The  Picket-guard 


591 


818 


Beers,  Henry  Augustin. 

Psyche 930 

Carf amon 930 


Bell,  Henry  Glassford. 

From  "The  End" 

Cadzow 


Bello,  Emilio  (Spanish). 
Meeting  (translated  by  Mrs.  Conant). 


609 
609 


895 


Bennett,  William  Cox. 

A  May-day  Song 773 

A  Thought 772 

Be'ranger,  Pierre  Jean  de  (French). 
Popular  Recollections  of  Bonaparte  (translated  by 
Francis  Mahony) 599 


Berkeley,  George. 
Verses    on   the    Prospect  of  Planting 
Learning  in  America 


Arts  and 


139 


Bethune,  George  Washington. 

It  is  not  Death  to  Die 010 

Sonnet,  introducing  "  Lays,"  etc 610 

Blackie,  John  Stuart. 

The  Hope  of  the  Heterodox 060 

Beautiful  World COO 

To  the  Memory  of  Sydney  Dobell 607 


Blair,  Robert. 
Death  of  the  Strong  Man 


155 


Blake,  William. 

Night 250 

The  Tiger 2.50 

On  Another's  Sorrow 250 

Introduction  to  "Songs  of  Innocence" 251 


Blamire,  Susanna. 
The  Siller  Croun  . . 


PAGE 

.  233 


Blanchard,  Laman. 

The  Eloquent  Pastor  Dead 581 

The  Bird-catcher 582 

Sonnet :   Hidden  Joys .582 

Sonnet :  Wishes  of  Youth 582 

Blood,  Henry  Ames. 

Pro  Mortuis 897 

The  Last  Visitor 897 

Bloomfield,  Robert. 
The  Soldier's  Home 271 

Boker,  George  Henry, 
Dirge  for  a  Soldier 791 


Bonar,  Horatius. 

How  to  Live 

The  Inner  Calm . 


650 
650 


Botta,  Mrs.  Anne  (Lynch). 

Love  Wins  Love 770 

In  the  Adirondacks 770 

The  Lesson  of  the  Bee 770 


Bourdillon,  Francis  W. 

Light 

CiBli 


938 

938 

The  Home  of  My  Heart 938 

The  Difference 938 

Let  us  Love 938 

Bo\>7les,  William  Lisle. 

The  Touch  of  Time 365 

The  Bells  of  Ostend 265 

Sonnet :  October,  1792 265 

Sonnet :  On  the  River  Rhine 265 

Bowring,  Edgar  Alfred. 

What  Songs  are  Like  (from  Goethe) 818 

Youth  and  Age  (from  Goethe,  .^t.  77) 818 

Bowring,  John. 

Ode  to  God  (from  the  Russian  of  Gabriel  Romano- 
witch  Derzhavin) 439 

Wisdom  and  Wealth  (from  the  Russian  of  Khetn- 
nitzer) 440 

True  Courage 440 

Brainard,  John  Gardiner  Caulkins. 

The  Sea-bird's  Song 484 

Stanzas 484 

To  the  Daughter  of  a  Friend 485 

The  Falls  of  Niagara 485 

Brome,  Richard. 
The  Jovial  Beggars 157 

Bronte,  Anne. 
If  This  Be  All 744 


IXDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Bronte,  Charlotte.  page 

Life...-. 742 

From  "  The  Teacher's  Monologue  " 743 

Bronte,  Emily. 

From  "Anticipation" 743 

A  Death  Scene 743 

Brooks,  Charles  Timothy. 

Such  is  Life 711 

The  Two  Grenadiers  (from  the  German  of  Heine).  711 
Alabama 712 

Brooks,  James  Gordon. 
Greece  :  1S22 56S 

Brooks,  Mrs.  James  Gordon. 
Psalm  cssxvii 568 

Brooks,  Maria  (Gowen). 

Lines  to  Southey 47.5 

Song  of  Egla 475 

Brown,  Frances. 
Losses 741 

Brown,  William  Goldsmith. 
A  Hundred  Years  to  Come 546 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas. 
The  Night  is  Come 87 

Browne,  William. 

Shall  I  tell  You  whom  I  Love  ? 53 

The  Siren's  Song 54 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard. 

At  Sea  :    A  Fragment 773 

From  "  The  Bay  Fight" 773 

The  Burial  of  the  Dane 775 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Sonnet :   Cheerfulness  Tauglit  by  Reason 668 

Cowper's  Grave 608 

The  Sleep 6G'J 

A  Woman's  Question 670 

Sonnet :   Futurity 670 

Sonnet :  InsulBcieney 670 

Four  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 670 

Browning,  Robert. 
IIow  they  Brouglit  the  Good  News  from  Ghent.  709 

The  French  at  Katisbon —  , 710 

Meeting  at  Night 710 

Evelyn  Hope 710 

Lines  on  Alfred  Domett 734 

Bruce,  Michael. 
From  an  "Elegy  Written  in  Spring" 231 

Bryant,  John  Howard. 

The  Valley  Brook 626 

The  Little  Cloud 027 

Sonnet :   Autumn 627 

B 


Bryant,  William  CuUen.  page 

November :   a  Sonnet 463 

Tlie  Antiquity  of  Freedom 403 

Thanatopsis 404 

Summer  Wind 465 

The  Future  Life 465 

Meeting  of  Hector  and  Achilles 460 

The  Battle-field. 466 

From  "An  Evening  Reverie" 467 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 467 

Song  :   Dost  Thou  Idly  Ask  to  Hear  ? 467 

The  Return  of  Youth 468 

To  the  Rev.  John  Pierpont 468 

Brydges,  Sir  Egerton. 

Echo  and  Silence 264 

The  Approach  of  Cold  Weather 264 

Written  at  Paris,  May  11, 1826 204 

Written  at  Lee  Priory,  August  10, 1826 264 

Buchanan,  Robert. 

Dying 907 

Hermione  ;   or,  Differences  Adjusted 907 

Langlcy  Lane 908 

To  Triflers 909 

Buckingham,  Duke  of  (see  Villiers). 

Burbidge,  Thomas. 

Sonnet 747 

Even-tide 748 

Burleigh,  William  Henry. 

The  Harvest-call 705 

Sonnet :   Rain 705 

Solitude 705 

Burns,  Robert. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 253 

A  Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  Violent  Anguish.  256 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend,  May,  1786 256 

Baunockburn 257 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 257 

For  A'  That  and  A'  That 258 

Highland  Mary 258 

Bonnie  Lesley 239 

Auld  Lang  Syne 259 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 259 

Ac  Fond  Kiss 260 

John  Anderson  My  Jo 260 

Duncan  Gray 260 

Somebody 261 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 261 

The  Banks  o'  Doon 261 

Afton  Water 261 

Burrington,  E.  H. 
The  Beautiful 551 

Burroughs,  John. 
Waiting , 872 

Butler,  Samuel. 

The  Learning  of  Hudlbras . . . , , 104 

From  "  MiscellancQus  Thoughts  " 104 


ISDKX   OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Butler,  William  Allen.  pace 

Nothing  to  Wear 700 

Byrom,  John. 

My  Spirit  Loni;ctli  for  Tiicc 153 

All  Epii^rain  on  tlic  lilcsscdncss  of  Divine  Love.  153 

St.  Pliilip  Neri  and  tlic  YouUi 153 

Jacobite  Toast 154 

B3nron,  Lord. 

Lines  on  George  Crol^' 350 

Lines  on  Ilcnry  Kirlce  Wliite 377 

From  "  Cliildc  Harold  " 305 

Scenes  by  Lake  Loinan 305 

Waterloo 300 

Address  to  the  Ocean 307 

Evening 308 

Tlie  Isles  of  Greece 308 

From  the  " Ode  on  Venice" 309 

She  Walks  in  Beanty 400 

On  His  Thirty-sixth  Year 400 

The  Dream 401 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 403 

When  We  Two  Parted 403 

Modern  Critics 403 

Maid  of  Athens,  Ere  We  Part 404 

To  Thomas  Moore 404 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 404 

When  Coldness  Wraps  This  Suffering  Clay 404 

From  "The  Prophecy  of  Dante" 405 

Calderon.  Don  Pedro  (Spanish). 
Lines  translated  by  ^Irs.  Couant 895 

Callanan,  Joseph  Jeremiah. 
The  Virgin  Mary's  Bank 469 

Calverley,  Charles  Stuart. 
Lines  Suggested  by  the  Fourteenth  of  February.  844 

Calvert,  George  Henry. 
On  the  Fifty-lifth  Sonnet  of  Shakspeare 591 

Campbell,  Thomas. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 3.32 

Loehiel's  Warning 8o"3 

Hallowed  Ground 333 

Song  of  the  Greeks 334 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 335 

Ilohenlinden 335 

Freedom  and  Love 330 

The  Soldier's  Uream 330 

Valedictory  Stanzas  to  John  Philip  Kemble,  Esq.  337 

Exile  of  Erin 3.37 

Adelgitha .338 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 338 

The  Parrot 3.39 

To  the  Rainbow 339 

Hope's  Kingdom 1340 

Unbelief  in  Immortality 340 

Campion,  Thomas. 
Silent  Music 85 


Canning,  George.  pace 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Kiiife-grifider : 
A  Parody  on  Southey's  Lines,  "The  Widow"..  275 

On  the  Death  of  His  Eldest  Son 270 

Song  by  Rogero 276 

Carew,  Thomas. 

Disdain  Returned .52 

On  Returning  Her  Letters 52 

^lediocrity  in  Love  Rejected 53 

Song  :  Ask  Mc  No  More 53 

Carey,  Henry. 
Sally  in  Our  Alley 105 

Carleton,  Will. 
Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-house 928 

Carlyle,  Thomas. 

Cui  Bono  ? 475 

To-day 476 

Carrington,  Noel  Thomas. 
The  Pixies  of  Devon 341 

Cartwright,  William. 
On  a  Virtuous  Young  Gentlewoman 556 

Gary,  Alice. 

Alice's  Last  Hymn 768 

Thou  that  Drawest  Aside  the  Curtain 769 

Cary,  Phoebe. 

Thou  and  1 769 

Nearer  Home 769 

Chadwick,  John  White. 

Auld  Lang-syne 901 

By  the  Sea-shore 902 

Carpe  Diem 902 

Channing,  William  Ellery. 

To  My  Companions 744 

A  Poet's  Hope 744 

Channing,  William  Henry. 
Mignon's  Song  (from  Goethe) 079 

Chapman,  George. 

Of  Sudden  Death 10 

The  Highest  Standard 19 

Give  Me  a  Spirit 19 

Charles  I.,  King. 
A  Royal  Lamentation 86 

Charlton,  Robert  M. 
The  Death  of  Jasper 032 

Chatterton,  Thomas. 
The  Bristow  Tragedy;  or,  The  Death  of  Sir  Charles 

Bawdin 2.39 

On  Resignation 243 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Chaucer,  Geoffrey.  page 

An  Earthly  Paradise 1 

To  his  Empty  Purse 2 

The  Parson 3 

Good  Counsel  of  Chaucer o 

Cherry,  Andrew. 
The  Bay  of  Biscay 263 

Child,  Lydia  Maria. 
Lines  on  'Wlutticr 6:34 

Chorley,  Henry  Fothergill. 
The  Brave  Old  Oak 6i3 

Churchill,  Charles. 

Kemorse 207 

From  "The  Rosciad  :"  Sketches  of  Yates,  Foote, 
Murphy,  Mrs.  Clive,  Mrs.  Pope,  Quin,  and  Gar- 
rick 207,  20S,  209 


Cibber,  Colley. 
The  Blind  Boy 


127 


Clare,  John. 

On  an  Infant  Killed  by  Liuhtniug 452 

The  Thrush's  Nest :  a  Sonnet 452 

Spring  Flowers 452 

Lines  iu  a  Lucid  Interval 453 


Clark,  James  Gowdrey. 
Leona  


Clark,  Willis  Gaylord. 
"They  that  Seek  Me  Early  shall  Find  Me" 


834 


690 


Clarke,  James  Freeman. 

Prayer  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 677 

The  Rule  Mith  no  Exception  (after  Goethe) 678 

White-capped  Waves 678 

A  Reminiscence  (after  Pailleron) 678 

The  Perfect  Whole  (after  Geibel) 679 

Clarke,  Miss  Lilian. 
A  Shelter  against  Storm  and  Rain  (after  the  Ger- 
man of  Riickert) 678 

Clemmer,  Mary. 

Waiting 889 

A  Perfect  Day 890 

Nantasket 890 

Alone  with  God 891 


Clive,  Mrs.  Archer  Wigley. 
The  Wish 


509 


Clough,  Arthur  Hugh. 

I  will  not  Ask  to  Feel  Thou  Art 753 

Consider  it  Again 7.53 

Qui  Laborat,  Orat 753 

Dulce  et  Decorum  Est  Pro  Patria  Mori 754 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 754 

In  a  Gondola 755 


Cockburn,  Alicia  Rutherford. 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest 


rAGB 

,  194 


Coffin,  Robert  Barry. 
Ships  at  Sea 


815 


Coleridge,  Hartley. 

Still  I  am  a  Child 496 

Song:   She  is  not  Fair  to  Outward  View 496 

No  Course  I  cared  to  Keep 497 

Sonnet  to  Wordsworth 497 

The  Flight  of  Youth 497 

November  :  a  Sonnet 497 

Wisdom  the  Gray  Hairs  to  a  Man 497 

Sonnet  to  Shakspeare 497 

Liberty :   a  Sonnet 498 

No  Life  Vain 498 

The  Waif  of  Nature 498 

To  a  Newly-married  Friend 498 

The  Same,  and  Not  Another 498 

On  Receiving  Alms 498 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor. 

Love 306 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni. .  307 

Complaint 308 

Human  Life 308 

Fancy  in  Nubibus  ;  or,  The  Poet  in  the  Clouds..  308 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Education 309 

From  "  Dejection  :  an  Ode" 309 

Death  of  Max  Piccolomini 309 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 309 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 310 

To  the  Author  of  "The  Ancient  Mariner" 317 

Epigram  on  Poetasters 555 


Coleridge,  Sara. 
Sonnet  on  Blanco  White 


325 


Collier,  Thomas  Stephens. 

A  Windy  Evening 917 

A  Sea  Echo 918 

Collins,  Mortimer. 

First  of  April,  1876 817 

In  View  of  Death 817 

The  Positivists 817 

Collins's  Last  Verses 817 

Collins,  William. 

Ode,  Written  in  the  Year  1746 188 

Ode  to  Evening 189 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson 189 

The  Passions :   an  Ode  for  Music 190 

Collyer,  Robert. 

Saxon  Grit 793 

Colman,  George,  the  Younger. 

Sir  Marmaduke 263 


Colton,  Caleb  C. 
Life 


352 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Conant,  Helen  S. 

From  the  Spiuiish  of  Culderon 

Alas!  ((Vi)m  the  Spanish  of  lleredia) 

Spanish  Song 

Mcctini^  (from  the  Spanish  of  Emilio  BcUo). 
German  Love  Sons' 


PAGE 

,  895 

.  805 

,  895 

,  895 

.  895 


Conant,  Samuel  Stillman. 

Release 

A  Viiiil 

The  Saucy  Rogue  (from  the  German) 

Conrad,  Robert  T. 
From  "  My  Brother" 

Constable,  Henry. 
Diaphcnia 

Cook,  Clarence. 
Abram  and  Zimri 


Cook,  Eliza. 
The  Old  Arm-chair 


Cooke,  John  Esten. 
May 

Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton. 

Florence  Vane 

Cooke,  Rose  Terry. 

Trailing  Arbutus 

Indolence 

Cornwall,  Barry  (see  Procter,  Bryan  Waller). 

Cotton,  Charles. 
No  Ills  but  what  we  Make 


Cotton,  Nathaniel. 
To-morrow 


Cowley,  Abraham. 

My  Picture 

Tentanda  Est  Via 

A  Happy  Life  (from  Martial). 

Mark  that  Swift  Arrow 

On  the  Death  of  Crashaw 

From  "The  Wish" 


8S0 
8S0 
880 


Gil 
40 
823 
746 
838 
736 

819 

819 

114 
175 


109 
110 
110 
110 
111 

m 


Cowper,  William. 

Rural  Sounds 210 

Affectation 210 

Industry  in  Repose 211 

Welcome  to  Evening 211 

An  Ode  :   Boadicea 211 

A  Winter  Evening  in  the  Library 212 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture 212 

Loss  of  the  Jioijal  George 213 

To  Mary  Unwin 214 

Character  of  Lord  Chatham 214 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 214 

Cox,  Christopher  Christian. 

One  Year  Ago 737 

Haste  Not,  Rest  Not  (after  Schiller) 737 


Coxe,  Arthur  Cleveland.  »'age 

Watdnvords 7.50 

Matin  Bells 750 

Crabbe,  George. 

The  Sea  in  Calm  and  Storm 245 

The  Pilgrim's  Welcome 245 

It  is  the  Soul  that  Sees 246 

Craik,  Mrs.  Dinah  Mulock. 

To  a  Winter  Wind 812 

Too  Late 812 

Philip,  My  King 812 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse. 

Sonnet 714 

Gnosis 714 

From  an  "Ode"  on  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli 715 

Crashaw,  Richard. 

In  Praise  of  Lessius's  Rule  of  Health 101 

From  "Wishes  to  his  Supposed  Mistress" 101 

Two  went  up  to  the  Temple  to  Pray 102 

Croly,  George. 

The  Death  of  Leonidas a56 

The  Seventh  Plague  of  Egypt 357 

Catiline's  Defiance  to  the  Roman  Senate 358 

Cross,  Marian  Evans  (George  Eliot). 

Oh,  may  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible 771 

Day  is  Dying 771 

Croswell,  William. 

Drink  and  Away 603 

De  Profundis 604 

Cunningham,  Allan. 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 366 

It's  Uame,  and  It's  Hame 366 

The  Spring  of  the  Year 367 

Cunningham,  John. 
May-cvc  ;  or,  Kate  of  Aberdeen 204 

Curry,  Otway. 


Kingdom  Come. 


605 


Curtis,  George  William. 

Egyptian  Serenade 794 

Pearl  Seed 794 

Ebb  and  Flow 794 

Major  and  Minor 794 

Music  i'  the  Air 794 


Cutler,  Elbridge  Jefferson. 
A  Poem  for  the  Hour  (1861) , 


S16 


Cutter,  George  Washington. 
Song  of  Steam 722 

Dale,  Thomas. 

Stanzas  for  Music 499 

Dirge 499 


INDEX  OF  AVTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Dana,  Charles  Anderson.  page 

Sonnet :   Manhooil 756 

Sonnet :  Via  Saci'a 757 

Sonnet :   To  R.  B 757 

Dana,  Richard  Henry. 

Ininiortalit}' 383 

Wasliingtou  Allstoii 383 

The  Island 3S1 

The  Pirate 384 


Daniel,  Samuel. 
Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland. 

Fair  is  my  Love 

Early  Love 


Darley,  George. 
From  "  The  Fairies  "  . . , 
The  Queen  of  the  May  , 
Suicide 


Darwin,  Erasmus. 

The  Goddess  of  Botany 

Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Miudcu 


Davenant,  Sir  William. 
The  Soldier  Going  to  the  Field. 
To  the  Queen 


Davidson,  Lucretia  Maria. 

To  my  Sister 

Prophecy  :  To  a  Lady 


Davidson,  Margaret  Miller. 
Dedication  of  "  Leuore  " 


Joy 

Introduction  to  "Lenore'' 
From  "Lines  to  Lucretia' 


Davies,  Sir  John. 
The  Soul's  Aspirations 
Myself , 


Davis,  Thomas  Osborne. 
The  Welcome 


Davy,  Sir  Humphry. 
Written  after  PiCcovery  from   a  Dangerous   Ill- 
ness   

Life 


Thought. 


Dawes,  Rufus. 

To  GencTieve 

Love  Unchangeable. 


De  Kay,  Charles. 

The  Blush 

Fingers 

On  Revisiting  Staten  Island 

Denham,  Sir  John. 
Description  of  the  Thames  . 


20 
21 
21 


378 
379 
379 


206 
206 


87 

87 


643 
644 


644 
644 
645 
646 


45 

46 


719 


341 
343 
343 


589 
589 


933 
933 
933 


104 


Derzhavin,  Gabriel  R.  page 

Ode  to  God  (Bowring's  translation) 4:^9 

De  Vere  (see  Vere). 

Dibdin,  Charles. 
Poor  Jack 228 

Dickens,  Charles. 
The  Ivy  Green 700 


Dimitry,  Charles. 
Viva  Italia 


Dimond,  William. 
The  Mariner's  Dream. 


Doane,  George  Washington. 
What  is  that,  Mother  ? 


880 


356 


518 


Dobell,  Sydney  Thompson, 

How's  my  Boy  ? 794 

Sonnet :   America 795 

Dobson,  Austin. 

"  More. Poets  Yet !" 896 

The  Prodigals 896 

You  bid  me  Try 896 

A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons 896 

Chansonette 897 

The  Child  Musician 897 

Doddridge,  Philip. 

Ye  Golden  Lamps 171 

Awake,  Ye  Saints 173 

Epigram 172 

Hark,  the  Glad  Sound 173 

Dodge,  Mary  Mapes. 

In  the  Canon 903 

Shadow  Evidence 904 

The  Two  Mysteries 904 

Now  the  Noisy  Winds  are  Still 905 


Domett,  Alfred. 
A  Christmas  Hymn. 


734 


Donne,  Dr.  John. 

Sonnet 42 

The  Soul's  Flight  to  Heaven 42 

Elegy  on  Mistress  Elizabeth  Drury 42 

Dorr,  Mrs.  Julia  C. 

Quietness 808 

Heirship 808 

To-day  :   a  Sonnet 809 

Somewhere 809 

Twenty-one 809 


Doten,  Lizzie. 
"Gone  is  Gone,  and  Dead  is  Dead". 

Doubleday,  Thomas. 
Sonnet :   The  Wallflower 


829 


413 


IXDKX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Douglas  of  Fingland. 
Aunic  Laurie 


PAGE 

.  1G4 


Dowden,  Edward. 

Aboard  the  Sva-swallow 931 

Oasis 1)31 

Wise  Passivcncss 932 

The  Inner  Life 933 

Two  Infinities 933 

Drake,  John  Rodman. 

lie  put  liis  Acorn  Helmet  on 473 

Tlie  American  Flaj^ 473 

Ode  to  Fortune 473 

The  Gathering  of  the  Fairies 473 

Drayton,  Michael. 

A  Parting 34 

Tlic  Ballad  of  Agincourt 34 


Drennan,  William. 
Erin 


543 


Drummond,  William. 

The  Universe 49 

Man's  Strange  Euds .50 

Tlie  Hunt 50 

Dryden,  John. 

Alexander's  Feast 115 

Veni  Creator 117 

Shaftesbury  Delineated  as  Aohitophel 118 

Buclvingham  Delineated  as  Zimri 118 

Enjoy  the  Present 118 

Duflferin,  Lady. 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant G71 

D'Urfey,  Thomas. 

Still  Water 15G 

Durivage,  Francis  Alexander. 

All 737 

Chez  Brabant 737 

Jerry 737 

Dwight,  John  Sullivan. 

Trnnslation  from  Fricderike  Brun .306 

True  Rest 717 

Vanitas!  Vanitatum  Vanitas  !  (from  Goethe) 718 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward. 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 8 


Dyer,  John. 
Grongar  Hill 170 

Eastman,  Charles  Gamage. 

Scene  in  a  Vermont  Winter 738 

Thanatos 739 

Eliot,  George  (see  Cross,  Marian  Evans\ 

Ellet,  Elizabeth  Fries. 
SoDQCt :   O  Weary  Heart 749 


Elliot,  Miss  Jane. 
Tlie  Flowers  of  the  Forest 


PAGE 

.  193 


Elliott,  Ebenezer. 

Ki)igram 300 

Farewell  to  Kiviliu 300 

From  "  Lyrics  for  my  Daughters " 300 

Hymn 301 

Not  for  Naught 301 

Spring  :   a  Sonnet 301 

The  Day  was  Dark 303 

A  Poet's  Epitaph 303 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

The  Snow-storm .593 

Good-bye,  Proud  World  ! .592 

Sursum  Corda .593 

To  the  Ilumblebec ' .593 

The  Soul's  Prophecy 593 

The  Apology 593 

Concord  Monumental  Hymn 594 

English,  Thomas  Dunn. 

The  Old  Mill 768 

Everett,  Alexander  Hill. 

The  Young  American 413 

Everett,  Edward. 

Alaric  the  Visigoth 459 

Ewen,  John. 

0  Wcel  may  the  Boatic  Row 334 

Faber,  Frederick  William. 

1  he  Life  of  Trust 733 

Harsh  Judgments 733 

Fairfax,  Edward. 

Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet 37 

Falconer,  William. 

From  "  The  Shipwreck  " 305 

Fane,  Julian. 

Three  Sonnets,  "Ad  Matrem" 833 

Fanshawe,  Catherine  M. 

A  Riddle  on  the  Letter  H 530 

Fawcett,  Edgar. 

Criticism 930 

Fenner,  Cornelius  George. 

Winnipiseogce  Lake 779 

Gulf-weed. 780 

Ferguson,  Samuel. 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor 611 

Fielding,  Henry. 

The  Maiden's  Clioice 160 

Fields,  James  T. 

Last  Words  in  a  Strange  Land 748 

Agassiz 748 


IXDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Finley,  John. 
Bachelor's  Hall. 


PAGE 

,  503 


Fletcher,  John  (see  Beaumont  and  Fletcher) 

Fletcher,  Maria  Jane  (Jewsbury). 
Birth-day  Ballad 


Ford,  John. 
Musical  Contest  with  a  Nightingale. 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins. 
Old  Folks  at  Home 


Freneau,  Philip. 
May  to  April. . . 


Frere,  John  Hookham. 

The  Proem 

Whistlecraft  and  ^lurray. 

Frisbie,  Levi. 
A  Castle  in  the  Air 


Frothingham,  Nathaniel  Langdon. 

The  Sight  of  the  Blind 

O  Gott,  Du  Frommer  Gott ! 


Fuller,  Margaret  (Marchioness  Ossoli). 

Sonnet :  Orpheus 

Sonnet :  Beethoven 

On  Leaving  the  "West 


Gall,  Richard. 
My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  O . 

Gallagher,  William  D. 
From  "My  Fiftieth  Year" 

Lines 

The  Laborer 

From  " Miami  Woods" 


Gambold,  John. 
The  Mystery  of  Life 

Gannett,  William  Channing. 
Listening  for  God 


Garrison,  William  Lloyd. 

The  Guiltless  Prisoner 

Freedom  of  the  Mind 

To  Benjamin  Lundy 

Sonnet 


508 


49 


810 


244 


Zi6 

274 


369 


445 

446 


677 
677 
677 


330 


651 
651 
651 
652 


538 


898 


614 
614 
614 
615 


Gascoigne,  George. 
The  Lullaby 


Gay,  John. 
Sweet  William's  Farewell  to  Black-eyed  Susan. . .  151 
The  Hare  and  many  Friends 153 

Gibson,  William. 
From  the  "Hymn  to  Freya" 798 


Giflford,  WiUiam. 
To  a  Tuft  of  Early  Violets. 
From  "The  Baviad" 


Gilbert,  William  Schwenck. 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe , 

-  Mortal  Love 


Gilder,  Richard  Watson. 

The  River 

A  Thought 

Song , 

O  Sweet  Wild  Roses  that  Bud  and  Blow, 

Call  me  not  Dead , 

My  Songs  are  all  of  Thee 


248 
249 


871 
871 


024 

924 
924 
9:34 
925 
925 


Gillespie,  William. 
The  Highlander. . . . 


Gilman,  Mrs.  Caroline. 
From  "The  Plantation" 
Annie  in  the  Grave5'ard. 


Glen,  William. 
Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie. 

Glover,  Richard. 
Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost 


Goethe,  John  Wolfgang  von. 
The  Days  of  Youth  (Anster's  translation) 

The  Soul  of  Eloquence  (Anster) 

The  Rule  with  no  Exception  (Clarke) 

Mignon's  Song  (Channing,  W.  H.) 

Vanitas  !  Vanitatum  Vanitas  !  (Dwight) 

What  Songs  are  Like  (Bo wring) 

Youth  and  Age  (Bowring) , 


331 


458 
458 


411 


179 


442 
443 

678 
679 

718 
818 
818 


Goldsmith,  Oliver. 

The  Deserted  Village 

From  "  The  Traveller  ;  or,  A  Prospect  of  Society" 
Retaliation 

Good,  John  Mason. 
The  Daisv 


195 
199 

200 


Goodale,  Dora  Reed. 
Ripe  Grain 

April !  April  !  are  you  here  ? 
What  is  Left? 


Goodale,  Elaine. 
Papa's  Birthday  . 
Ashes  of  Roses . . 


Gosse,  Edmund  W. 

Villanelle 

The  God  of  Wine:— Chant  Royal. 

Gould,  Hannah  Flagg. 
The  Crocus's  Soliloquy 

Gower,  John. 
Medea  gathering  Herbs 


269 


942 
942 
942 


941 
942 


926 

927 


530 


xvi 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Graham,  James  (Marquis  of  Montrose).         "aoi; 
I'll  uevcr  Love  Thuc  more 103 

Graham,  Robert. 
Ob,  Tell  inc  how  to  Woo  Tlicc 235 

Qrahame.  James. 

Sabbath  Morninn- 269 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk 370 

A  Present  Deity 270 

Grant,  Mrs.  Anne  (of  Laggan). 
Oh,  Where,  Tell  me  Where  ? '2A1 

Grant,  Mrs.  (of  Carron). 
Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch 225 

Grant,  Robert. 
Whom  have  I  in  Heaven  but  Thee  ? 378 

Gray.  David. 

Wintry  Weather 888 

Die  Down,  O  Dismal  Day 8S9 

If  it  Must  Be 889 

An  October  Musing 889 

Gray,  Thomas. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church-yard 182 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Trospect  of  Eton  College 184 

Green,  Matthew. 
From  "  The  Spleen  " 154 

Greene,  Albert  Gorton. 
Old  Grimes 578 

Greene,  Robert. 
A  Death-bed  Lament 19 


Greg,  Samuel. 
Pain 


Beaten!     Beaten!. 


GOO 
601 


Greville,  Fulke  (Lord  Brooke). 

Reality  of  a  True  Religion 18 

From  "Lines  on  the  Death  of  Philip  Sidney"...     18 


Griffin,  Edmund  D. 
Lines  on  Leaving  Italy , 


004 


Griffin,  Gerald. 

Song :  A  Place  in  Thy  Memory,  Dearest 586 

Adare 580 

The  Bridal  of  Malahide 586 

Gustafson,  Zadel  Barnes. 

Zlobanc 906 

The  Factory  Boy 907 

Habington,  William. 
Nomine  Labia  Men.  Aperies 88 

Hageman,  Samuel  Miller. 
Stanzas  from  "  Silence  " 932 


Hall,  Joseph.  page 

Anthem  for  the  Cathedral  of  Exeter 40 

On  Love  Poetry 41 

Hall,  Mrs.  Louisa  Jane. 

Grow  not  Old 580 

Waking  Dreams 580 

Hall,  Samuel  Carter, 
Nature's  Creed 571 

Hallam,  Arthur  Henry. 

Three  Sonnets 095 

To  Alfred  Tennyson 095 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene. 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 476 

Marco  Bozzaris 476 

Burns 478 

Ahnviek  Castle 479 


Halpine,  Charles  Graham. 
Janette's  Hair 


833 


Hamilton,  Elizabeth. 
My  Aiu  Fireside 


Hamilton,  William. 
The  Braes  of  Yarrow 173 

Hamilton,  William  Rowan. 
A  Prayer 013 

To  Adams,  Discoverer  of  the  Planet  Neptune 013 

Harney,  William  Wallace. 
Jimmy's  Wooing 853 

Harris,  Thomas  Lake. 
The  Spirit-born 785 

Harte,  Bret. 

Dow's  Flat 877 

Jim. 878 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James 879 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen. 
Song  of  the  Cornish  Men 584 

"Are  They  not  all  Ministering  Spirits?" 585 

Hawthorne,  Julian. 
Free-will 929 

Hay,  John. 

A  Triumph  of  Order 893 

My  Castle  in  Spain 894 

Hayley,  William. 
The  Departing  Swallows 290 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. 

From  the  Woods 848 

Lyric  of  Action 849 

Sonnet 849 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTEXTS. 


Heber,  Reginald.  page 

From  Bishop  Ileber's  Journal 363 

The  Widow  of  Naiii 3(53 

Missionary  Hymn 3(54 

Christmas  Hymn 3(54 

Early  Piety 3(54 

The  Moonlight  March 304 

May-day 305 

Hedderwick,  James. 
First  Grief. 7:29 

Hedge,  Frederic  Henry. 

The  Crucifixion 01.5 

Qucstioninj^s 015 

Heerman,  Johann  (German\ 
Hymn  (translated  by  Frothingham) 446 

Heine,  Heinrich  (German). 
Sie  Haben  Mich  Gequiilet  (Martin's  translation).  740 
The  Excellent  Man  (Martin's  translation) 740 

Hemans,  Felicia. 

Calm  on  the  Bosom  of  Tiiy  God 447 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 447 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 448 

The  Home  of  the  Spirit 448 

Casablanca 448 

Sonnet  on  Grasmere 449 

The  Messenger-bird 449 

Leave  Me  Not  Yet 450 

Evening  Song  of  the  Tyrolese  Peasants 450 

Hymn  of  the  Mountaineers 4.50 

The  Greek  Islander  in  Exile 451 

Sunday  in  England 451 

Henryson,  Robert. 
A  Vision  of  ^Esop 5 

Heraud,  John  Abraham. 
The  Emigrant's  Home ^ 519 

Herbert,  George. 

Man 60 

The  Elixir 01 

Sweet  Day 01 

Heredia,  Jose  Maria  (Spanish). 
Alas  !  (translated  by  Mrs.  Conaut) 895 

Herrick,  Robert. 

To  Daflodils .54 

Not  a  Prophet  Every  Day 54 

Ode  to  Ben  Jonson 54 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 55 

Night-piece  to  Julia 55 

To  Blossoms 55 

To  Corinna,  to  Go  a-Maying 50 

To  Dianeme .56 

Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson 57 

The  Primrose 57 

Herschel,  Sir  John. 

Throw  Thyself  on  Thy  God 441 

c 


Harvey,  Thomas  Kibble.  page 

Hope 601 

To  One  Departed COa 

Cleopatra  Embarking  on  the  Cydnus 602 

To  Ellen— Weeping 603 

Haywood,  Thomas. 

Fantasies  of  Drunkenness 36 

Song :   Pack  Clouds  Away 37 

Search  after  God 37 

Higginson,  Mary  Thacher. 
Gifts 791 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth. 

"I  will  Arise  and  go  to  my  Father" 791 

Decoration 79:3 

The  Reed  Lnmortal 792 

Hill,  Thomas. 

The  Bobolink 751 

Antiopa 751 

The  Winter  is  Past 753 

Hillhouse,  James  Abraham. 
Interview  of  Iladad  and  Tamar 410 

Hirst,  Henry  B. 
Parting  of  Dian  and  Endymion 718 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno. 
Monterey 617 

Hogg,  Jamas. 

Bonny  Kilmeny 277 

The  Skylark 281 

When  Maggy  Gangs  Away 281 

Mischievous  Woman 553 

Holcroft,  Thomas. 
Gaffer  Gray 229 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert. 

Gradatim 766 

Wanted 766 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

Bill  and  Joe 6.53 

Old  Ironsides 6.53 

Rudolph,  the  Headsman 0.54 

Nearing  the  Snow-line 6.54 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 6.54 

The  Two  Streams 0.55 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke 6.55 

Contentment (5.55 

The  Voiceless (556 

L'Inconnuc 656 

Holy  day,  Bartan. 
Distichs 59 

Home,  John. 
The  Soldier-hermit 193 


IXDIJX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Home,  F.  Wy-ville,  pace 

A  Choice '.»:i7 

From  " Ode  to  the  Viue" y:57 

Hood,  Thomas. 

Sonnet  on  the  Counting-house 507 

TIic  Briiljie  of  Sighs 508 

The  Song  of  the  Shii  t 509 

I  rcmcuiber 510 

Fair  Ines 510 

Farewell,  Life 511 

The  Monkey-martyr  :  a  Fable 511 

The  Lee  Shore 5i:5 

To  Charles  Dickens,  Esq 513 

Ruth 513 

A  Parental  Ode  to  My  Son 513 

The  luipudencc  of  Steam 514 

The  Death-bed 514 

Hooper,  Lucy  Hamilton. 

Ou  an  Old  Portrait S7G 

In  Vain «7(3 

The  King's  Ride 877 

Hopkinson,  Joseph. 
Hail,  Columbia  ! 295 

Home,  Richard  Hengist. 

Morning 581 

Summer  Noon 581 

Hosmer,  William  Hemy  Cuyler. 

Blake's  Visitants 731 

To  a  Long  Silent  Sister  of  Song 731 

Houghton,  Lord  (see  Milnes). 

Howard,  Henry  (Earl  of  Surrey). 
How  No  Age  is  Content G 

Howarth,  Mrs. 
Thou  Wilt  Never  Grow  Old 547 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 75S 

Speak,  for  Thy  Servant  llcareth 758 

Howells,  William  Dean. 

Thanksgiving 871 

The  Mysteries 871 

Howitt,  Mary. 

New-year's-eve 594 

The  Fairies  of  Caldon-Low .590 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly .597 

Cornlields  .• 598 

Howitt,  William. 

Hoar- frost :  a  Sonnet 4S3 

The  Wind  in  a  Frolic 483 

Howland,  Mrs.  Robert  S. 
Requiescam 549 


Hoyt,  Ralph. 
Stanzas  from  "New" 


PAGE        < 

.  072 


Hume,  Alexander  (1560-1609). 
The  Story  of  a  Summer  Day 


Hume.  Alexander  (1809-1851). 
My  Wee,  AVee  Wife 


Hunt,  Leigh. 
To  T.  L.  n..  Six  Years  Old,  during  Sickness.. 

Abou  Ben  Adliem  and  the  Angel 

An  Italian  Morning  in  May , 

Thoughts  on  the  Avon,  Sept.  28,  1817 

May  and  the  Poets 

Death 

Jenny  Kissed  Me 


Hunter,  Mrs.  Anne. 
Indian  Death-song.. 


Huntington,  Frederic  Dan. 
A  Supplication 


Imlah,  John. 

The  Gathering 

From  "There  Lives  a  Young  Lassie' 


Ingelow,  Jean. 
The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  (1571). 

Inglis,  Mrs.  Margaret  Maxwell. 
From  "Lines  on  the  Death  of  Hogg" 


Jackson,  Helen  Fiske. 

Tlie  Way  to  Sing 

March T 

Thought 

October 


Jackson,  Henry  Rootes. 

My  Father 

The  Live-oak 

My  Wife  and  Child 


James  I.  of  England. 
Sonnet :  To  Prince  Henry. 

James  I.  of  Scotland. 
1  he  Captive  King 


James.  Paul  Moon. 
The  Beacon 


Jenks,  Edward  Augustus. 
Going  and  Coming 


Jerrold,  Douglas. 
The  Drum 


Johnson,  Edward. 

The  Water-drinker. 


35 


058 


370 


700 


520 
520 


840 


324 


843 
t>43 
843 
844 


38 


355 


SIO 


584 


553 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOIiS,  If  ITU   CONTENTS. 


Johnson,  Samuel.  tage 

Charles  XII.  of  Sweden 178 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Robert  Levctt 178 

Cardinal  Wolsc}- 179 

Nor  Deem  Kclisiou  Vain 179 

On  Claude  Phillips, an  Itinerant  Musician  in  Wales.  179 

Jones,  Sir  William. 

A  Persian  Song  of  Ilafiz 233 

Tetrastich  (from  the  Persian ) 233 

An  Ode  in  Imitation  of  Alca'us 333 

Jonson,  Ben. 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakspcare 43 

See  the  Chariot  at  Hand 43 

The  Song  of  Hesperus 44 

On  a  Portrait  of  Shakspcare 44 

An  Ode  :   To  Himself. 44 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 45 

The  Sweet  Neglect 45 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth,  L.  H 45 

Song  to  Celia 45 

Good  Life,  Long  Life 45 

Joyce,  Robert  Dwyer. 

Fair  Gwendoline  and  her  Dove 882 

The  Banks  of  Anner 883 

Glenara 883 

Judson,  Mrs.  Emily. 
"Watching 747 

Keats,  Jolm. 

Sonnet 18 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agues 486 

Ode '. " 490 

Beauty 491 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 491 

Sonnet 493 

Sonnet  to  a  Young  Lady 493 

Sonnet  in  a  New  Form 493 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 493 

Kcats's  Last  Sonnet 493 

Fairy  Song 493 

Fancy 493 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 494 

Ode  to  Autumn 495 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 495 

Keble,  John. 

^Morning 4.3G 

Evening 437 

Address  to  Poets 438 

A  Thought 438 

Kemble,  Frances  Anne. 

Lines  "Written  in  London 094 

Written  after  leaving  West  Point 094 

Ken,  Thomas. 
From  the  "  Evening  Hymn  " 120 

Kennedy,  William. 

Lines  on  Motherwell 520 

A  Thought 520 


Kenney.  James.  tace 

Why  are  You  Wandering  Here  ? 359 

Love's  Remonstrance .529 

Kenyon,  John. 
Champagne  Rose 300 

Keppel,  Lady  Caroline. 
Robin  Adair 220 

Key,  Francis  Scott. 

Tlie  Star-spangled  Banner 342 

The  Worm's  Death-song 343 

Kimball,  Harriet  McEwen. 

The  Guest 857 

The  Crickets 857 

Longing  for  Rain 858 

All's  Well &58 

King,  Henry. 

From  the  "  Exequy  on  his  Wife  " 58 

Sic  Vita 59 

Kingsley,  Charles. 

The  Three  Fishers 705 

The  World's  Age 705 

The  Sands  of  Dec 705 

A  Farewell 705 

Kinloch,  Lord. 
The  Star  in  the  East 570 

Kinney,  Coates. 

From  "The  Mother  of  Glory" 810 

Rain  on  the  Roof 811 


Knowles,  Herbert. 
Lines  Written  in  a  Ciiurch-vard , 


504 


Knowles,  James  Sheridan. 

From  the  last  Act  of  "  Virginius  " 4.50 

Tell  among  the  Mountains 457 

The  Actor's  Craft 457 

Knox,  Isabella  (Craig). 
The  Brides  of  Quair 845 


Knox,  William. 
Oh!  why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud? 

Korner,  Theodore  (German). 
Battle  Hymn  and  Farewell  to  Life 

Lacoste,  Marie  R. 
Somebody's  Darling 

Laighton,  Albert. 

Under  the  Leaves 

To  My  Soul 

The  Dead 


410 

543 

915 

837 
827 
827 


Laing,  Alexander. 
The  Happy  Mother, 


XX 


JXDEX   OF  AUTHORS,  WITH   CO.XTKXTS. 


Lamb,  Charles.  pace 

The  Old  Fiiiniliar  Faces 327 

Lines  AVrilten  in  my  own  Album 327 

To  James  Slicrldan  Knowks 327 

Landon,  Letitia  Elizabeth  (Mrs.  Maclean). 

Suecess  Alone  Seen 577 

Death  and  the  Yuutli 578 

Landor,  Walter  Savage. 

To  the  Sister  of  "Elia"  (Cliailes  Lamb) 339 

Julius  Hare 339 

Rose  Aylmer 329 

Death 339 

Langhorne,  John. 
From  "Owen  of  Carron" 318 

Lanier,  Sidney. 

A  Rose-moral 910 

Eveninu-  Soni; 9U> 

The  Harlequin  of  Dreams 917 

From  the  Flats 917 

Larcom,  Lucy. 
Hannah  Binding  Shoes Sli 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons. 

Music  of  Growth 937 

Sonnet :   The  Lover's  Year 937 

The  Sunshine  of  Thine  Eyes 937 

Lawrence,  Jonathan,  Jr. 
Look  Aloft 636 

Leigh,  Arrah. 
I  Am  the  Lord  ;   I  Change  Not 547 

Leighton,  Robert. 

Yc  Three  Voices 785 

Books 786 

Leland,  Charles  Godfrey. 
Mine  Own 7% 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory. 

Lines  to  a  Friend 328 

The  Helmsman 338 

A  Matrimonial  Duet 328 

Leyden,  John. 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin 320 

Sonnet  on  the  Sabbath  Morning 326 


Lilly,  John. 
Cupid  and  Caniiiaspe 


40 


Linton,  William  James. 

From  "  Definitions" 703 

Real  and  True 704 

Labor  in  Vain 704 

Poets 704 

A  Prayer  for  Truth 704 


Lippincott,  Mrs.  Sarah  Jane. 
The  Poet  of  To-day 


rAUE 

.   790 


Locker,  Frederick. 

St.  George's,  Hanover  Square 777 

The  Unrealized  Ideal 778 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson. 

Captain  Paton's  Lament 453 

Beyond 454 

Lamentation  for  C'elin 455 

Logan,  John. 

Ode  to  the  Cuckoo 234 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow 234 

Lombard,  James  K. 
"  Not  as  Though  I  had  Already  Attained  " 852 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Killed  at  tne  Ford 029 

The  Launch 629 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 630 

Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face 630 

The  Rainy  Day 031 

Rain  in  Summer 631 

Sonnet :   Tlie  Poets 632 

Phantoms 633 

Sonnet :   Nature 633 

Excelsior 633 

Hawthorne 633 

The  Bells  of  Lynn,  lieard  at  Nahant 634 

Longfellow,  Samuel. 

April .' 766 

November 766 

Lovelace,  Richard. 

To  Althea  (from  Prison) 109 

To  Lucasta  (on  Going  to  the  Wars) 109 

Lover,  Samuel. 

Rory  O'More  ;   or,  Good  Omens 507 

The  Angel's  Wliispcr 507 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Auf  Wiedersehen  ! 763 

A  Day  in  June 763 

To  Henry  "Wadsworth  Longfellow 763 

Longing 7(>4 

*'  In  Whom  We  Live  and  Move " 764 

She  Came  and  Went 764 

Lowell,  Robert  Traill  Spence. 
Love  Disposed  Of 74 1 

Ludlow,  Fitz-Hugh. 
Too  Late 


883 


Lunt,  George. 


From  '•  The  Pilgrim  Song" 621 

The  Haymakers 621 

The  Comet 621 

Requiem 622 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Lunt,  William  Parsons.  '•a'-k 

The  American  Flaa: Ol-J 


Luttrell,  Henry. 
The  November  Foe 


of  Loudon ;2!)7 


Lydgate,  John. 
From  the  Bulhul  of  "London  Lyckpcuuy" 4 


Lyle,  Thomas. 
Kelvin  Grove. . 


419 


Lyte,  Henry  Francis. 

Hymn  :  "Abide  With  Me  " 44.5 

From  Lines  on  "  Eveninj^" 445 

Lytle,  William  Haines. 
Antony  to  Cleopatra 814 

Lyttelton,  George  (Lord). 
Tell  Me,  My  Heart 177 

Lytton,  Lord  (Edward  Bulwer^ 

Caradoe,  the  Bard  to  the  Cymrians 

A  Spendthrift 


The  Guardian  Anq;el 

To  the  King 

Is  it  all  Vanity  ? 

Invocation  to  Love 

Epigrams  from  the  German. 


606 
606 
606 
606 
607 
607 
607 


Lytton,  Edward  Robert  (Lord). 
Leoline 845 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington. 

From  the  Lay  of  "  Horatius  " .557 

The  Battle  of  Naseby 561 

Tlie  Armada .563 

Tlie  Battle  of  Ivry 563 

McCarthy,  Denis  Florence. 

Summer  Longings 749 

Mace,  Frances  Laughton. 

Easter  Morning S66 

Indian  Summer 8(i6 

Only  Waiting 867 

McCord.  Mrs.  Louisa  S. 

What  Used  to  Be 675 

Thy  Will  Be  Done 675 

Passages  from  "  Cains  Gracchus  " 676 


Dedication  of  "Caius  Gracchus" 


Macdonald,  George. 

Baby 

"  Lord,  I  Believe;   Help  Thou  Mine  Unbelief". 

McGee,  Thomas  D'Arcy. 
Cathal's  Farewell  to  the  Rye 


676 


797 
798 


805 


Mackay,  Charles. 

The  Watcher  on  the  Tower 724 

The  Good  Time  Coming 725 

Nature  and  her  Lover 726 


McKnight,  George.  page 

"Though  Naught  They  May  to  Others  Be" 899 

Perpetual  Youth 899 

Scorn 899 

Opportunity 899 

Triumph 899 

,  In  Unison 900 

"The  Glory  of  the  Lord  shall  Endure  Forever"  900 

The  Test  of  Truth 900 

Euthanasia 900 

Consummation 

Clear  Assurance 

Live  While  You  Live 

Memento  Mori 

Gifts 

Kinship 


900 
900 
901 
901 
901 
901 


Maclagan,  Alexander. 
"  Dinna  Ye  Hear  It  V". 

McClellan,  Isaac. 
The  Notes  of  the  Birds 


McMaster,  Guy  Humphrey. 

Carmen  Bellieosum 

Brant  to  the  Indians 


Macneil,  Hector. 
Mary  of  Castle-Cary . 

Macnish,  Robert. 
My  Little  Sister 


Macpherson,  James. 
Ossian's  Address  to  the  Sun. 
The  Song  of  Colma 


Maginn,  William. 
The  Irishman 


608 


693 


830 
831 


230 


573 


222 
223 


446 


Mahony,  Francis  (Father  Prout). 
Poetical  Epistle  from  Father  Prout  to  Boz  (Charles 

Dickens) 

The  Bells  of  Shandon '. 

Popular    Recollections    of  Bonaparte    (after    Be- 

ranger) 


598 
599 


599 


Mangan,  James  Clarence. 

The  Mariner's  Bride 

The  Nameless  One 

From  "Soul  and  Country". 


Marlowe,  Christopher. 

The  Death  of  Faustus 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love. 
Answer  to  the  Same 


Marston,  John. 

The  Scholar  and  his  Spaniel 

To  Detraction  I  Present  my  Pocsie. 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke. 
From  Far 


589 
590 
590 


25 
26 

26 


41 
41 


916 


IXDKX   OF  AlTJl()};s,  WITH   CONTENTS. 


Martin,  Theodore.  page 

Napoleon's  Midnight  Review  (from  llie  German 

of  Baron  Josepli  Cliristian  von  Zodlitz) 730 

Sie  Ilaben  Mieli  Geqniilet  (from  Heine) 740 

The  Exeelleut  Man  (from  Heine) 740 

Marvell,  Andrew. 

Song  of  tlic  Emigrants  in  Bernnida Ill 

Courage,  my  Soul  I 112 

A  Drop  of  Dew ll-I 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden 113 

Marzials,  Theophile. 

Carpe  Diem  :    Rondeau 926 

Mason,  Caroline  Atherton. 

Not  Yet 788 

Beauty  for  Aslies 788 

An  October  Wood  Hymn 788 

Mason,  William. 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason,  in  the  Cathedral  of  Bristol  19.3 

Massey,  Gerald. 

Little  Willie 820 

Massinger,  Philip. 

Waiting  for  Death 48 

From  "A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  " 48 

Mayne,  John. 

Logan  Braes 262 

Meek,  Alexander  Beaufort. 

Balaklava 721 

Mellen,  Grenville. 

The  Bugle 525 

Meredith,  George. 

Love  -within  the  Lover's  Breast 826 

At  the  Gate 826 

Merivale,  John  Herman. 

"  Evil,  be  Thou  my  Good" .343 

Reason  and  Undeistanding 344 

From  the  Greek  Antiiology 344 

Merrick,  James. 

The  Cliameleon 185 

Messinger,  Robert  Hinckley. 

A  Winter  Wish 693 

Mickle,  William  Julius. 

The  Mariner's  Wile 217 

Miller,  Abraham  Perry. 

A  Sumaier  Afternoon 885 

The  Divine  Refuge 885 

Turn  to  the  Helper 885 

The  Disappointed  Lover 880 

Keep  Faith  in  Love 886 


Miller,  Elizabeth  Henry.  iage 

Now  and  Ever 941 

Miller,  Joaquin. 

Longings  for  Home 914 

Palatine  Hill 914 

Love  Me,  Love 914 

Miller,  Robert. 
Where  are  They  ? 691 

Miller,  Thomas. 
Evening  Song 6.58 

Miller,  William. 
Willie  Winkie 692 

Milliken,  Richard  Alfred. 
Tlie  Groves  of  Blarney 273 

Milman,  Henry  Hart. 

The  Apollo-Belvidcre 417 

Stanzas  on  Sophia  Lockhart 417 

Tlie  Love  of  God  :    Two  Sonnets 418 

Milnes,  Richard  Monckton  (Lord  Houghton!'. 

All  Things  Onee  are  Things  Forever 6.59 

The  W^orth  of  Hours 6.59 

Youth  and  Manhood 0.59 

I  Wandered  by  the  Brook-side 660 

From  "  The  Long-ago  " 660 

Milton,  John. 

L'Allegro 90 

II  Penseroso 91 

Lycidas 93 

The  Messenger's  Aecount  of  Samson 95 

Seene  from  "  Comus  " iXj 

Satan's  Encounter  with  Death 96 

Adam  and  Eve's  Morning  Hymn 97 

One  First  Matter  All 98 

What  is  Glory  ? 98 

Epitaph  on  Sliakspeare 99 

On  his  being  arrived  to  the  Age  of  Twenty-three.  99 

To  the  Lord-general,  Cromwell 99 

To  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  Younger 99 

On  his  Blindness 99 

To  Mr.  Lawrence 100 

To  Cyriac  Skinner 100 

On  the  Religions  Memory  of  Mrs.  Catherine  Thom- 
son, my  Cliristian  Friend,  Deceased  Dec.  16, 1646.  100 

Song:   On  May  Morning 100 

From  the  Spirit's  Epilogue  in  "Comus'' 100 

Mitchell.  Walter. 
Tacking  Ship  Olf  Shore 813 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell. 

Rienzi's  Address  to  the  Romans 382 

Song 382 

Moir,  David  Macbeth. 
Langsyuc 500 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Montgomery,  James.  page 

The  Common  Lot 303 

Forever  with  the  Lord 303 

Youth  Renewed 304 

Lift  up  Tliinc  Eyes,  Afflicted  Soul 304 

Sonnet  :   The  Crueifixion 304 

Humility 305 


Moore,  Clement  C. 
A  \'i?it  from  St.  Nicholas. 


351 


Moore,  Thomas. 

Yet,  yet  forgive  Me,  O  ye  Sacred  Few  ! 345 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters 345 

Believe  Me,  if  nil  those  Endearing  Young  Charms.  345 

The  Turf  shall  be  my  Fragrant  Shrine 34(i 

Oh !   Breathe  not  his  Name 346 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls 346 

Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night 346 

Those  Evening  Bells 347 

Farewell  I — but,  whenever  you  Welcome  the  Hour.  347 

Oh,  could  We  do  with  this  World  of  Ours 347 

Remember  Thee 347 

Thou  art,  O  God 348 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer 348 

The  Modern  Puffing  System 348 

I  saw  from  the  Beach 349 

Love's  Young  Dream 349 

Oh,  Tliou  who  Dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tear 349 

Come,  ye  Disconsolate 349 

To  Greece  we  give  our  Shining  Blades 350 

More,  Hannah. 

The  Two  Weavers 229 

Kindness  in  Little  Things 230 

More,  Henry. 

The  Pre-existency  of  the  Soul 105 

From  "  The  Philosopher's  Devotion  " 100 

Morris,  Lewis. 

It  Shall  be  Well 853 

Dear  Little  Hand 854 

The  Treasure  of  Hope 854 


Morris,  William. 
March 


Motherwell,  William. 
The  Cavalier's  Song  . . 


Jeanie  ^lorrison 

Lines  Given  to  a  Friend. 


862 


499 
500 
501 


Motley,  John  Lothrop. 
Lines  Written  at  Syracuse 723 

Moulton,  Ellen  Louise. 

Alone  by  the  Bay 863 

In  Time  to  Come 863 

Moultrie,  John. 

"Forget  Thee  ?" .515 

Here's  to  Tliee,  my  Scottish  Lassie 515 


Mowatt-Ritchie,  Mrs.  Anna  Cora.  page 

To  a  Beloved  One 770 

Muhlenberg,  William  Augustus. 
"  I  Would  Not  Live  Alway  " 551 

Mulock,  Dinah  M.  (see  Craik). 

Munby,  Arthur. 

Autumn 884 

Doris  :  A  Pastoral 884 

Nairne,  Carolina  (Baroness). 

Tlie  Land  o'  the  Leal 271 

Would  you  be  Young  again  V 271 

Nash,  Thomas. 

Spring 38 

The  Coming  of  Winter 38 

The  Decay  of  Summer 39 


Neal,  John. 
Goldau 


443 


Neele,  Henry. 
Where  is  He  V 533 

Newman,  John  Henry. 

Flowers  without  Fruit 571 

A  Voice  from  Afar 572 

Guardian  Angel 572 

Newton,  Cradock. 
Wonderland 552 

Nicoll„  Robert. 

People's  Anthem 720 

Life  in  Death 720 

Niles,  Nathaniel. 
The  American  Hero 223 

Noble,  James  Ashcroft. 
Love  and  Absence 555 

Noel,  Thomas. 
The  Pauper's  Drive 527 

Norris,  John. 

The  Aspiration 122 

Superstition 122 

Norton,  Andrews. 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower 381 

Trust  and  Submission 381 

Norton,  Caroline. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine 646 

The  Child  of  Earth 647 

To  my  Books 648 

Love  Not 648 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride 648 

Noyes,  Charles  H. 

The  Prodigal  Son  to  the  Earth 9S4 

My  Soldier 934 


I XI) EX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


O'Brien,  Fitz-James.  i"**'* 

Elisliu  Kent  Kiinc 8;« 


O'Keefe,  John. 
I  am  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 


233 


O'Reilly,  John  Boyle, 

Western  Australia ^'^'■i 

Forever t«:3 

At  Rest y-^ 

Osgood,  Frances  Sargent. 

"Hois  Ton  Sang,  Beauinaiiuir" 707 

Little  Thin£2:s 708 

Laborare  est  Orare 708 

An  Atlantie  Trip 708 

The  Author's  Last  Verses 708 


Osgood,  Kate  Putnam. 
Drivin":  Home  the  Cows 


90.J 


Otway,  Thomas. 
From  "  Venice  Preserved  " 1'31 

Page,  Emily  R. 
The  Old  Canoe 887 

Pailleron,  Edouard  (French). 
A  Reminiscence  (translated  liy  J.  F.  Clarke) 078 


Paine,  Robert  Treat,  Jr. 
Ode:    Adaius  and  Liberty., 


318 


Palgrave,  Francis  Turner. 

Faith  and  Sight:   In  the  Latter  Days 796 

To  a  Child 707 


Pardoe,  Julia. 
The  Beacon-light. 


020 


Parker,  Martyn. 
Ye  Gentlemen  of  England 104 

Parker,  Theodore. 

Three  Sonnets 08!) 

Hymn 000 


Parnell,  Thomas. 
The  Hermit 


Parsons,  Thomas  William. 
Saint  Peray, 


132 


T)9 


In  St.  James's  Park 700 

Partridge,  Samuel  William. 
"  Not  to  Myself  Alone  " 074 

Patmore,  Coventry. 

From  "Fttithful  Forever" 700 

The  Toys 790 


Payne,  John  Howard. 
Home,  Sweet  Home  !  . . . 


Payne,  John.  pace 

Rondeau  Redouble 918 

Villanelle 918 

Peabody,  Ephraim. 

To  a  Child 0;>;! 

From  "  The  Backwoodsman  " 023 

Peabody,  Everett. 
Song  of  the  Cadets 522 

Peabody,  O.  W.  B. 

Visions  of  Immortality 523 

To  a  Departed  Friend 524 

The  Disembodied  Spirit 524 

Peabody,  W.  B.  O. 

The  Autumn  Evening 522 

The  Alarm 522 

Nature  and  Nature's  God 523 

Hymn  of  Nature 525 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love. 

Oh!  say  not  AVoman's  Heart  is  Bought 534 

Love  and  Age 534 

Penney,  William  (Lord  Kinloch). 
The  Star  in  the  East 570 

Percival,  James  Gates. 

Elegiac  :  From  "  Classic  Melodies  " 481 

To  Seneca  Lake 4«2 

The  Coral  Grove 482 

Sonnet  on  Emilie  Marshall 482 

May 482 

A  Vision 483 


439 


Percy,  Thomas. 
The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 


Perkins,  James  Handasyd. 

On  Lake  Michigan 

The  Upright  Soul 


202 


08S 
089 


Perry,  Nora. 

In  the  Dark 920 

In  June 920 

Riding  Down 921 

Some  Day  of  Days 921 


Pfeiflfer,  Emily. 
Summer-time  :   Villanelle  . . 


920 


Phelps,  EUzabeth  Stuart. 

Apple  Blossoms 925 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 925 

Philips,  Ambrose. 

A  Fragment  of  Sappho 12<; 

To  Miss  Georgiana  Carteret 120 

Philips,  John. 
From  "The  Splendid  Shilling" 131 


INDEX  OF  JUTHOnS,  WITH  COXTEXTS. 


Phillips,  Katherine.  page 

To  Mrs.  M.  A.,  at  Pnrting 119 

Oil  Coutrovcrsies  in  Religion 119 

Piatt,  John  James. 

The  First  Tryst 864 

Tlie  Morning  Street 8U4 

Piatt,  Mrs.  J.  J. 
The  Gift  of  Empty  Hands 805 

Pickering,  Henry. 
The  House  in  whicli  1  was  Born 3G2 

Pierpont,  John. 

The  Pilirrim  Fathers 379 

From  "The  Departed  Cliild " 380 

What  Blesses  Now  Must  Ever  Bless 380 

Pike,  Albert. 

Buena  Vista G57 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate. 

A  Health 573 

Song :  We  Break,  the  Glass 573 

Pitt,  William. 
The  Sailor's  Consolation , 532 


Plimpton,  Florns  Beardsley. 
Tdl  Her 


833 


Poe,  Edgar  Allan. 

To  Sarah  Helen  Wliitman GOl 

The  Bells 662 

The  Raven 663 

To  Franees  Sargent  Osgood 605 

Pollok,  Robert. 

Invocation  (from  "The  Course  of  Time") 516 

Pride  the  Cause  of  Sin  (from  "The  Course  of  Time")  516 
True  Happiness  (from  "The  Course  of  Time")..  517 

Holy  Love  (from  "The  Course  of  Time") 517 

AMoonlightEvening(from"TbeCourseof Time")  517 

Poole,  Hester  M. 

An  October  Scene 943 

A  Little  While 943 

Pope,  Alexander. 

Lines  on  Robert  Harlcy,  Earl  of  Oxford 132 

Ode  on  Solitude 142 

From  "  The  Essay  on  Criticism  " 142 

To  Henry  St.  John  (Lord  Bolingbroke) 143 

From  the  "  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot " 144 

From  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock" 145 

The  Universal  Prayer 146 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 146 

From  "Eloisa  to  Abelard" 147 

Conclusion  of  the  "Essay  on  Man" 147 

Of  the  Characters  of  Women 149 

Prologue  to  Mr.  Addison's  Tragedy  of  "Cato"..  150 

The  Moon  (translated  from  Homer) 150 

From  " The  Temple  of  Fame" 150 

Lines  on  Addison 151 

Conclusion  of  "  The  Dunciad  " 151 


Powers,  Horatio  Nelson.  pace 

From  "  Memorial  Day  " 816 

A  Rose-bud SIO 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackv/orth. 

My  Little  Cousins 574 

-  Where  is  Miss  Myrtle  ? 574 

Tell  Him  I  Love  Him  Yet .575 

April-fools 575 

Good-night 576 

Cliarade  on  Campbell 576 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 577 

Prentice,  George  Denison. 

To  an  Absent  Wife 578 

Lookout  Mountain 579 

Preston,  Harriet  W. 
Thirteen  (after  Theodore  Aubancl) 919 

Preston,  Margaret  Jnnkin. 

Dedication 837 

The  Tyranny  of  Mood 837 

Saint  Cecilia 837 

Pringle,  Thomas. 

Afar  in  the  Desert 407 

The  Emigrant's  Farewell 408 

Prior,  Matthew. 

A  Simile 123 

To  a  Child  of  Quality 123 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne. 

Ministering  Angels 805 

The  Lost  Chord 806 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray 806 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller  (Barry  Cornwall. 

The  Sea 385 

The  Return  of  the  Admiial 385 

Sonnet  to  Adelaide 386 

A  Petition  to  Time 386 

Softly  Woo  Away  Her  Breath 386 

Life 386 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean. 

From  "  The  Return  of  the  Dead " 838 

Take  Heart 839 

Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  Cannot  Lose 839 

Prout,  Father  (see  Mahony,  Francis). 

Quarles,  Francis. 

The  Vanity  of  the  World 57 

Delight  in  God  Only 58 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter. 

The  Lie 14 

The  Silent  Lover 15 

My  Pilgrimage 16 

Ramsay,  Allan. 

Tiie  Clock  and  Dial 139 

Farewell  to  Lochabcr 139 


INDEX  OF  AVTHOKS,  UITU  CONTENTS. 


Randall,  James  Ryder.  pace 

Maryland 8:)2 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan. 

Di  iftinir 780 

Slieruhin's  Rule TSl 

Tlic  Closing  Scune TS'-J 

Reade,  John  Edmund. 
TLe  Colosseum filO 

Realf,  Richard. 

My  Slain 8.59 

Symbolisms 800 

Robbins,  Samuel  Dowse. 

Euthanasia TOT 

Lead  Me T07 

Rockwell,  James  Otis. 
The  Lost  at  Sea 0:2S 

Rodger,  Alexander. 
Behave  Yourscl'  Before  Folk 3GS 

Rogers,  Samuel. 

The  Old  Ancestral  Mansion 267 

Hopes  for  Italy 268 

Venice 268 

Roman  Relics 208 

Roscoe,  William. 
To  My  Books 244 

Roscoe,  William  Caldwell. 
Sonnet :   To  a  Friend 787 

Roscommon,  Earl  of. 
Poetic  Inspiration 120 

Rossetti,  Christina  Georgina. 

Consider 834 

Beauty  is  Vain S34 

Rossetti.  Dante  Gabriel. 

Lost  Days  :  Sonnet. 823 

From  "  The  Portrait " 822 

Riickert,  Friedrich  (German^ 
A  Shelter  (translated  by  Miss  Clarke) 678 

Russell,  Thomas. 

To  Valclusa 266 

Sonnet 267 

Sands,  Robert  Comfort. 

From  "  Yamoyden  " 520 

1  he  Dead  of  1832 521 

Sargent,  Epes. 

Evening  in  Gloucester  Harbor 716 

Sunrise  at  Sea 716 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave 710 


Sargent,  Epes.  pace 

Linda's  Sonjj 717 

Soul  of  My  Soul 717 

Sonnet:  To  David  Friedrich  Strauss 717 

Webster 717 

Sargent,  Horace  Binney. 
After  "  Taps  " 778 

Sargent,  John  Osborne. 
Death   of  Henry  Wohlleb  (from   the  German  of 
Von  Auersperg) 703 

Savage,  Minot  Judson. 

Life  from  Death 909 

Life  in  Death 910 

Light  on  the  Cloud 910 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey. 

The  Superfluous  Man 735 

Justine,  You  Love  Me  Not  I 736 

Schiller,  J.  C.  F.  von  (German). 

Fame 539 

Haste  Not,  Rest  Not  (translated  by  C.  C.  Cox)..  737 

Scott,  John. 
Ode  on  Hearing  the  Drum 205 

Scott,  Lady  John. 

Lammermoor 740 

Ettrick 740 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Lochinvar 298 

Scene  from  "  Marmion  "' 298 . 

Allen-a-Dale 299 

Helvellyn 300 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 300 

Coronach 301 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 301 

Border  Ballad 301 

Rebecca's  Hymn 301 

Song:   The  Ilcath  this  Nigiit  mu^t  be  My  Bed..  302 

Nora's  Vow 302 

Sears,  Edmund  Hamilton. 

Christmas  Song 079 

The  Angel's  Song 680 

Sewall.  Mrs.  Harriet  Winslow. 

Why  Thus  Longing  ? 757 

Special  Providences 758 

Seward,  Anna. 
Sonnet :  December  Morning 528 


Shairp,  John  Campbell. 
Sonnet :  Relief 


768 


Shakspeare,  William. 

Silvia 28 

Sigh  No  More 28 

Ariel's  Song 28 


IXBEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Shakspeare,  William.  page 

Man's  Ingnititiulc 28 

Dirge  of  Imogen 29 

The  Song  of  Winter 29 

Cloten's  Serenade 29 

Sonnets:    xvili.,  xxx.,  xxxiii.,  liv.,  Iv.,  Ix.,  xc, 

xcviii.,  ex.,  cxi.,  cxvi.,  cxlvi.,  cxivii 29,  30,  31 

Ulysses's  Advice  to  Achilles 31 

Tlie  Qnality  of  Mercy 32 

Moonlight  and  Music 32 

England 32 

Song  from  "  Twelfth  Night " 33 

Henry  IV. 's  Soliloquy  on  Sleep 33 

Detached  Passages  from  the  Plays 33 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 

Lines  on  Horace  Smitli 352 

The  Cloud 421 

Stanzas,  Written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples 422 

The  Fugitives 423 

To  a  Skylark 423 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 425 

I  Arise  from  Dreams  of  Thee 426 

Invocation 426 

Good-night 426 

One  ^Vord  is  Too  Often  Profaned 427 

A  Lament 427 

On  a  Faded  Violet 427 

Adonais :  An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Jonn  Keats.  427 

Invocation  to  Nature 433 

Sonnet 433 

Dedication  to  His  Wife 434 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 435 

Lines  to  a  Reviewer 436 

Shenstone,  William. 

From  "  Tlie  School-mistress  " 181 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 182 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley. 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  Framed 237 

Song,  from  "The  Duenna" 237 

Shirley,  James. 
Deatli's  Conquests 60 

Shurtleff,  William  S. 
Tlie  Way 556 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip. 

On  Dying 16 

True  Beauty  Virtue  Is 17 

Eternal  Love 17 

On  Obtaining  a  Prize  at  a  Tournament 17 

Invocation  to  Sleep 17 

A  Ditty 17 

Sigourney,  Lydia  Huntly. 

August  11  :   The  Blessed  Rain 418 

Indian  Names 419 

Sillery,  Charles  Doyne. 
She  Died  in  Beauty 639 


Simmons,  Bartholomew.  pace 

Song  of  a  Returned  Exile 698 

From  "Stanzas  on  Thomas  Hood" 609 

From  "  The  Motlier  of  tlie  Kings  " 700 

Simms,  William  Gilmore. 

-    The  First  Day  of  Spring 618 

Freedom  of  the  Sabbath 618 

Solace  of  the  Woods 618 

Simpson,  Mrs.  Jane  Cross. 
Go  when  tlie  jMorning  Shinctli 700 

Smith,  Alexander. 

A  Day  in  Spring 835 

A  Day  in  Summer 835 

Her  Last  Words 835 

Smith,  Mrs.  Charlotte  (Turner). 

To  Fortitude 235 

To  a  Young  Man  entering  the  World 235 

The  Cricket 235 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Cakes. 

Sonnet :   The  Unattained 619 

Sonnet :   Poesy 619 

Sonnet:  Faith 619 

Smith,  Horace. 
Address  to  tlie  Mummy  in  Belzoni's  Exhibition.  352 

Moral  Cosmetics 353 

Sonnet 354 

The  First  of  March 354 

Hyinn  to  the  Flowers 354 

Smith,  James. 

Epigram 329 

The  Theatre 330 

To  Miss  Edgeworth 330 

Smith,  Mrs.  May  Riley. 
If 915 

Smith,  William. 
To  My  Wife 555 

Smollett,  Tobias  George. 

The  Tears  of  Scotland 191 

Ode  to  Leven-water 192 

Sotheby,  William. 
Staffa— Visited  1829 249 

Southey,  Caroline  Bowles. 

Lines  on  Her  Father 387 

The  River 38N 

To  Little  Mary 38S 

"Sufficient  unto  the  Day  is  the  Evil  thereof"..  389 

The  Pauper's  Death-bed 391 

To  a  Dying  Infant 391 

Oh,  Fear  Not  Thou  to  Die 392 

Sonnet :  To  the  Mother  of  Lucretia  and  Margaret 
Davidson 643 


IXDKX  OF  AFTHOnS,  niTII   COMEXTS. 


Southey,  Robert.  '^ob 

Inscription  for  tlio  Ap:irtmi'nt  in  C"iii'i)sfo\v  Castle.  275 

The  Battle  of  BleiilRim 820 

Immortiility  of  Love 320 

A  Beautiful  Day  in  Autumn 321 

The  Holly-tree 321 

My  Library 321 

N'ifiht  in  the  Desert 322 

The  Dead  Friend 322 

Imitated  from  the  Persian 322 

The  Morning  Mist 322 

Refleetions 323 

To  William  Wordswurlh 32o 

Southwell,  Robert. 

Love's  Servile  Lot 23 

Times  Go  By  Turns 23 

Spencer,  Hon.  William  Robert. 

To  the  Lady  Anne  Hamilton 2a5 

Beth  Gelert;  or,  The  Grave  of  the  Greyhound...  295 

Spenser,  Edmund. 

From  "  The  Epithalamion  " 10 

Una  and  the  Lion 11 

Prince  Arthur 12 

The  Ministry  of  Ang:els 13 

From  the  '•  Hyma  in  Honor  of  Beauty  " 13 

Easter  Morniiiir 13 

Miseries  of  a  Court-life 13 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott. 
A  Four-o'clock 863 

Sprague,  Charles. 

The  Winijed  Worshippers 415 

The  Fourth  of  July 415 

From  "  The  ShaUspeare  Ode •' 415 

I  See  Thee  Still 41G 

Stanley,  Thomas. 
The  Deposition 114 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. 

Provencal  Lovers 8.54 

How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry 855 

Sterling,  John. 

To  a  Child fil9 

The  Man  Survives (>20 

Prose  and  Son<; 020 

Stockton,  Mrs.  Annis  Boudinot. 
Ode  to  Washington 54!) 

Stoddard,  Mrs.  Lavinia. 
The  Soul's  Defiance 387 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. 

Songs  Unsung 803 

From  the  "Proem  to  Collected  Poems" 803 

How  are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  ? 803 

The  Country  Life 804 


Stoddard,  Mrs.  R.  H.  i^ob 

On  the  Campagna 804 

Story,  William  Wetmore. 

Lines  on  John  Lothrop  Motley ?23 

The  Unexpressed 752 

Wetmore  Cottage,  Nahaiit 752 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher. 
The  Other  World 70<; 

Street,  Alfred  Billings. 

The  Nook  in  the  Forest 701 

A  Forest  Walk 701 

The  Bluebird's  Song 702 

Music 702 

Strode,  William. 
Music ^51 

Suckling,  Sir  John. 
Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover'? 103 

Swain,  Charles. 

What  it  is  to  Love 585 

The  Beautiful  Day 585 

Swift,  Jonathan. 

From  "  The  Death  of  Dr.  Swift " r24 

Stella's  Birthday,  1720 125 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles. 

An  Interlude 872 

Love  and  Death 87;i 

A  ^latch 873 

Sylvester,  Joshua. 

Plurality  of  Worlds 2:^ 

Love's  Omnipresence '23 

Symonds,  John  Addington. 

In  the  Mentone  Graveyard 910 

Seven  Sonnets  on  Death 911 

The  Will 912 

Beati  Illi 912 

Talfourd,  Thomas  Noon. 

To  the  South  American  Patriots 470 

Love  Immortal 470 

Verses  on  a  Child 471 

An  Act  of  Kindness 471 

Sonnet  on  Wordsworth 472 

Tannahill,  Robert. 

The  Flower  o'  Dumblane 324 

The  Braes  o'  Balquhither 324 

Taylor,  Bayard. 

Storm-song 807 

A  Crimean  Episode 807 

The  Fight  of  Paso  Del  Mar 807 

Taylor,  Jane. 
Teaching  from  the  Stars 30.5 


IXDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Taylor,  Jeremy.  page 

Thy  Kingdom  Come ' 105 

Taylor,  Sir  Henry. 

On  Edward  Ernest  Villiers 505 

What  Makes  a  Hero  ? 5(5.5 

Extract  from  "Philip  Van  Artevelde" 56<) 

Greatness  and  Success 5()7 

Artevelde's  Soliloquy 567 

Arlevelde  and  Elena 5G7 


Taylor,  Thomas. 
Ode  to  the  Risinsi-  Sun 


Tennant,  William. 
Description  of  Maggie  Luuder 


351 


307 


Temiyson,  Alfred. 

From  the  Lines  on  Buhver 605 

Edward  Gray 6S0 

Go  Not,  Happy  Day 081 

Welcome  to  Alexandra 081 

Aslc  Me  No  More rT  681 

To  ,  after  Reading  a  Life  and  Letters 683 

Garden  Song 683 

De  Profundis 083 

Bugle  Song 083 

The  Foolish  Virgins 084 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 084 

Turn,  Fortune,  Turn  Thy  Wheel 084 

Stanzas  from  "  In  Mcmoriam  " 085 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 688 

From  "  The  Golden  Year" 088 

Tennyson,  Charles  (see  Turner). 

Tennyson,  Frederick. 

The  Blackbird 016 

Sonnet 017 

Thackeray,  "William  Makepeace. 

Little  BiUee 696 

At  the  Church  Gate 0'J6 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 696 

The  ^lahogany-tree 697 

Thaxter,  Mrs.  Celia. 

Song 863 

The  Sand-piper 863 


Thom,  William. 

The  Mitherless  Bairn 

Dreamings  of  the  Bereaved  . 


409 
409 


Thompson,  John  Randolph. 
Music  in  Camp 789 

Thomson,  James. 

Lines  Written  at  the  Age  of  Fourteen 186 

The  Approach  of  Spring 166 

Sunrise  in  Summer 167 

Hymn  on  the  Seasons 167 

The  Bard's  Song 168 

Rule,  Britannia  ! 169 

Love  of  Nature 169 

Sweet  Tvrant,  Love 531 


Thoreau,  Henry  David.  page 

Smoke  in  Winter 745 

L' pon  the  Beach 745 

Thornbury,  Walter. 

How  Sir  Richard  Died 834 

'   The  Old  Grenadier's  Story 8;M 

Thorpe,  Mrs.  Rosa  Hartwick. 

Down  the  Track 935 

"  Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-night" 935 

Thurlow,  Edward  Hovel  (Lord). 

Sonnet  to  a  Bird 359 

Song  to  May 359 


Tickell,  Thomas. 
On  the  Death  of  Addison 141 

Tighe,  Mrs.  Mary. 

On  Receiving  a  Branch  of  Mezercon 317 

Written  at  Killarncy 31S 

Tilton,  Theodore. 
Sir  Marmaduke's  Musings 804 

Timrod,  Henry. 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind 838 

Ode 838 

A  Common  Thought 838 

From  "A  Southern  Spring " 838 

Sonnets 839 

Timrod,  William  H. 
Lines  to  Harry 430 

Tobin,  John. 
The  Duke  Aranza  to  Juliana 375 

Todhunter,  John. 
The  First  Spring  Day  :    Sonnet 556 

Toplady,  Augustus  Montague. 

Deathless  Principle,  Arise ! 234 

Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  for  Me 334 

Townshend,  Chauncy  Hare. 

"Judge  Not" 587 

"  What  God  hath  Cleansed,"  etc 587 

"  His  Banner  over  Me  was  Love  " 588 

*•  In  My  Father's  House  are  many  Mansions"...  588 

An  Evening  Thought 588 

On  Poetry 588 

May 588 

Concluding  Sonnet 588 

Trench,  Richard  Chenevix. 

f)ur  Father's  Home 6-10 

Be  Patient 640 

Sonnet :   On  Prayer 640 

Spring 041 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend. 

Beyond 830 

The  ^■a>^abonds 830 


JXDKX  OF  AUTHORS,  WITH  CONTENTS. 


Trumbull,  John.  face 

From  "  M'Fin!,'iil " 237 

Tucker,  St.  George. 

Days  of  My  Youth 2;]8 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore. 
Sonnet :   Freodoni 715 

Tupper,  Martin  Farquhar. 
Carpe  Diem (>'.'l 

Turner,  Charles  (Tennyson). 

Lines  on  "  In  Memorium" 0-19 

Morninu; 04!) 

Tiic  Lattice  at  Snnrise 049 

A  Brilliant  Day 049 

Letty's  (ilobe O.'^O 

Tuttle,  Mrs.  Emma. 
The  First  Fludglin,!,^ 892 

Tychborn,  Chidiock. 
Lines  by  One  in  the  Tower 84 

Uhland,  Johann  Ludwig  (1787-1862). 
Tlie  Passage  (transhxted  by  Mrs.  Austin) 451 

Vandyne,  Mary  E. 
When  I  went  Fishing  uith  Dad 9-JO 

Vaughan,  Henry. 

Tlic  Retreat 107 

The  Rainbow 107 

They  Are  All  Gone ! 107 

The  Re(inest lOS 

Like  as  a  Nurse 108 

Vaux,  Thomas  (Lord). 
Of  a  Contented  Mind 7 


Vere,  Sir  Aubrey  de. 

Cranmer 393 

Sonnet :   Time  Misspent 393 

Three  Sonnets  on  Columbus 393 

Diocletian  at  Salona 394 

Glengariir 394 

Vere,  Aubrey  Thomas  ds. 

The  True  Blessedness 7:28 

Adolcseentuhe  Amaverunt  te  Nimis 728 

Sonnet:   Ilow  All  Things  Are  Sweet 728 

Very,  Jones. 

The  Bud  Will  Soon  Beeome  a  Flower 712 

Home  and  Heaven 712 

Tlic  Spirit-land 713 

Nature 713 

Our  Soldiers'  Graves 713 

Villiers,  George  (Duke  of  Buckingham\ 
Epitaph  on  General  Fairfax 502 

Vincent,  Charles  (French). 
Come,  Sunshine,  Come  ! 542 


Wakefield,  Nancy  Priest.  pace 

Over  the  River Stil 

From  "Heaven  " 801 

Walker,  William  Sidney. 

The  Voiec  of  Other  Years 409 

To  a  Girl  in  Her  Thirteenth  Year 409 

Wallace,  Horace  Binney. 
Ode  on  the  Rhine's  Returning  into  Germany  from 
France 74<} 

Waller,  Edmund. 

The  Message  of  the  Rose 88 

On  a  Girdle 88 

Waller,  John  Francis. 
Kitty  Neil 074 

Ware,  Henry. 

A  Thanksgiving  Song 4.59 

Resurrection  of  Christ 4.59 

Warton,  Thomas. 

To  ISlr.  Gray 204 

To  the  River  Lodon 204 

Wasson,  David  Atwood. 

Ministering  Angels  to  the  Impi'isoned  Soul 780 

All's  Well 787 


Wastell,  Simon. 
From  "Man's  Mortalitv". 


81 


Watts,  Alaric  Alexander. 

A  Remonstrance 518 

Forever  Thine 519 

Watts,  Isaac,  D.D. 

True  Riches 130 

Earth  and  Heaven K'.U 

From  All  That  Dwell i:!l 

Joy  to  the  World 131 

Webster,  Mrs.  Augusta. 

To  Bloom  is  then  to  Wane 913 

The  Gift 913 

Webster,  John. 

A  Dirge .34 

From  "  The  Duchess  of  Malli  " 34 

Weeks,  Robert  Kelly. 

Winter  Sunrise 898 

Ad  Fincm 898 

Welby,  Amelia  B. 

Twilight  at  Sea :   A  Fragment 779 

The  Golden  Ringlet 779 

Wentz.  George. 

"  Sweet  Spirit,  Hear  My  Prayer" 903 

No  Death 903 


INDEX  OF  AUTUOIl 


S,  WITH  CONTENTS.  xxxi 

Williams,  Isaac.  pace 

The  Departed  Good  :  Sonnet 54<J 

Williams,  Richard  Dalton. 

From  the  "Liinient  lor  Chu-cncc  Maiigan '' TG7 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker. 

Saturday  Afternoon 0:34 

Thh-ty-tive C,2~) 

The  Spruig  is  Here G;35 

Acrostic  Sonnet  on  Emilie  Marshall (j"-25 

To  a  City  Piueon 0:Jo 

Willson,  Forceythe. 

From  Lines  to  His  Wife 874 

Tlic  Old  Sergeant 874 

Wilson,  John  (Christopher  North). 

From  "  Address  to  a  Wild-deer " .S74 

Hymn ;j74 

The  Evening  Cloud 375 

The  Shipwreck 375 

Wilson,  William. 

Sabbath  IMorning  in  the  Woods 570 

Winchelsea,  Countess  of. 

From  "A  Wished-for  Retreat" 140 

Winter,  William. 

The  Ballad  of  Constance Sm 

Orgia 809 

The  Golden  Silence 870 

Wither,  George. 

Companionship  of  the  Muse .50 

Tlie  Heavenly  Father  and  His  Erring  Child 51 

Vanished  Blessings 51 

I  Will  Sing  as  I  Shall  Please 51 

Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair .52 

Lines  on  William  Browne 53 

Wolcot,  John. 

On  Dr.  Johnson 221 

Epigram  on  Sleep 221 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Pease 221 

Wolfe,  Charles. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  ^loore 413 

If  I  Had  Tliought 414 

Go,  Forget  Me 414 

Wood-worth,  Samuel. 

Tlie  Old  Oaken  Bucket 377 

Woolson,  Abba  Goold. 

Carpe  Diem 888 

Wordsworth,  William. 

To  Daffodils 282 

To  the  Cuckoo 2^2 

Ode  to  Duty 283 

Slie  was  a  Phantom  of  Deliglit 283 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 284 


Wesley,  Charles. 

The  Wrestler 

Come,  Let  Us  Anew, 
The  Only  Light : 


PAGE 
.     175 

.   17() 
.   177 


Wesley,  John. 
Commit  Tliou  All  Thy  Griefs  (from  the  German 
of  Paul  Gerhardt) 

West-wood,  Thomas. 

The  Pet  Lamb 

Little  Bell 


White,  Henry  Kirke. 

Time 

Concluding  Stanzas  of  "The  Christiad". 
To  an  Earlj'  Primrose 


173 


White,  Joseph  Blanco. 

Night  and  Death  :  Sonnet 

Sonnet,  on  Hearing  Myself  for  the   First  Time 
called  an  Old  Man,  ^t.  50 

Whitman,  Sarah  Helen. 

Lines  on  Edgar  A.  Poe 

Tlic  Last  Flowers 

Sonnets  to  Edgar  A.  Poe 


325 


583 
583 
583 


Whitman,  Walt. 
From  "The  ^Mystic  Trumpeter" 


755 

Passages  from  "  Leaves  of  Grass  " 756 


Whitney,  Adeline  D.  T. 
Behind  the  !Mask 


Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 

Maud  Muller 

Barbara  Frietchie 

Mr.  Whittier  to  His  Friends 

My  Two  Sisters 

The  Poet's  Portrait  of  Himself. 
The  Eternal  Goodness 


Whytehead,  Thomas. 
The  Second  Day  of  Creation 

Wilcox,  Carlos. 
A  Late  Spring  in  New  England. 

A  Vision  of  Heaven 

September 

Wilde,  Lady. 
The  Voice  of  the  Poor 


Wilde,  Richard  Henry. 
Sonnet:   To  the  Mocking-bird. 
Stanzas 


Willard,  Mrs.  Emma  C. 
Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep. 

Williams,  Helen  Maria. 

Sonnet  to  Hope 

Trust  in  Providence 


795 


634 
036 
637 
037 
638 
638 


761 


461 
461 
402 


842 


412 
412 


384 


262 
262 


IXIJJJX   OF  AUTJWliS,  WITH  CONTJCyT.S. 


Wordsworth,  William.  pa°e 

The  Fountain 2sr, 

From  Lines  composed  near  Tinte-rii  Abbey 2X') 

Laodamia '^^~ 

Ode  on  Immortality -''•' 

Extemj)orc  Etrusion  ui)on  the  Death  of  James  riog<;  2SH 

The  Sonnet's  Scanty  Plot 2»1 

Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet ;"*3 

Evening ~!' - 

To  Sleep 'J'.G 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us '2<M 

The  Favored  Ship ~*0:2 

The  Mind  that  Builds  for  Aye 2<U 

Westminster  Brid-ro,  September  3,  1803 29:1 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 20:) 

Philoctetcs 20:j 

Thy  Art  be  Nature 2U:) 

London,  1802 29:1 

We  Must  be  Free,  or  Die 2U:^. 

October,  180:3 204 

On  Personal  Talk  (in  Four  Sonnets) 2i)4 

Lines  on  Hartley  Coleridge 49G 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry. 

On  llis  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia 39 

The  Happy  Life 39 


Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas.  ""a^s 

Pleasure  Mixed  with  Pain G 

Of  Dissembling  Words f» 

Free  at  Last G 


Youl,  Edward. 
A  Sorintr  Sonir 


Young,  Andrew. 
The  llap|iy  Land , 


5.")0 


058 


Young,  Edward. 

Invocation  to  the  Author  of  Light 135  ■ 

The  Departed  Live 130 

Homer,  Milton,  Pope 136 

Welcome  to  Death 137 

I  Trust  in  Thee 137 

lliinianily  of  Angels 137 

No  Atom  Lost 137 

Immortality  Deciphers  Man 137 

Existence  of  God 138 

Zedlitz,  Joseph  Christian  von  (German\ 
Napoleon's  Midnight  Review  (translated  by  Theo- 
dore Martin 739 


■A 


ofBritish^American  Poetry. 


^coffrcji  Cljaitccr. 


Chaucer,  the  father  of  English  poetry,  was  born  about 
the  j-ear  1328,  probably  in  London,  and  educated  at  Cam- 
bridge. On  arriving  at  man's  estate,  he  joined  the  army 
with  ■^hich  Edward  III.  was  trying  to  subjugate  France. 
Taken  prisoner  at  Poitiers,  Chaucer,  ou  being  released, 
returned  to  England,  and  married  a  sister  of  the  lady 
who  became  the  wife  of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  better 
known  as  John  of  Gaunt. 

King  Edward  regarded  Chaucer  with  favor,  and  in  1373 
sent  him  on  a  mission  to  Italy,  where  he  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Petrarch,  then  living  at  Padua.  He  was 
employed  in  other  public  services,  sat  in  Parliament, 
shared  in  the  downfall  of  John  of  Gaunt,  fled  to  Hol- 
land, returned  home  in  1489,  abandoned  public  life,  and 
devoted  himself  to  poetical  composition.  At  the  age  of 
sixty-four  he  began  the  "Canterbury  Tales,"  a  picture 
of  English  life  in  the  fourteenth  century.  He  afterward 
wrote  "The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,"  "Troilus  and  Cres- 
seide,"  "The  Legende  of  Good  Women,"  "Chaucer's 
Dream,"  "The  Flower  and  the  Leaf,"  "The  House  of 
Fame"  (richly  paraphrased  by  Pope),  etc.         W 

The  accentuation  in  Chaucer's  verse,  by  a  license  since 
abandoned,  is  different  in  many  instances  from  that  of 
common  speech.     For  example,  in 

"Full  well  she  gauge  the  service  divine," 


sange  is  two  syllables,  while  set-vice  furnishes  an  ex- 
ample of  a  transposed  accent.  This  poetical  license  of 
transposing  au  accent  is  not  imcommon  in  the  later 
poets. 

Chaucer  appears  to  have  been  of  a  joyous  and  happy 
temperament,  generous  and  affectionate.  He  had  that 
intense  relish  for  the  beauties  of  Nature  so  characteris- 
tic of  the  genuine  poet.  His  works  abound  with  enthu- 
siastic descriptions  of  spring,  the  morning  hour,  the 
early  verdure  of  groves,  green  solitudes,  birds  and  flow- 
ers. Nature,  courts,  camps,  characters,  passions,  mo- 
tives, are  the  topics  with  which  he  deals.  He  was  op- 
posed to  the  priests,  whose  hypocrisy  he  unmasked.  A 
vigorous  temperament,  a  penetrating,  observing  intel- 
lect, and  a  strong,  comprehensive  good -sense,  are  the 
instruments  with  which  he  fashions  his  poetical  mate- 
rials.    Spenser  refers  to  him  as 

"That  renowned  Poet, 
Dan  Chancer,  well  of  English  undcfiled, 
Ou  Fame's  eternal  beadroll  woilhy  to  be  fyled." 

In  the  following  extracts  the  orthography  is  partially 
modernized.  Where  the  change  would  impair  either  the 
measure  or  the  spirit  of  the  passage,  the  original  spelling 
is  retained. 


AN    EARTHLY    PARADISE. 
From  "The  Fi.owku  and  the  Leaf." 


When  that  Phoebus  Lis  chair  of  gold  so  high 
Had  ^vhirled  up  the  starry  sky  aloft, 
And  in  the  Bull  was  entered  certainly ; 
W^hen  showers  sweet  of  rain  descended  soft, 
Causing  the  ground,  feole'  times  and  oft, 
L"p  for  to  give  many  a  wholesome  air ; 
And  every  plaiue  was  y-cloth^d  fair 


With  newe  green,  and  fl|Bbth  small6  flowers 
To  springen  here  and  there  in  field  and  mead 
So  very  good  and  wholesome  be  the  showers 
That  it  reneweth  that  was  old  and  dead 
III  winter  time ;   and  out  of  every  seed 
Springeth  the  hcrbc,  so  that  every  wight 
Of  this  .season  wexeth  glad  and  light ; 


Many ;  German,  viel. 
1 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  I,«tft)'gradd6  of  tlio  "scasoii  swefet, 
Was  happ(?d  thus:  Upon  a  certain  night 
As  I  lay  in  my  bed,  sleep  full  nnnioet 
Was  juito  mo  ;  but  wiij'  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  no  wist,  for  there  n'  'as'  earthly  wight. 
As  I  suppose,  had  more  of  hertz's  ease 
Tiian  I,  for  I  n'  'ad^  sickness  nor  disease. 

Wherefore  I  marvel  greatly  of  myself 
That  I  so  long  withouten  sleep6  lay, 
And  np  I  rose  three  hours  after  twelf, 
About  the  springing  of  the  day.' 
And  on  I  put  mj'  gear  and  mine  array. 
And  to  a  i)leasant  grove  I  'gan  pass. 
Long  ere  the  snnnd  bright  uprisen  Avas, 

In  which  were  oakds  great,  straight  as  a  line, 
Under  the  Avhich  the  grass  so  fresh  of  hue 
Was  newly  sprong ;   and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Eveiy  tree  well  fro  his  fellow  grew 
With  branches  broad  laden  with  leaves  new, 
Tiiat  sprongen  out  agen  the  soun6-sheen. 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  green, 

Wiiicli,  as  methought,  was  right  a  pleasant  sight; 

And  eke  the  birdes  songe  for  to  hear 

Would  have  rcjoic<Sd  any  earthly  wight, 

And  I,  that  couth^  not  yet  in  no  manere 

Heard  the  nightingale  of  all  the  year, 

Full  busily  hearkened  with  heart  and  ear, 

If  I  her  voice  perceive  could  any  where. 

And  at  the  last  a  path  of  little  brede* 

I  found,  that  greatly  had  not  us(?d  be  ; 

For  it  forgrow6n°  was  with  grass  and  weed. 

That  well  nnneth'  a  "\vight6  might  it  see. 

Thought  I,  "This  path  somewhither  goeth,  parde !'' 

And  so  I  followed,  till  it  me  brought 

To  right  a  pleasant  herbcr*  well  y-wronght, 

That  was  y-benched  ;    and  with  tnrfes  new 
Freshlj'  y-tnrved,  whereof  the  green6  grass 
So  small,  so  thick,  so  short,  so  fresh  of  hue, 
That  most  like  unto  green  wool  wot  I  it  w.is. 
The  hedge  also  that  yede  there  in  compass," 
And  closed  in  all6  the  green  herbere, 
With  sycamore  was  set  and  eglatere.'" 


'  Was  not.  2  Had  uot 

3  Line  of  imperfect  measure  in  the  copies.    Some  editors  in- 
sert tlie  epitliol  fjladsdiiie. 

*  H;ul  not  been  iiblf.  '  Breaiilli. 

•  Overthrown.  '  Scarcely. 

"  .\il)()r.  »  That  went  round  about. 

'0  Eglantine,  or  (according  to  Warton)  swcetbricr. 


TO   HIS   K.Ml'TY  PURSE. 

T(i  you,  my  pur.sc,  and  to  none  other  wight 

Coniplaiue  I,  for  ye  bo  my  lady  dere  ; 

I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  light, 

For  certes  ye  now  make  mc  Iieavj'  cheer ; 

Me  were  as  lefe  laid  upon  a  here 

For  which  unto  your  mercic  thus  I  crie, 

Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  vouchsafe  this  or  it  be  night. 

That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sowne  may  here, 

Or  see  your  color  like  the  snnu6  bright, 

That  of  yelowness  had  never  pere. 

Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertd's  stere, 

Queene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companie. 

Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  purse  that  art  to  mo  my  livd's  light 
And  saviour,  as  downe  iu  this  world  here, 
Out  of  this  town6  helpe  me  by  your  might, 
Sith  that  you  avoU  not  be  my  treasure. 
For  I  am  shave  as  iiere  as  any  frirc, 
But  I  pray  unto  your  curtesie, 
Be  heavy  agaiue,  or  els  mote  I  die. 


THE   PARSON. 

A  good  man  there  was  of  religionn, 

That  was  a  poor6  Parson  of  a  town  ; 

But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  woik, 

He  was  also  a  leariidd  man,  a  clerk, 

That  Christds  gospel  truely  would  preach  ; 

His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach. 

Benign  he  was  and  wonder  diligent. 

And  in  adversity  full  patient ; 

And  such  ho  was  y-provdd'  oftd  sithds," 

Full  loth  were  him  to  eursen  for  his  tithds;' 

But  rather  would  he  given,  out  of  doubt, 

Unto  his  poore  i>arishens  about, 

Of  his  otfring  and  eke  of  his  substance  ; 

He  couth  in  little  thing  have  sufhsance. 

Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder; 

lint  he  no  lefte  not,  for  rain  ne  thunder,    . 

In  sickness  nor  iu  mischief  to  visite 

The  furtiii'st  iu  his  parisli.  nmcli  and  lite,* 


'  }'  is  the  old  English  prefls  of  the  past  participle ;  Saxon  and 
German  ge. 

-  Oftentimes. 

3  The  e  or  i  of  the  plural  in  old  poetry  is  always  sounded  when 
the  verse  requires  it. 

*  Great  and  small. 


GEOFFREY  CHA VCER.—GOWER.—BARBOUU.—LYDGATE. 


Upou  liis  feet,  aud  iu  bis  baud  a  staff. 
This  uoblo  ensamplo  to  bis  sbeep  ho  gaf,' 
That  first  be  wrouj;ht  and  afterward  he  taught. 
Out  of  the  gospel  be  the  Avordcs  caught, 
Aud  this  figure  he  added  eke  thereto, — 
That,  if  gokl  ruste,  what  shouki  irou  do  ? 
For,  if  a  priest  be  foul  ou  whom  we  trust. 
No  wouder  is  a  lewcd"  luau  to  rust. 

lie  was  a  shepherd,  aud  uo  mercenary; 

And,  though  be  \w\j  wei'e  and  virtuous. 

He  was  to  sinful  man  not  dispitous,^ 

No  of  bis  specche  dangerous  ne  digue,* 

But  iu  bis  teaching  discreet  and  benign. 

To  draweu  folk  to  heaven  hy  fairness 

By  good  ensaraple,  this  was  bis  business. 

But,  it  were  any  person  obstinate, 

What  so  be  were,  of  bigb  or  low  estate. 

Him  would  be  snibbeu^  sharply  for  the  uones." 

A  better  jiriest  I  trow  there  nowhere  none  is. 

He  waited  after  uo  pomp  ue  reverence, 

Ne  maked  liini  a  spiced'  conscience  ; 

But  Christes  lore  and  bis  apostles  twelve 

He  taught,  but  first  be  followd  it  bimselve. 


GOOD  COUNSEL  OF  CHAUCER. 

In  one  of  the  Cottouian  MSS.  (amon<j  those  destroyed  by  fire) 
this  poem  was  described  as  made  by  Chaucer  "  upon  his  death- 
bed, iu  his  great  anguish."    The  versious  differ  considerably. 

Fly  fro  the  press  and  dwell  with  sootbfastuess  f 
Suffice  unto  thy  good  though  it  be  small: 

For  board  bath  hate,  aud  climbing  fickleness,' 
Press  bath  envj^,  aud  weal  is  blent'"  over-all. 
Savour  uo  more  than  thee  bebov^"  shull. 

Rede'^  well  thyself  that  other  folk  canst  rede  ; 

Aud  Truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  uo  drede.'^ 

Paiu6  thee  uot  each  crooked  to  redress 
In  trust  of  her  that  turnetb  as  a  ball  ; 

Great  rest  standeth  in  little  busyness. 
Beware  also  to  spurn  against  an  awl ; 
Strive  uot  as  doth  a  crocke'*  with  a  wall ; 

Deem6'^  thyself  that  deemest  others'  deed ; 

Aud  Truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  uo  drede. 


1  Gave.  2  Lay,  unlearned. 

3  Without  pity.  *  Domineering  uor  disdainful. 

'■>  Check,  reprove,  mnth.         •  For  the  nonce. 

'  Disguised,  as  food  by  spiceg.  s  Truth. 

»  Instability.  lo  Blind. 

'1  Thau  shall  be  for  thy  good.  '2  Counsel. 

'3  Doubt.  1^  Piece  of  china.  '^  Judge. 


That  thee  is  sent,  receive  in  buxomness ;' 
The  wrastling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall. 

Here  is  uo  home,  hero  is  but  wilderness. 

Forth,  pilgrim  !     Forth,  beast,  out  of  thy  stall ! 
Look  up  on  bigb,  aud  tbauko  God  of  all. 

Waive'^  thy  lusts,  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lead; 

And  Truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  drede. 


(!?Ott)cr. — Btavbour. — fijiigatc. 

Contemporary  with  Chaucer,  but  several  years  his 
jiuiior,  was  John  Gower  (133.5-1408),  a  W'ealthy  "es- 
quire" of  Kent.  The  grave  and  sententious  turn  of  his 
poetry  won  for  him  from  Chaucer  aud  otliers  the  appella- 
tion of  the  "  Moral  Gower,"  which  has  become  almost  a 
synonjme  for  dulness.  He  gives  little  evidence  of  the 
genuine  afHatus. 

Tlie  Scottish  poet,  John  Barbour,  born  about  the  year 
1316,  grew  up  in  the  midst  of  exciting  political  events. 
He  was  arclideacon  of  Aberdeen,  and  in  1375,  when  Rob- 
ert III.  had  been  king  five  years,  he  was  occupied  in  writ- 
ing a  metrical  history,  called  "The  Bruce,"  of  Robert  I. 
It  is  iu  the  octosyllabic  rhymed  couplet  of  the  old  ro- 
mances, and  is  ranked  as  authentic  history. 

The  most  notable  of  Chaucer's  younger  contempora- 
ries was  John  Lydgate  (1373-1460).  He  was  named  from 
his  birth  in  SufiblU",  at  the  village  of  Lydgate,  and  became 
a  Benedictine  monk.  His  "Ballad  of  London  Lyckpen- 
ny,"  relating  the  ill  success  of  a  poor  countryman  in  the 
London  Courts  of  Law,  is  a  remarkable  specimen  of  hu- 
morous verse.  '  Both  Gray  and  Coleridge  seem  to  have 
been  impressed  by  the  merits  of  Lydgate. 


MEDEA   GATHERING  HERBS. 

GOWEK. 

Thus  it  fell  upon  a  night, 

When  there  was  uaught  but  starrie  light, 

She  was  vanished  right  as  she  list. 

That  no  wight  but  herself  wist, 

Aud  that  was  at  midnight  tide. 

The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 

Witb  open  baud  and  foot  all  bare ; 

Her  bair  too  spread,  she  'gau  to  fare ; 

Upon  her  clothes  girt  she  was. 

And  spech^^less,  upon  the  grass. 

She  glode  forth,  as  an  adder  doth. 


FREEDOM. 

Bauhouu. 
Ah,  Freedom  is  a  noble  thing  I 
Freedom  makes  man  to  have  liking;' 

'  Cheerfulness.  •  Cast  away.  '  Enjoyment. 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH   AND   AMERICAN  I'OIJTRY. 


Freedom  all  solace  to  man  gives ; 
He  lives  at  ease  that  freely  lives! 
A  noble  heart  may  have  iiane  ease, 
Ne  ellis  nocht*  that  may  him  please, 
Gif  freedom  failoth  ;   for  free  lil<iiig 
Is  yearned*  o'er  all  other  thing ; 
Nor  ho  that  aye  has  liv<5d  freo 
May  nocht  know  well  the  property,' 
The  anger,  ne  the  wretched  doom 
That  is  conplit  to  foul  thirldom. 
But,  gif  he  had  assayed  it, 
Tlien  all  perqnere''  he  should  it  wit, 
And  should  think  freedom  mair  to  prize 
Tliau  all  the  irold  in  the  warld  tliat  is. 


FROM  THE  BALLAD  OF  '-LONDON  LYCK- 
PENNY." 

Lydgate. 

To  London  once  my  steps  I  bent. 

Where  truth  in  nowise  should  be  faint; 

To  Westminster-ward  I  forthwith  went, 
To  a  Man  of  Law  to  make  complaint, 
I  said,  "For  Mary's  love,  that  holy  saint, 
Pity  the  poor  that  -would  proceed !" 
But  for  lack  of  Money  I  could  not  speed. 

And  as  I  thrust  the  press  among, 

By  froward  chance  my  liood  was  gone. 

Yet  for  all  that  I  stayed  not  long 
Till  to  the  King's  Bench  I  vrna  come. 
Before  the  Judge  I  kneeled  anon, 
And  prayed  him  for  God's  sake  take  heed. 
But  for  lack  of  Mouey  I  might  not  speed. 

Beneath  them  sat  Clerks  a  great  rout, 
Which  fast  did  ■write  by  one  asseut ; 

There  stood  np  one  and  cried  about 
"Richard,  Robert,  and  John  of  Kent!" 
I  wist  not  well  what  this  man  meant, 
He  cried  so  thickly  there  indeed. 
But  ho  that  lacked  Mouey  might  not  speed. 

Unto  the  Common  Pleas  I  yode"  tho, 
Where  sat  one  with  a  silken  hood  ;' 

J  did  him  reverence,  for  I  ought  to  do  .so. 
And  told  my  case  as  well  as  I  could. 
How  my  goods  were  defrauded  me  by  falsehood. 


1  Nor  .nnytliiiig  else. 
3  Tlic  kind  of  cxisteuce. 
'  Went. 


-  Desircfl. 

••  I'eifecl  ly. 

•  Badge  of  a  sergcaiit-at-l.nw. 


I  got  not  a  mum  of  his  mouth  for  my  meed. 
Aud  for  lack  of  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

I'uto  the  Rolls  I  gat  me  from  thence, 
Before  the  clerk6s  of  the  Chaucerie, 

Where  many  I  found  earuiug  of  pence, 
But  none  at  all  once  regarded  me. 
I  gave  theui  my  plaiut  upon  my  knee; 
They  liked  it  well  when  they  had  it  read. 
But  lacking  Money  I  could  not  be  sped. 

lu  Westminster  Hall  I  fouud  out  one 

Wiiicli  went  in  a  long  gown  of  ray;' 
I  crouched  and  kneeled  before  him ;    anou. 

For  Mary's  love,  for  help  I  him  pray. 

"  I  wot  not  what  thou  meau'st,"  gan  he  say  ; 

To  get  me  thence  he  did  me  bede; 

For  lack  of  Mouey  I  could  not  speed. 

Within  this  Hall,  neither  rich  nor  yet  poor 

AVould  do  for  me  aught  although  I  should  die: 

Which  seeiug,  I  got  me  out  of  the  door 
Where  Flemings  began  on  me  for  to  cry, 
"Master,  what  will  you  copeir  or  buy? 
Fiue  felt  hats,  or  spectacles  to  read  ? 
Lay  down  your  silver,  aud  here  you  may  speed." 

Tlicu  I  conveyed  me  into  Kent ; 

For  of  the  law  would  I  meddle  no  more, 

Because  no  man  to  me  took  iutent, 
I  dight  me  to  do  as  I  did  before. 
Now  Jesus,  that  in  Bethlehem  was 'bore. 
Save  London,  and  send  true  lawyers  their  meed  I 
For   whoso   wants  Mouey   with   them   shall   not 
speed. 

lames  3.  of  Scotlani). 

This  Scottish  prince  (1394-1437)  was  iuterceptcd  at 
sea,  aud  made  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.  in  1405:  During 
his  captivity  he  produced  one  of  the  most  graceful  poems 
that  exist  in  old  English.  The  "  King's  Quhair"  (that  is, 
quire,  or  little  book)  has  for  its  main  incident  the  discov- 
ery of  a  lady  walking  in  the  prison  garden,  to  whom  he 
becomes  attached.  This  beauty  is  supposed  to  have  been 
Lady  Jane  Beaufort,  who  became  his  wife,  aud  eventually 
Queen  of  Scotland,  and  mother  of  the  royal  line  of  the 
subsequent  Stuarts.  King  James  returned  to  Scotland 
after  the  death  of  Henry  V.,  was  crowned  at  Scone  in 
1434,  and  was  for  twelve  years  a  wise  ruler,  endeavoring 
to  establish  law  and  order  among  turbulent  nobles,  aud 
to  assure  the  rights  and  liberties  of  his  people;  but  his 
firm  upholding  of  justice  led  to  his  assassiuation  at  Pertli 
in  1437. 


'  A  r.iyed  or  striped  cloth. 


»  (Dutch  "koopen'"),  buy. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON. 


THE   CAPTIVE   KING. 

Whereas  iu  ward  full  oft  I  would  bewail 
My  deadly  life,  full  of  pain  aud  penance, 

Saying  right  thus,  '•  What  have  I  guilt'  to  fail 
My  freedom  in  this  world,  and  my  pleasance? 
Sin  every  wight  has  thereof  suffisauce 

That  I  behold,  and  I  a  creiitnre 

Put  from  all  this,  hard  is  mine  aventure! 

"  The  bird,  the  beast,  tbe  fish  eke  in  the  sea. 
They  live  in  freedom,  every  iu  his  kind, 

And  I  a  man,  and  lacketh  liberty ; 

What  sliall  I  sayn,  what  reason  may  I  find, 
That  Fortune  should  do  so  ?"    Thus  in  my  mind 

My  folk^  I  would  argue,  but  all  for  nought ; 

Was  none  that  might  that  on  my  pain<?s  rought !' 


Uobert  tjcnrjisou. 


Henryson  (circa  1425-1507)  was  the  oldest  of  an  im- 
portant group  of  Scottish  poets,  who,  at  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  and  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centuries,  "were 
tilling  the  North  country  with  music."  Admitted  in 
1403  to  the  newly-founded  University  of  Glasgow,  he  be- 
came notary  public  and  school-master  at  Dunfermline. 
In  his  lifetime  the  art  of  printing  first  came  into  use  in 
England.  He  was  a  writer  of  ballads;  and  his  "Robin 
and  Mawkin"  is  one  of  the  best  early  specimens  of  pas- 
toral verse.  He  also  wrote  a  metrical  version  of  ^Esop's 
Fables. 


A  VISION  OF  yESOP. 

In  mids  of  June,  that  jolly  sweet  seasoun. 

When  that  fair  Phoebus  with  his  beanies  bricht 

Had  dryit  up  the  dew  frae  dale  and  down, 
And  all  the  land  made  with  his  gleamds  licht. 
In  ane  morning,  betwixt  mid-day  and  uicht, 

I  rase,  and  put  all  sloth  and  sleep  aside, 

And  to  a  wood  I  went  alone,  but  guide. "* 

Sweet  was  the  smell  of  flowers  white  and  red. 
The  noi.se  of  birdes  richt  delicious; 

The  boughes  bloomed  broad  above  my  head. 
The  ground  growand  with  gersses  gracious : 
Of  all  i>leasance  that  place  wers  plenteous. 

With  sweet  odors  and  birdes  harmony. 

The  morning  mild,  my  mirth  was  mair  fortliy.'' 


1  Done  gailty.  2  >iy  attendants. 

3  That  is,  "No  one  took  pity  on  my  suflferiuf,'?."     Rought, 
pitst  tense  of  rw*,  to  care  for. 
■•  Without  a  guide.  »  Therefore. 


Mo  to  conserve  then  frae  the  sunnds  heat, 

Under  the  shadow  of  ane  hawthorn  green 
I  loanit  down  aniaug  the  flowers  sweet ; 

Syne  cled  my  head  and  closdd  baith  my  een. 

On  sleep  I  fall  amang  these  bough<5s  been ; 
And,  in    my   dream,  methocht   come   through   the 

shaw 
The  fairest  man  that  ever  before  I  saw. 

His  gown  was  of  ane  claitli  as  Avhite  as  milk. 
His  chimeris'  was  of  chambelote  purple-brown ; 

His  hood  of  scarlet  bordered  weel  with  silk, 
UnheckM-wise,^  untill  his  girdle  doun ; 
His  bonnet  round  and  of  the  auld  fassoun ; 

His  beard  was  white,  his  een  was  great  and  grey, 

With  locker^  hair,  Avhilk  over  his  shoulders  laj-. 

Ane  roll  of  papier  in  his  hand  he  bare, 
Ane  swanes  pen  stickand  under  his  ear, 

Ane  ink-horn,  with  ane  pretty  gilt  pennair,* 
Ane  bag  of  silk,  all  at  his  belt  did  bear; 
Thus  was  he  goodly  graithit^  in  his  gear. 

Of  stature  large,  and  with  a  fearfull  face. 

Even  where  I  lay  he  come  ane  sturdy  pace; 

And  said,  "  God  speed,  my  son  ;"  and  I  was  fain 
Of  that  couth  word,  and  of  his  company. 

W^ith  reverence  I  saluted  him  again, 

"  Welcome,  father ;"  and  he  sat  down  me  by. 
"  Displease  you  nocht,  my  good  maister,  though  I 

Demand  your  birth,  your  faculty,  and  name, 

Why  ye  come  here,  or  where  ye  dwell  at  hame  ?" 

"  My  sou,''  said  he,  "  I  am  of  gentle  blood. 
My  uative  land  is  Rome  withouten  nay; 

And  iu  that  town  first  to  the  schools  I  g.aed. 
In  civil  law  studied  full  many  a  day, 
And  now  my  wonning^  is  in  heaven  for  aye. 

yEsop  I  hecht ;'  my  writing  and  ray  wark 

Is  conth^  and  kend^  to  moiiy  a  cunning  clerk." 

'•  O  maister  ^Esop,  poet  laureate ! 

God  wot  ye  are  full  dear  welcome  to  me ; 

Are  ye  nocht  he  that  all  those  Fables  wrate 
Which,  in  effect,  suppose  they  feign<>d  be. 
Are  full  of  prudence  and  morality  ?" 

"Fair  son,"  said  he,  "  I  am  the  saniin  man." 

God  wot  gif"  that  ray  heart  was  merry  than. 


'  Short  light  gowu. 
3  Curling. 
^  Arrayed. 
'Am  called. 


-  Unfiistened-wiBC. 
*  Pen-liolder. 
"  Dwelling. 
8  Known. 


"  Known  (other  form  of  same  verb).       '"  God  knows  if. 


CYCLOrHDI.i    OF  lilllTISll   A  SI)   AMERICAN  rOETIlY. 


£iir  (Lljomas  llhjatt. 

Amonjz;  tlic  principal  successors  of  lIeiir\soii  were  Wil- 
liam Dunbar  (p/mz  14(50-1520),  John  Skellon  (14«0?-153!)), 
Gavin  Douglas  (1475-1.W2),  Sir  David  Lyndsay  (1490- 
1557),  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  (1503-1542),  who  translated 
many  of  the  Sonnets  of  Petrarch,  lie  became  M.A.  of 
Cambridge  at  seventeen  ;  was  made  a  gentleman  of  King 
lieury  VIII. 's  bcdcliamber;  was  knighted  in  1537;  and 
went  as  ambassador  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  in  Spain. 
In  the  winter  of  1540-'41  he  was  in  the  Tower,  charged 
■with  treasonable  correspondence  with  Cardinal  Pole. 
Acquitted  in  1541,  he  was  again  befriended  by  the  king; 
but  in  the  autumn  of  154:3  he  died  of  a  fever,  caught  in 
riding  fast  through  bad  weather  to  meet  an  ambassador 
from  Charles  V. 


PLEASURE   MIXED   WITH   TAIN. 
Venomous  thornss  tliat  are  .so  sliarp  uiul  keen 

Bear  llowers,  wo  sec,  full  fresh  and  fair  of  line. 
Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine, 

And  unto  man  his  health  doth  oft  renew. 
The  lire  tliat  all  things  eke  consunieth  clean 

May  hurt  and  heal ;  then  if  that  this  he  true, 
I  trust  sometime  my  harm  may  he  my  liealth, 
Since  every  ■woe  is  joined  with  some  Avealth. 


OF  DISSEMBLING  WORDS. 
Throughout  the  ■world,  if  it  were  sought, 

Fair  words  enough  a  nmn  shall  find : 
They  he  good  cheap;  they  cost  right  nought; 

Tlicir  substance  is  but  only  wind. 
But  well  to  say,  and  so  to  mean, 
Tliat  sweet  accord  is  seklom  seen. 


FREE   AT  LAST. 

Tangled  I  was  in  Lov(^s  snare. 
Oppressed  witli  pain,  torment  witli  care, 
Of  grief  right  sure,  of  joy  full  bare. 

Clean  in  d<'spair  by  cruelty: 
But  lia!  ha!  Ii.i !  full  well  is  me, 

For  I  am  now  at  liberty. 

The  ■woful  days  so  full  of  pain, 
The  weary  night  all  spent  in  vain, 
The  labor  lo.st  for  so  small  gain. 

To  write  them  all  it  will  not  be: 
But  ha!  ha!  ha!  full  well  is  mo. 

For  I  am  now  at  liberty. 

Willi  feign<?d  -words  which  were  but  wind, 
To  long  dehivs  I  was  assigned  ; 


Her  wily  looks  my  wits  did  blind ; 

Thus  as  she  would  I  did  agree: 
But  ha!  ha!  lia!  full  well  is  me, 

For  I  am  now  at  liberty. 

Was  never  bird  tangled  in  lime 
That  brake  away  in  better  time 
Than  I,  that  rotten  boughs  did  climb, 

And  had  no  hurt,  but  scaped  free: 
Now  ha!  ha!  ha!  full  well  is  me, 

For  1  am  now  at  libertv. 


C)cunj  (joiuarb,  (!:arl  of  Surrcji. 

Tlie  son  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  victor  of  Flodden 
in  1513,  Ilenrj'  Howard  {circa  1517- 1.54G),  was  from  his 
youth  associated  with  the  Court  of  Ilein-y  VIII.  in  the 
capacity  of  companion  to  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  a  nat- 
ural sou  of  that  pi'ince.  He  was  subsequently  employed 
in  high  military  conniiands.  But  the  whole  family  of 
Howard  fell  under  Ileiu'y's  liatred,  after  the  execution  of 
Queen  Catharine,  Surrey's  sister.  He  and  his  father  were 
thrown  into  the  Tower,  and  condemned  on  frivolous  ac- 
cusations. He  was  executed  in  1546,  the  warrant  for  his 
death  being  one  of  the  latest  signed  by  Henry  VIII., 
then  upon  his  death-bed.  Surrey  was  the  first  tran.^lator 
in  blank  verse  of  tlic  /Eneid  of  Virgil ;  he  likewise  intro- 
duced the  Petrarchan  sonnet  into  Enu'lish  literature. 


HOW   NO  AGE   IS   CONTENT. 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed. 

In  study  as  I  were, 
I  saw  within  my  troubled  head 

A  lieap  of  thoughts  appear; 
And  every  thought  did  show 

So  lively  in  mine  cyos. 
That  now  I  sighed,  and  then  I  smiled, 

As  can.se  of  thought  did  rise. 

I  saw  the  little  boy. 

In  thought  how  oft  that  lie 
Did  wi.sh  of  God  to  'scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be: 
The  young  man  eke,  that  feels 

His  bones  with  pains  opjue.st, 
How  he  would  bo  a  rich  old  man, 

To  live  and  lie  at  rest. 

The  rich  <dd  man  that  sees 

His  end  draw  on  so  sore. 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  nimh  the  more; 


THOMAS,  LORD    VAUX.—ANXE  ASKEW. 


Whereat  full  oft  I  stnileil, 
To  see  bow  all  tbcso  three, 

From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy, 
Would  chop  and  change  degree. 

And  musing  thus,  I  think 
The  case  is  very  strange, 

That  man  from  weal  to  live  in  avoc 
Doth  ever  seek  to  change. 


Whereat  I  sighed  and  said : 

"  Farewell,  my  wonted  joy  ; 
Truss  up  thy  pack,  and  trudge  from  me 

To  every  little  boy; 
And  tell  them  thus  from  me, 

Tlieir  time  most  happy  is. 
If,  to  their  time,  they  reason  had 

To  know  the  truth  of  this." 


Thomas,  Lord  Vaux  {circa  1510-15.57)  of  Harrowden, 
in  Northamptonshire,  was  Captain  of  the  Isle  of  Jersey 
under  Henry  VIII.  The  following  lines  were  first  print- 
ed in  "The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices,"  1576.  In  neat- 
ness and  literary  skill  they  are  far  above  most  of  the 
coutcmporary  productions. 


OF  A   CONTENTED  MIND. 

When  all  is  done  and  said, 

In  tlie  end  thus  shall  you  find. 
He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss, 

That  bath  a  quiet  mind; 
And,  clear  from  worldly  cares. 

To  deem  can  be  content 
The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life. 

In  tliinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  tickle  Fortune's  power, 
And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 

Is  casual  every  hour : 
And  Death  in  time  doth  change 

It  to  a  clod  of  clay ; 
When  as  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 

Runs  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 
Unto  the  mind  alone  ; 


For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech. 
Through  tliinking,  few  or  none. 

Fciir  oftentimes  restraineth  words. 
But  makes  not  thought  to  cease ; 

And  he  speaks  best  that  hatli  the  skill 
When  for  to  hold  liis  x>eace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  ns  at  deatii ; 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave ; 
But  virtues  of  the  mind  nnto 

Tlie  heavens  with  us  we  have. 
Wherefore,  for  virtue's  sake, 

I  can  bo  well  content, 
Tlie  sweetest  time  of  all  my  lifo 

To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 


If  her  poetry  be  not  of  the  first  order,  Anne  Askew 
(burned  at  the  stake,  1546)  deserves  to  be  enrolled  among 
the  poets  for  showing  that  she  could  practise,  in  a  heroic 
death,  what  she  had  preached  in  verse.  She  was  cruelly 
tortured  by  the  minions  of  Henry  VIII.  for  denying  the 
real  presence  in  the  eucharist.  Prevailed  on  by  Bonner's 
menaces  to  make  a  seeming  recantation,  she  qualified  it 
with  some  reserves,  which  did  not  satisfy  that  zealous 
prelate.  She  was  thrown  into  Newgate,  and  there  wrote 
her  poem  of  "  The  Fight  of  Faith."  She  was  condemned 
to  be  burned  alive ;  but  being  so  dislocated  by  the  rack 
that  she  could  not  stand,  she  was  carried  to  the  stake  in 
a  chair,  and  there  burned.  Pardon  had  been  offered  her 
if  she  would  recant;  this  she  refused,  and  submitted  to 
her  fate  with  the  utmost  intrepidity. 


FROM  "THE   FIGHT   OF  FAITH." 

Like  as  the  armed  knight, 

Appointed  to  the  field. 
With  tliis  world  will  I  fight, 

And  faith  shall  be  my  shield. 

Faith  is  that  weapon  strong, 
Which  will  not  fail  at  need ; 

My  foes  therefore  among 
Therewith  will  I  proceed. 

Tliou  sayst.  Lord,  whoso  kuock, 
To  them  wilt  thou  attend, 

L^ndo,  therefore,  the  lock. 
And  thy  strong  power  send. 

More  enemies  now  I  have 
Than  hairs  upon  ray  head ; 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  JilHTISJI  AM)  AMERICAN  I'OETEY. 


Let  them  not  me  deprave, 
But  light  thou  in  my  8tea<l. 

Not  oft  I  use  to  -write 

In  prose,  nor  yet  in  rhyme ; 

Yet  -will  I  show  one  sij^ht. 
That  I  saw  in  my  time: 

I  saw  a  royal  throne, 

Wliero  Justice  shouhl  have  sit; 
But  in  her  stead  was  one 

Of  moody,  eriiel  wit. 

Absorpt  \vas  rightwisiiess, 
As  by  the  raging  Hood  ; 

Satan,  in  liis  exeess. 

Sucked  up  the  guiltless  blood. 

Then  thought  I, — Jesus,  Lord, 
"When  thou  shalt  judge  us  all, 

Hard  is  it  to  record 

On  these  men  what  will  fall! 

Yet,  Lord,  I  thee  desire. 
For  that  they  do  to  me. 

Let  them  not  taste  the  hire 
Of  their  iniquity. 


Sir  (Jrbinavi)  Pncr. 

Born  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  (circa  1.540-1C07),  Dyer 
lived  till  some  years  after  King  James's  accession  to  the 
English  til  rone.  lie  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
who,  in  his  verses,  celebrates  their  intimacy.  Dyer  was 
educated  at  O.xford,  and  was  employed  in  several  foreign 
embassies  by  Elizabeth.  He  studied  chemistry,  and  was 
tliouglit  to  be  a  Rosicrucian.  Puttenham,  in  his  "Art 
of  English  Poesie"  (1589),  commends  "Master  Edward 
Dyer  for  elegy  most  sweet,  solemn,  and  of  high  conceit." 
The  popular  poem,  "My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is," 
with  additions,  is  credited  in  some  collections  to  William 
Byrd  (1.543-1623),  an  eminent  composer  of  sacred  music, 
and  who  published  in  1588  a  volume  of  "Psalms,  Son- 
nets," etc.  Both  Byrd  and  Jo.shua  Sylvester  seem  to 
have  laid  claim  to  the  best  parts  of  Dyer's  poem.  A  col- 
lection of  Dyer's  writings  was  printed  as  late  as  1872. 


MY  MIND   TO   mi:   A   KINGDOM    IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is! 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bli.ss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind : 


Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  tlie  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salvo  a  sore. 

No  shape  to  fe(!d  a  loving  eye ; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall : 
For  why,  my  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  .see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft. 

And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft, 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

These  get  Avith  toil,  they  keep  with  fear: 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  I  live,  this  is  my  .stay; 

I  seek  no  more  than  maj'  suffice ; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies: 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king. 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave : 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  nnich  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store: 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  I  leave ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain ; 
No  Avorldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain : 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend  ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust. 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will ; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust, 
A  cloakdd  craft'  their  store  of  skill : 

But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 

Is  to  maintain  a  (juiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clear  i.iy  chief  defense : 
I  neither  seek  by  lu)l  os  to  please, 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  ofieuse: 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so,  as  well  as  I ! 

'  A  hidden  ciaftiuess. 


GEORGE  GASCOIGXE.— EDMUND  SPENSER. 


(!?corgc  ©ascoignc. 


Gascoiijnc  {circa  1535-1577),  besides  being  notable  as 
one  of  the  earlicsst  Englisli  dramatists,  was  one  of  the 
earliest  writers  of  Englisli  blank  verse.  He  was  a  native 
of  Essex,  became  a  lawyer,  was  disinherited  by  his  father, 
took  foreign  military  service  in  Holland  under  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  and  displayed  great  bravery  in  action.  His 
best  known  work  is  "  The  Steel  Glass,"  a  satire  in  rather 
formal  blank  verse. 


THE   LULLABY. 

Sing  lullabies,  as  women  do, 

With  which  they  charm  their  babes  to  rest ; 
And  Inllabj'  can  I  sing  too, 

As  womanly  as  can  tho  best. 
"With  lullaby  they  still  the  child, 
And,  if  I  be  not  much  beguiled, 
Full  many  ivanton  babes  have  I 
Which  must  be  stilled  with  lullaby. 

First  lullaby  my  youthful  years, 

It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed ; 
For  crook6d  age  and  hoary  hairs 

Hav^e  wore  the  haven  within  mine  bead. 
With  lullaby,  then.  Youth,  be  still. 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will ; 
Since  courage  quails  and  comes  behiud. 
Go  sleep,  and  so  beguile  thy  mind. 

Next  lullaby  my  gazing  Eyes, 

Which  wonted  were  to  glance  apace ; 

For  every  glass  may  now  suffice 
To  show  the  furrows  in  my  face. 

With  lullaby,  then,  wink  awhile  ; 

With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile ; 

Let  no  fair  face  or  beauty  bright 

Entice  you  eft'  with  vain  delight. 

And  lullaby  my  wanton  Will, 

Let  Reason's  rule  now  rein  thy  thougbt, 
Since  all  too  late  I  find  by  skill 

How  dear  I  have  thy  fancies  bought. 
With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
With  lullaby  thy  doubt  appease; 
For,  trust  in  this,  if  thou  be  still. 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will. 

Thus  lullaby,  my  Youth,  mine  Eyes, 
My  Will,  my  ware  and  all  that  was; 

I  can  no  more  delays  devise. 

But  welcome  pain,  let  pleasure  pass. 


With  lullaby  now  take  your  leave. 
With  lullaby  your  dreams  deceive: 
And  when  you  I'iso  with  waking  eye, 
Remember  then  this  lullaby. 


(£i)munLi  £ipcuscr. 

The  circumstances  which  prevent  our  reading  Chaucer 
with  that  facility  which  is  indispensable  to  pleasure, 
arise  from  the  time  in  which  he  lived.  But  a  poet  of 
far  greater  genius,  not  more  than  ten  years  older  than 
Shakspeare,  and  who  lived  when  English  literature  had 
passed  into  its  modern  form,  deliberately  chose,  by  adopt- 
ing Chaucer's  obsolete  language,  to  place  similar  obsta- 
cles in  the  way  of  studying  his  works. 

Edmund  Spenser  (circa  1553-1599),  the  son  of  a  gen- 
tleman of  good  family,  but  of  small  estate,  was  a  native 
of  London.  Educated  at  Cambridge,  he  began,  almost 
from  the  moment  of  his  leaving  tht  university,  to  pub- 
lish poems.  His  first  book,  "  The  Shepherd's  Calendai'," 
helped  to  popularize  pastoral  poetry  in  England.  His 
sonnets  are  still  among  the  best  in  the  language.  The 
patronage  of  Sidney  and  the  friendship  of  the  Earl  of 
Leicester  obtained  for  him  the  appointment  of  Secretary 
to  Grey,  Lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland.  Thus  he  was  fated 
to  spend  many  years  of  his  life  in  Ireland,  in  various  of- 
ficial posts,  among  a  race  of  people  with  whom  he  had 
but  few  interests  in  common.  Not  the  romantic  beau- 
ty of  Kilcolman  Castle,  in  County  Cork,  with  its  three 
thousand  surrounding  acres  of  forfeited  lands  of  the 
Earls  of  Desmond,  granted  to  him  by  Queen  Elizabeth, 
could  compensate  the  poet  for  the  loss  of  more  familiar 
if  less  lovely  English  scenes ;  and  a  prevailing  melan- 
choly and  discontent  may  be  observed  in  most  of  Lis 
allusions  to  his  own  life-story. 

In  1.590  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  persuaded  him  to  accom- 
pany him  to  England,  and  presented  him  to  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth, who  accepted  the  dedication  of  that  marvellously 
beautiful  poem,  "  The  Faery  Queene,"  of  which  the  first 
three  books  were  just  finished.  During  a  second  visit 
to  London,  in  159.5,  the  fourth,  fiftii,  and  sixth  books 
were  published,  together  with  a  re-issue  of  the  preceding 
books.  Of  the  remaining  six  books  needed  to  complete 
the  work,  only  one  canto  and  a  fragment  of  another 
canto  exist. 

Spenser  had  long  been  on  ill  terms  with  his  Irish 
neighbors.  In  those  days  Ireland  was  not  a  residence 
jiropitious  for  a  literary  student  in  quest  of  tranquillity. 
In  1.598  insurrections  broke  out,  and  as  Spenser  was 
Sheriff  of  the  County  of  Cork  for  that  j'car,  he  was  ren- 
dered by  his  office  a  conspicuous  mark  for  the  enmity 
of  the  insurgents.  They  attacked  and  burned  Kilcol- 
man, and  his  infant  child  perished  in  the  flames.  Tlicsc 
were  evils  too  terrible  to  be  borne  by  one  of  Spenser's 
sensitive  temperament.  He  returned  to  England,  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
and  in  extreme  indigence. 

Of  Spenser,  as  a  poet,  Campbell  saj's  :  "  We  shall  no- 
where find  more  airy  and  expansive  images  of  visionary 
things,  a  sweeter  tone  of  sentiment,  or  a  finer  flush  in 


10 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


the  colors  or  language,  than  in  this  Rubens  of  Englisli 
poetry.  Though  his  story  grows  desultory,  the  sweet- 
ness and  grace  of  his  manner  still  abide  by  him.  He 
is  like  a  speal;er  whose  tones  continue  to  be  pleasing 
though  he  spcaU  too  long." 


FROM   "THE  EriTHALAMION." 

Tlii.«  ]iurc  and  noble  .«i)()iisal  tribute,  the  most  i'cmnrk;ible  in 
tlie  lan>:iiMj.'c,  was  written  by  Speii.'icr  to  welcome  his  own  hiiile 
to  his  Irish  home.    It  places  him  amonj;  the  flist  of  lyric  iioels. 


Willie  now,  my  Love,  awake;  for  it  is  time! 
Tlic  ro.sy  morn  long  since  left  Titlioii'.s  bed, 
All  ready  to  Iter  silver  coach  to  climb, 
And  IMid'bns  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 
Hark  how  the  cheerful  birds  do  chant  their  lays, 

And  carol  of  Love's  praise ! 
The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft. 
The  thrush  replies,  the  mavis  descant  plays, 
The  onscl  shrills,  the  ruddock'  warbles  soft; 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent. 

To  this  day's  merriment. 
Ah!  my  dear  Love,  why  do  yc  sleep  thus  long, 
When  meeter  were  that  yc  should  now  awake, 
T'  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  make, 
And  hearken  to  the  birds'  love-learned  song 

Tiio  dewy  leaves  among  ? 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasancc  to  you  sing. 
That  all  tlie  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo 
ring. 

My  Love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreams, 
And  her  fair  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmdd  were 
With    darksome    cloud,   now    shew    their    goodly 

beams. 
More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rear. 
Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight. 

Help  quickly  her  to  dight : 
But  first  come  yc  fair  Hours,"  which  were  begot, 
In  Jove's  sweet  paradise,  of  day  and  night; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot. 
And  all  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair 

Do  make  and  still  repair. 
And  ye  three  handmaids  of  the  Cyjirian  queen,' 
The  which  do  slill  adorn  her  beauty's  pride, 
Help  to  adorn  my  beautiftillest  bride  ; 
And  as  yc  her  array,  still  throw  between     , 

Some  graces  to  be  seen : 

'  Kedbrenst.    First  Eiiprlish  "  ruddnc,"  from  "rnde,"red. 

"  Goddesses  of  the  champing  seasons  of  the  year  or  day.  In 
Greek  mythology  they  were  three  — Euuomia,  Good  Order; 
Dike,  Natural  Justice;  and  EirGnO,  Peace. 

'  The  Graces— Aglaia,  Ibuliant  Beauty;  EupUrosyne,  Cheer- 
ful Sense;  Thalia,  Abounding  Joy. 


And  as  ye  use  to  Venns,  to  her  sing, 
The  whiles  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

Now  is  my  Love  all  ready  fi>rth  to  come, 
Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  await ; 
And  yo  fresh  boys  that  tend  ni)oii  her  groom, 
Prepare  yourselves,  for  Ijc  i.s  coming  strait. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  array, 

Fit  for  so  joyful  day  : 
The  joyful'st  day  that  ever  sun  did  see ! 
Fair  Sun,  shew  forth  thy  favorable  ray. 
And  let  thy  lifefiil  htat  not  fervent  be, 
For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 
O  fairest  Phoebus,  father  of  the  Muse, 
If  ever  I  did  honor  thee  aright. 
Or  sing  the  thing  tiiat  mote  thy  mind  delight, 
Do  not  thy  servant's  siiuplo  boon  refuse, 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day  be  mine, 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine! 
Then  I  thy  sovereign  praises  loud  will  sing. 
That  all  the   woods  shall  answer,  and  their  echo 


Hark!     How  the  minstrels  'gin  to  shrill  aloud 
Their  merry  music  that  resounds  from  far, 
The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  croud. 
That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 
But  most  of  all  the  damsels  do  delight 

When  they  their  timbrels  smite. 
And  thereunto  do  dance  and  carol  sweet. 
That  all  the  senses  they  do  ravish  quite; 
The  whiles  the  boys  run  up  and  down  the  street, 
Crying  alotul  with  strong  confused  noise. 

As  if  it  were  one  voice  : 
"Hymen,  lo  Hymen,  Hymen,"  they  do  shout, 
That  even  to  the  heavens  their  shouting  shrill 
Doth  reach,  and  all  tlie  tirmament  doth  till; 
To  which  the  people  standing  all  about, 
As  in  appro vanee  do  thereto  applaud. 

And  loud  advance  her  laud, 
And  evermore  they  '' Hymen,  Hymen"  sing,  i 

That  all  the  woods  them   answer,  and  their  echo    i 
ring. 

Lo!  where  she  comes  along  with  portly'  pace, 
Ijike  Pha'be,*  from  her  chamber  of  the  east. 
Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race. 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best. 

'  Of  good  carriage. 

2  A  name  of  Diana,  sister  of  PhoBbns ;  the  Moon,  sister  of  the 
Siui.    The  word  means  "the  pure  shining  one." 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 


11 


So  well  it  licr  beseems,  that  ye  would  ween 

Some  angel  she  bail  been  ; 
Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  like  golden  wire, 
Sprinkled  with  pearl,  and  pearling  flowers  atween, 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire, 
And  being  crowudd  with  a  garland  green, 

Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 
Her  modest  eyes  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  atlixed  are : 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold. 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 

So  far  from  being  proud. 
Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did  ye  see 
So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  before  ? 
So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 
Adorned  with  beauty's  grace  and  virtue's  store  ? 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright. 
Garnished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree. 
Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that  sight, 
And  staud  astonished,  like  to  those  which  red' 

Medusa's  mazeful  head. 
There  dwells  sweet  Love  and  constant  Cliastity, 
Unspotted  Faith,  and  comely  AVomanhood, 
Regard  of  Honor,  and  mild  Modesty ; 
There  Virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne, 

And  givcth  laws  alone. 
The  which  the  base  affectious  do  obey. 
And  yield  their  services  unto  her  will ; 
Ne  thought  of  things  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures. 

And  unrev'ealed  pleasures. 
Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  praises  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your  echo 


Open  the  temple-gates  unto  my  Love, 
Open  them  wide,  that  she  may  enter  in. 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove. 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  witli  garlands  trim, 
For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  due. 

That  Cometh  in  to  you. 
With  trembling  steps  and  liumble  reverence 
Slie  cometh  in,  before  th'  Almighty's  view : 
Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learn  obedience, 

1  Saw. 


Whonso  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 

To  Innnble  your  proud  faces. 
Bring  her  up  to  th'  high  altar,  that  she  may 
Tlic  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 
Tlie  which  do  endless  matrimony  make : 
And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudlj'  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes; 

Tlie  whiles,  with  hollow  throats. 
The  choristers  the  joyous  anthem  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  tiie  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks 
And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks. 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain. 

Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain : 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain. 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly. 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 

Tiie  more  they  on  it  stare ! 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty 
That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  ye.  Love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Alleluya  sing. 
That   all   the   woods  may   answer,  and   your  echo 
rinjr. 


UNA  AND   THE   LION. 

I'KOM  TIIE  "  Faery  Queene,"  Book  I.,  Canto  III. 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  tlie  irksome  way. 
From  her  uuhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside :   her  angel's  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  Heaven,  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace 

It  fortun6d,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 

A  ramping  lion  rushdd  suddenly. 

Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood : 

Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy. 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  rau  greedily, 

To  have  at  once  devoured  her  tender  corse  :' 

•  Corse  is  often  npplied  to  the  liviug  body. 


12 


CYCLOF^DIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  to  tlio  prey  when  as  bo  drew  more  nigli, 

His  bloody  rago  as8iiag<^d  -witb  remorses, 

And,  witb  tbo  sigbt  amazed,  forgat  bis  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  be  kissed  her  weary  feet, 
And  lieked  lier  lily  bands  with  fawning  tougtie  ; 
As  bo  her  wronged  innocenee  did  weet.' 
Ob,  liow  cau  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  Tvrong ! 
Whose  yielded  ])ride  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  bad  marked  long, 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion  ; 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  aiitectiou. 

"Tbo  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 

Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth  abate, 

And  mighty  proud  to  bumble  weak  does  yield, 

Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage,  -which  late 

Him  pricked,  in  pity  of  my  sad  estate : — 

But  be,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord,'^ 

How  does  be  find  in  cruel  heart  to  bate 

Her,  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most  adored 

As  the  god  of  my  life  ?  why  hath  be  me  abhorred  ?" 

Redounding  tears  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
Which  softly  echoed  from  the  neighbor  wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint. 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood ; 
With  pity  calmed,  down  fell  bis  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up  her  pain, 
Arose  the  virgin  born  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again. 
To  seek  her  strayed  champion  if  she  might  attain. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  guard 
Of"  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  bard  : 
Still,  when  she  slept,  be  kept  both  watch  and  ward  ; 
And,  when  she  waked,  be  waited  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prejjared  : 
From  her  fair  eyes  be  took  couniuiiid(^ment. 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceiviSd  her  intent. 


PRINCE  ARTHUR. 

Book  I.,  Canto  VII. 

At  last  she  chanced  bj^  good  hap  to  meet 
A  goodly  knight,  fair  marcbiug  by  the  way, 

'  Perceive. 

"  The  Red  Cross  Knight  (Holiness)  had  been  seduced  from 
her  side  by  the  witch  Duessa  (Falsehood). 


Together  with  bis  squire,  arrayed  meet : 
His  glittering  armor  sbined  far  away. 
Like  glancing  light  of  Flux'bus  brightest  ray; 
From  top  to  toe  no  place  appeared  bare. 
That  deadly  dint  of  steel  endanger  may : 
Athwart  bis  breast  a  banldrick  brave  be  ware. 
That  shiued,  like  twinkling  stars,  with  stones  most 
precious  rare. 

And,  in  the  midst  thereof,  one  precious  stono 
Of  wondrous  worth,  and  eke  of  wondrous  miglits. 
Shaped  like  a  lady's  head,  exceeding  shone, 
Like  Hesperus  amongst  the  lesser  lights. 
And  strove  for  to  amaze  the  weaker  sights : 
Thereby  his  mortal  blade  full  comely  bung 
In  ivory  sheath,  y-carved  with  curious  slights,' 
Whose  hilts  were  burnished  gold ;  and  handle  strong 
Of  mother-pearl,  and  buckled  Avith  a  golden  tongue. 

His  haughty  helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold, 
Both  glorious  brightness  and  great  terror  bred  : 
For  all  the  crest  a  dragon  did  enfold 
With  greedy  paws,  and  over  all  did  spread 
His  golden  wiugs ;   his  dreadful  hideous  head. 
Close  couched  on  the  beaver,^  seemed  to  throw 
From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparkles  fiery  red. 
That  sudden  horror  to  faint  hearts  did  show ; 
And  scaly  tail  was  stretched  adown  bis  back  full 
low. 

Upon  tbo  top  of  all  bis  lofty  crest, 

A  bunch  of  hairs  discolored  diversely. 

With  sprinkled  pearl  and  gold  fnll  richly  dressed, 

Did  shake,  and  seemed  to  dance  for  jollity ; 

Like  to  an  almond-tree  y-mounted  high 

On  top  of  green  Selinis^  all  alone, 

With  blossoms  brave  bedeck(^d  daintily; 

W^hose  tender  locks  do-  tremble  every  one 

At  every  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blown. 

His  warlike  shield  all  clo.sely  covered  was, 
Ne  might  of  mortal  eye  be  ever  seen  ; 
Not  made  of  steel,  nor  of  enduring  brass 
(Such  earthly  metals  soon  consumed  been), 
But  all  of  diamond  perfect,  pure,  and  clean 
It  fram6d  was,  one  massy  <5utire  mould. 
Hewn  out  of  adamant  rock  with  engiues  keen, 
That  point  of  spear  it  never  piercen  could, 
Ne    dint    of   direful    sword   divide   the    substance 
would. 

'  Devices. 

2  The  part  of  a  helmet  that  covers  the  face. 

3  Seliuis,  in  Sicily. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 


13 


The  same  to  wight  be  never  wont  disclose, 
But  when  as  monsters  huge  he  would  dismay, 
Or  dauut  unequal  armies  of  his  Ibes, 
Or  when  the  flyiug  heavens  he  would  affray : 
For  so  exceeding  shone  his  glistering  ray. 
That  Phoebus'  golden  face  he  did  attaint,' 
As  when  a  cloud  bis  beams  doth  overlay; 
And  silver  Cynthia  wex^d  pale  and  faint. 
As  when  her  face  is  stained  with  magic  arts  con- 
straint. 

No  magic  arts  hereof  had  any  might, 
Nor  bloody  words  of  bold  enchanter's  call ; 
But  all  that  was  not  such  as  seemed  in  sight 
Before  that  shield  did  fade,  and  sudden  fall ; 
And,  when  him  list  the  rascal  routs^  appal, 
Men  into  stones  therewitb  he  could  transmew,' 
And  stones  to  dust,  and  dust  to  naught  at  all ; 
And,  when  him  list  the  prouder  looks  subdue, 
He  would  them,  gazing,  blind,  or  turu  to  other  hue. 


THE  MINISTEY  OF  ANGELS. 

Book  II.,  Casio  YIII. 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?     And  is  there  love 
In  heavenlj'  spirits  to  these  creatures  base. 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is : — else  mucb  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts.     But  oh !  th'  exceeding  grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 
And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave 
To  come  to  succor  ns  that  succor  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant. 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly  ward, 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant; 
And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward  : 
Oh,  why  should  heavenly  God  to   men  have  such 
rejrard  ? 


FROM  THE  "HYMN  IN  HONOR  OF  BEAUTY." 

Thereof  it  comes  that  these  fair  souls  which  have 
The  most  resemblance  of  that  heavenly  light, 
Frame  to  themselves  most  beautiful  and  brave 


'  Obscure. 


"-  The  rabble. 


3  Transmute. 


Their  fleshly  bower,  most  fit  for  their  delight, 
Aud  the  gross  matter  by  a  soverain  might 
Temper  so  trim,  that  it  may  well  be  seen 
A  palace  fit  for  such  a  virgin  queen. 

So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure, 

And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 

So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 

To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight 

With  cheerful  grace  and  amiable  sight ; 

For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take ; 

For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  life,  that  on  this  day 

Didst  make  thy  triumph  over  deatb  and  sin, 

And,  having  harrowed  hell,  didst  bring  away 

Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win  ; 

This  joyons  day,  dear  Lord,  with  joy  begin, 

Aud  grant  that  we,  for  whom  thou  diddest  die, 

Being  with  thy  dear  blood  clean  washed  from  sin. 

May  live  forever  in  felicity  : 

Aud  that  thy  love  we  weighing  worthily 

May  likewise  love  Thee  for  the  same  again  : 

And  for  thy  sake,  that  all  like  dear  didst  buy, 

Witb  love  may  one  another  entertain. 

So  let  us  love,  dear  Love,  like  as  we  ought ; 

Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 


MISERIES   OF  A   COURT-LIFE. 

These  lines,  from  "Mother  Hubbard's  Tale,"  though  not 
prluted.  till  15S1,  seem  to  have  reference  to  that  part  of  Speu- 
ser's  life  when  he  was  a  suitor  for  court  favor.  He  here  drops 
his  antique  phraseology,  and  gives  expression  to  earnest  per- 
sonal feeling  in  the  plain  English  of  his  day. 

So  pitiful  a  thing  is  Suitor's  state ! 
Most  miserable  man,  whom  wicked  Fate 
Hath  brought  to  Court,  to  sue  for  "had  I  wist,"' 
That  few  have  found,  and  many  one  hath  missed! 
Full  little  knowest  thou,  that  hast  not  tried, 
What  hell  it  is  in  sueing  long  to  bide  ; 
To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent ; 
To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent ; 
To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow  ; 
To  feed  ou  hope  ;   to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow ; 
To  have  thy  Prince's  grace,  yet  want  her  Peers'; 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  wait  many  years ; 

1  Interpreted  to  mean  "patronage,"  from  the  customary  ex- 
pression of  patrons  to  their  suitors,  "  Had  I  wist,  I  might  have 
done  so  aud  so." 


14 


CYCLOPjEDIA    of  BRITISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


To  fret  tliy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares; 
To  eat  thy  heart  tliroiigh  coiiifortlcss  (h-sjiairs  ; 
To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  rim, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  bo  undone. 
Uuhappj'  wight,  born  to  disastrous  end, 
That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend  ! 
Whoever  leaves  sweet  home,  wliero  mean  estate 
In  safe  assurance,  witliont  strife  or  hate. 
Finds  all  things  needful  for  contentment  meek, 
And  will  to  Court  for  shadows  Aain  to  seek. 
Or  hope  to  gain,  himself  will  a  daw  try:' 
That  curse  God  send  unto  mine  enemy  ! 


Sir  lllaltcv  Ualcigl). 

Raleigh  (born  1552,  beheaded  1018)  w;is  nearly  of  like 
age  witli  Spenser.  There  arc  forty  short  poems  on  mis- 
cellaneous subjects  attributed,  with  tolerable  certainty, 
to  Raleigh.  "  The  Nymph's  Reply,"  sometimes  placed 
among  these,  will  be  found  in  this  volume  under  3Iar- 
lowe.  So  small  a  quantity  of  verse  cannot  be  regarded 
as  adequately  representing  Raleigh's  genius  and  power 
in  literature.  His  life  was  one  of  the  busiest  and  fullest 
of  results  on  record.  From  his  youth  he  was  a  sailor, 
a  warrior,  and  a  courtier ;  but  he  was  also  a  student. 
Aubrey  relates  that  "he  studied  most  iu  his  sea-voyages, 
when  he  carried  always  a  trunk  of  books  along  with  him, 
and  had  nothing  to  divert  him."  From  the  same  source 
wc  learn  that  the  companions  of  his  youth  "were  bois- 
terous blades,  but  generally  those  that  had  wit."  The 
famous  Mermaid  Club,  frequented  by  Shakspeare,  Ben 
Jonson,  and  the  other  wits  of  the  day,  was  founded  by 
Raleigh  ;  who,  through  his  whole  life,  had  a  strong  sym- 
pathy with  literature  and  learning.  His  verses  are  vig- 
orous and  original,  "full  of  splendid  courage  and  a  proud 
impetuosity."  It  is,  however,  in  his  prose  writings  that 
wc  must  look  for  the  best  evidence  of  his  genius. 

Urged  by  the  King  of  Spain  to  punish  Raleigh  for  his 
attack  on  the  town  of  St.  Thomas,  James  I.  basely  re- 
solved to  carry  into  execution  a  sentence  sixteen  years 
old,  which  had  been  followed  by  an  imprisonment  of 
thirteen  yeai"s,  and  then  a  release.  So  Raleigh  was 
brought  up  before  the  Court  of  King's  Bench  to  receive 
sentence,  and  was  beheaded  the  next  morning.  The 
night  before,  the  brave  poet,  looking  at  liis  candle  as  it 
was  expiring  in  the  socket,  wrote  this  couplet : 

"  Cowards  fear  to  die ;  but  courage  stont. 
Rather  than  live  in  snuff,  will  be  put  out." 

The  remarkable  poem  of  "The  Lie"  is  traced  in  man- 
uscript to  1.59;J.  It  exists  in  a  MS.  collection  of  poems 
in  the  British  Museum  of  the  date  1590.  It  appeared  in 
jirint  with  alterations,  in  "Davison's  Poetical  Rhapsody," 
second  edition,  1008.  J.  Payne  Collier  (1807)  claims  it 
for  Raleigh,  resting  his  authority  on  a  manuscript  copy 

•  Will  prove  a  jackdaw,  a  fool. 


"of  the  time,"  headed  "Sir  Walter  Wrawly,  his  Lie." 
Iu  this  copy  the  first  line  is, 

"lleuce,  80ulc,  the  bodie's  guest." 

The  poem  has  been  assigned  to  Richard  Barnfield ;  also, 
by  several  recent  authorities,  to  Joshua  Sylvester,  in  the 
folio  edition  of  whose  works  there  is  an  altered  and  in- 
ferior version,  justly  styled  by  Sir  Egcrton  Brydges  "  a 
parody,"  and  published  under  the  title  of  "The  Soul's 
Errand."  It  consists  of  twenty  stanzas,  all  of  four  lines 
each,  excepting  the  first  stanza,  which  has  six.  "The 
Lie"  consists  of  but  thirteen  stanzas,  of  si.x  lines  each. 
On  Raleigh's  side  there  is  good  evidence  besides  the  in- 
ternal proof,  which  is  very  strong.  Two  answers  to  the 
poem,  written  in  his  lifetime,  ascribe  it  to  him ;  as  do 
two  manuscript  copies  of  the  period  of  Elizabeth.  When 
and  by  whom  it  was  firist  taken  from  Raleigh  and  given 
to  Sylvester,  with  an  altered  title,  is  still  a  matter  of 
doubt ;  and  why  Sylvester  should  have  incorporated  into 
his  poem  of  "The  Soul's  Errand,"  six  stanzas  belonging 
to  "  The  Lie,"  can  be  explained  only  by  the  laxity  of  the 
times  in  regard  to  literary  proijcrty.  The  versions  of 
this  poem  differ  considerably.  The  title  of  "The  Soul's 
Errand"  is  usuallv  given  to  it. 


THE   LIE. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  arrant :' 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best ; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant 

(io,  since  I  needs  must  die. 

And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Saj'  to  the  court,  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 

Say  to  the  church,  it  shows 

What's  good,  and  doth  no  good : 

If  clinrch  and  court  reply, 

Then  give  them  botli  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  thej'  live 
Acting  bj'  others'  action; 

Not  loved  uidess  they  give, 
Not  strong,  but  by  a  faction  : 

If  potentates  reply, 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
Tliat  rule  atlairs  of  state. 

Their  ]>urpose  is  ambition. 
Their  practice  only  hate: 

And  if  they  once  reply. 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 


Errand. 


SIR   WALTER  RALEIGH. 


15 


Tell  tliem  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Wlio,  ill  tlu'ir  greatest  cost, 

Seek  notliiug  but  commending : 

And  if  tliey  make  reply, 

Thea  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion  ; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust ; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion ; 

Tell  flesli  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply. 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  Tvasteth  ; 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters ; 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth ; 

Tell  favor  how  it  falters : 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
lu  tickle  points  of  niceuess; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 

And  when  they  do  reply. 

Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness ; 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretensiou  ; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness  ; 

Tell  law  it  is  contention  : 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness; 

Tell  nature  of  decay  ; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness  ; 

Tell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  thej'  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  thej'^  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming  : 
If  arts  and  schools  reply. 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  fiiith  it's  fled  the  city  ; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth  ; 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  oflf  pity ; 

Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth ; 


And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  tliou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing,- 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing  ;- 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


THE   SILENT  LOVER. 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams : 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  arc  dumb  ; 

So,  when  affections  yield  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom   is  but  shallow  wheiice  they  come. 

They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  discover 

That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a  lover. 

Wrong  uot,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart, 

The  merit  of  true  passion. 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  uo  smart 

That  sues  for  uo  compassion ; 

Since  if  my  plaints  serve  not  to  approve 

The  conquest  of  thy  beantj'. 
It  comes  not  from  defect  of  love, 

But  from  excess  of  duty. 

For  knowing  that  I  sue  to  serve 

A  saint  of  such  perfection. 
As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve,  . 

A  place  in  her  affection, 

I  rather  choose  to  want  relief 

Tiian  venture  the  revealing; 
Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 

Despair  distrusts  the  healing. 

Thus  those  desires  that  aim  too  higli 

For  any  mortal  lover, 
When  reason  cannot  make  them  die, 

Discretion  doth  tliem  cover. 

Yet,  when  discretion  doth  bereave 
The  plaints  that  they  should  utter, 

Then  thy  discretion  may  perceive 
That  sileuce  is  a  suitor. 

Silence  in  love  bewrays  more  woo 
Tliau  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty  : 


16 


CYCLOPMDIA    OF  BIIITISH  AND  AMElilCAX  POETIiT. 


A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  kuow, 
May  clialleuge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  beart, 
Mj'^  true,  though  secret,  passion  : 

He  smarteth  most  that  bides  his  smart. 
And  sues  lor  no  compassion. 


MY  PILGKDIAGE. 

Snpposed  to  have  been  written  by  Raleigh  in  1603,  in  the  in- 
terval between  his  condemnation  and  his  tempoiary  respite. 
It  manifests  great  mental  excitement;  and  alternates  in  lising 
to  sublimity  and  sinking  to  bathos.  There  are  several  difl'er- 
ent  versions  of  this  extraordinary  production. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet. 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon  ; 
My  scrip  of  joy.  immortal  diet ; 

My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gauge, 
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage ! 
Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer, 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given  ; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 

Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven ; 
Over  the  silver  mountains 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains : 

There  will  I  kiss 

The  bowl  of  bliss, 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before ; 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  uo  more. 
Then  by  that  happy,  blissful  day, 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see. 
That  have  cast  oft"  tlieir  rags  of  clay, 
Aiul  walk  apparelled  fresh  like  me. 

I'll  take  them  first 

To  quench  their  thirst. 
And  taste  of  nectar's  Buckets 

At  tho.se  clear  wells 

Where  sweetness  dwells 
Drawn  up  by  saints  iu  crystal  buckets. 
And  when  our  bottles  and  all  wo 
Are  filled  with  immortality, 
Then  the  blcss(?d  paths  we'll  travel, 
Strewed  with  rul»ies  thick  as  gravel ; 
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  doors. 
From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribeless'  ball, 
Where  no  corrupted  voices  l)rawl ; 

'  Alluding  to  the  common  custom  of  bribery.  Raleigh  had 
himself  given  and  taken  bribes. 


No  conscience  molten  into  gold. 

No  forged  accuser,'  bought  or  sold, 

No  cause  deferred,  uo  vain-spent  journey, — 

For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney ;' 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees, 

And  he  hath  angels,'  but  no  fees; 

And  when  the  grand  twelve  million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

'Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  his  death,  and  then  we  live. 

Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 

Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder ! 

Thou  giv'st  salvation  even  for  alms, — 

Not  with  a  bribdd  lawyer's  palms. 

Aud  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 

To  Him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea : 

That  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 

And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon,* 

■Just  at  the  stroke  when  my  veins  start  and  spi'ead, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head  I 

Then  am  I,  like  a  palmer,  fit 

To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ : 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell. 

Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well. 


Sir  JOIjilip  Sibncn. 


Sidney  (1.>54-1-jSG)  was  born  at  Pcnsliurst,  in  Kent. 
He  takes  his  rank  iu  English  literary  history  iiitber  as  a 
prose  writer  than  as  a  poet.  The  liiti;h  repute  iu  wliich 
his  verses  were  held  among  his  contemporaries  was  due 
chiefly  to  what  was  esteemed  their  scfio^arli/  style;  but 
in  these  days  we  should  call  it  artificial.  Some  of  his 
sonnets,  however,  are  graceful  in  expression  and  noble 
iu  thought.  "The  best  of  them,"  says  Charles  Lamb, 
"are  among  the  ver\'  best  of  their  sort.  The  verse  runs 
off  swiftly  and  gallantly,  and  miglit  have  been  tuned  to 
the  trumpet."  In  1.580  Sidney  took  a  command  iu  the 
War  in  the  Netherlands.  Ilis  death  occurred  in  the  au- 
tumn of  the  same  year,  from  wounds  received  at  the  as- 
sault of  Zutpheu.  He  was  then  only  thirty-two  years 
of  age. 


ON   DYING. 

Since  Nature's  works  be  good,  aud  death  doth  serve 
As  Nature's  work,  why  should  we  fear  to  die  f 
Since  fear  is  vain  but  when  it  may  preserve. 
Why  should  we  fear  that  which  we  cannot  fly  ? 
Fear  is  more  pain  than  is  the  pain  it  fears. 
Disarming  human  minds  of  native  might; 

'  Like  Lord  Cohham,  at  his  trial  in  re  Arabella  Stnart. 
^  Unlike  Coke,  the  King's  attorney  in  Raleigh's  trial. 
'  Angel— n  play  upon  the  word,  alluding  to  the  coin  called  au 
"angel." 
*  Alluding  to  his  impending  execution. 


SIR  riTILir  SIDNEY.— FULKE  GBEVILLE,  LORD  BROOKE. 


17 


Wliile  eacli  conceit  an  ugly  figure  bears, 
Whicli  Avero  not  evil,  well  viewed  in  reason's  light. 
Oar  only  eyes,  which  dimmed  Avith  passion  be, 
And  scarce  discern  the  dawn  of  coming  day — 
Let  them  be  cleared,  and  now  begin  to  see 
Our  life  is  but  a  step  in  dusty  way : 
Then  let  us  hold  the  bliss  of  iieaccful  mind  ; 
Since  this  we  feel,  great  loss  we  cannot  find. 


TRUE   BEAUTY  VIRTUE   IS. 

It  is  most  true  that  eyes  are  foiiued  to  serve 
The  inward  light,  and  that  the  heavenly  part 
Ought    to    bo    King,  from    whoso    rules    who    do 

swerve, 
Rebels  to  nature,  strive  for  their  own  smart. 
It  is  most  true,  what  we  call  Cupid's"  dart 
An  image  is,  which  for  ourselves  we  carve. 
And,  fools,  adore  in  temple  of  our  heart. 
Till  that  good  god  make   church   and   churchmen 

starve. 
True,  that  True  Beauty  Virtue  is  indeed, 
Whereof  this  Beauty  can  be  but  a  shade 
Which  elements  with  mortal  mixture  breed. 
True,  that  on  earth  we  are  but  pilgrims  made, 
And  should  in  soul  up  to  our  country  move : 
True ;   and  yet  true — that  I  must  Stella  love. 


ETERXAL  LOVE. 

Leave  me,  O  Love  which  readiest  but  to  dust. 
And  thou,  my  INIind,  aspire  to  higher  things; 
Grow  rich  in  tliat  which  uever  taketh  rust: 
Whatever  fades  but  fadiug  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be; 
Wliicli  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light 
That  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see! 
Oh,  take  fast  hold;   let  that  light  be  thj'  guide 
In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death  ; 
And  think  how  evil  becometh  him  to  slide, 
Who  seeketh  heaven  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world ;   thy  uttermost  I  see : 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  ihy  Life  in  me! 


ON  OBTAINING  A  PRIZE  AT  A  TOURNAMENT. 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize. 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes 


And  of  some  sent  from  the  sweet  enemy — France; — 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance; 
Townsfolk  my  strength  ;   a  daintier  judge  applies 
His  praise  to  sleight,  which  from  good  use  doth  rise  ; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance ; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
Sly  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this ; 
Think  Nature  me  a  man  of  arms  did  make. 
How  far  thej'  shot  awry!     TIic  true  cause  is, 
Stella  looked  on,  and  from  her  heavenly  fiico 
Shot  forth  the  beams  that  made  so  fair  my  race. 


INVOCATION   TO   SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  iieace. 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release. 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low! 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease' 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw ; 
Oh,  make  iu  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  ; 
I  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed ; 
A  chamber,  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thiue  by  right, 
Move  not  thine  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  iu  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 


A  DITTY. 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cauuot  miss; 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  iu  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  iu  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides; 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 


JTulltc  (!?rcnillc,  Covlj  I3rool\c. 

Greville  (1.5.54-1G38)  was  born  at  Alcaster,  in  Warwick- 
shire. He  was  the  school-mate  and  intimate  friend  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  a  court  favorite  during  the  reigns 
of  Elizabeth,  James,  and  Charles  I.    At  the  age  of  scven- 

>  Press,  crowd. 


18 


CYCLOP JiDIA    OF  BRITISn  AND  AMERICAN  I'OETRV 


ty-four  he  was  assassinated  by  a  crazy  servant.  Soutliey 
calls  Grcville  "the  most  difliciilt"  of  Enajlish  poets,  and 
says:  "  No  other  writer  of  this  or  any  other  comilry  ap- 
])ears  to  have  lellected  more  deeply  on  momentous  sub- 
jects." Charles  Lamb  says  of  his  verse:  "Whether  we 
look  into  his  plays,  or  his  most  passionate  love-jjoenis, 
we  shall  lind  all  frozen  and  made  rijjjid  with  intellect." 
His  eulogy  on  Philip  Sidney  is  a  noble  tribute,  full  of 
coudensed  thouirht. 


KEALITY   OF  A   TKUE   KELIGION. 

FKOM   THK    '•TllEATlSE   OF    HeLIGION." 

For  sure  in  nil  kimls  of  Iiypoeri.sy 

No  bodies  yet  arc  fonnd  of  constant  being; 

No  uniform,  no  stable  mystery, 

No  inward  nature,  but  au  outward  seeming; 

No  solid  truth,  no  virtue,  holiness. 

But  types  of  these,  wliieh   time  makes  more  or 
less. 

And  from  these  springs  strange  inundations  flow, 
To  drown  the  sea-marks  of  humanity, 
With  nia.ssacres,  conspiracy,  treason,  woe, 
By  sects  and  schisms  profaning  Ueily: 

Besides,  with  furies,  iiends,  earth,  air,  and  liell, 
They  fit,  and  teach  confusion  to  rebel. 

But,  as  tlicre  lives  a  true  God  in  the  heaven. 
So  is  there  true  religion  here  on  earth: 
By  nature?     No,  by  grace;   not  got,  but  given; 
Inspired,  not  taught;   from  God  a  second  birth; 
God  dwellelh  near  about  us,  even  ■witliin, 
Working  the  goodness,  censuring  the  sin. 

Such  as  we  arc  to  liini,  to  us  is  lie; 

Without  God  there  was  no  man  ever  good; 

Divine  the  author  and  the  matter  be, 

Where   goodness    must    bo    Avrouglit    in    ilesh    and 
blood : 
Religion  stands  not  in  corrui)t('d  things. 
But  virtues  that  descend  have  lieavenlv  wings. 


FROM   "LINES    ON   THE   DEATH   OF   PHILIP 
SIDNEY.-' 

Silence  augmenteth  grief,  writing  increasetli  rage. 
Stalled  are  my  thoughts,  which  loved  and  lost  the 

wonder  of  our  age. 
Yet   quickened   now   with    tire,  lhoui;]i    dcid    with 

frost  ere  now, 
Enraged  I  write  I  know  not  what:   dead,  quick,  I 

know  not  how. 


Hard-hearted  niiiuls  relent,  and  Rigoi-'s  tears  abound, 
And  Envy  strangely  rues  his  end  in  whom  no  fault 

she  found  ; 
Knowledge   liis   light   hath   lost,  Valor   liatli    slain 

her  kniglit, — 
Siiluey  is  dead,  dead  is  my  friend, dead  is  tlic  world's 

delight. 

lie  was — wo  wortli  fliat  word! — to  each  well-think- 
ing mind 

A  spotless  friend,  a  matchless  man,  wlio.sc  virtue 
ever  shined, 

Declaring  in  his  thoughts,  his  life,  and  that  he  writ, 

Highest  conceit.s,  longest  foresights,  and  di-cpest 
works  of  wit. 

Farewell    to   yon,  my    liopes,  my   wonted   wakiug 

dreauKs! 
Farewell,  sometimes  cnjoyt^d  Joy,  eclipsM  arc  thy 

beams ! 
Farewell,  self- pleasing    thoughts   which    (iuietuess 

brings  forth ! 
And    farewell,  friendship's    sacred    league,  uniting 

minds  of  worth  I 

And  farewell,  merry  lieart,  the  gift  of  guiltless 
minds, 

And  all  sports  which  for  life's  restore  variety  as- 
signs ; 

Let  all  that  sweet  is,  void!  In  me  no  mirth  may 
dwell  !— 

Philip,  the  can.se  of  all  this  woe,  my  life's  content, 
farewell ! 


0corcic  dja|3niau. 


Chapman  (1.5.57-1034)  wrote  translations,  plays,  and 
poems.  His  translation  of  Homer,  in  fourteen-syllable 
i-hynicd  measure,  is  a  remarkable  production.  From 
Lord  Houghton's  edition  of  tlic  Poetical  Works  of  .John 
Keats,  wc  learn  that  the  fine  folio  edition  of  Chapman's 
translation  of  Homer  had  been  lent  to  Mr.  Charles  Cow- 
den  Clarke,  and  he  and  Keats  sat  up  till  daylight  over 
their  new  acquisition  ;  Keats  shouting  with  delight  as 
some  passage  of  especial  energy  struck  his  imagination. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Clarke  found  this 
sonnet  by  Keats  on  his  breakfast-table. 

"Much  have  I  travcllod  in  the  roatins  of  gold. 
And  luany  goodly  stales  aiul  kingdoms  seen  ; 
Kound  ni.uiy  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  AiioUo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told, 
That  deep-browed  Homer  rnlcd  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  brollio  its  pare  serer.e 
Till  I  heard  Cliai>nian  speak  out  hnul  and  bold: 


GEORGE   Cff ATM  AX.— ROBERT  GREENE.— SAMUEL   DANIEL. 


10 


Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  !x  new  planet  swims  into  his  keu  . 
Oi-  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — aud  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise— 
Sileut,  upou  a  peak  iu  Darieu." 

In  his  j'outh  Chapman  had  for  contemporaries  and 
fellow-workers  Spenser,  Sldncj-,  Shakspeare,  Daniel,  and 
.Marlowe,  lie  regarded  poesy  as  a  "divine  discipline," 
rather  than  as  a  pastime,  and  in  his  most  elevated  mood 
jiu  appears  ditinitied,  self-reliant,  reflective,  aud,  above 
all,  conspicuously  honest. 


OF  SUDDEN  DEATH. 

\Yliat  action  wouldst  thou  wish  to  have  in  hand 

If  sudden  death  should  come  for  his  command  ? 

I  would  be  doiug  good  to  most  good  men 

That  most  did  ueed,  or  to  their  chiklreu, 

And  in  advice  (to  make  them  tlieir  true  heirs) 

I  would  be  giving  up  my  soul  to  theirs. 

To  which  etiect  if  Death  should  find,  me  given, 

I  would,  with  both  my  hands  held  up  to  heaven, 

Make  these  my  last  Avords  to  my  Deity : 

"  Those  faculties  Thou  hast  bestowed  on  me 

To  understand  Thy  government  aud  will, 

I  have,  in  all  fit  actions,  offered  still 

To  Thy  divine  acceptance ;  and,  as  far 

As  I  had  iuflueuce  from  Thy  bounty's  star, 

I  have  made  good  Thy  form  infused  in  me  : 

The  auticipations  given  me  paturally 

I  have,  with  all  my  study,  art,  and  prayer. 

Fitted  to  every  object  and  atfair 

My  life  presented  and  my  knowledge  taught. 

My  poor  sail,  as  it  hath  been  ever  fraught 

With  Thy  free  goodness,  hath  been  ballast  too 

With  all  my  gratitude.     What  is  to  do. 

Supply  it,  sacred  Saviour ;  Thy  high  grace 

In  my  poor  gifts,  receive  again,  aud  place 

Where  it  shall  please  Thee ;  Thy  gifts  ueA-er  die, 

But,  having  brought  one  to  felicity, 

Descend  agaiu,  and  help  another  up." 


THE   HIGHEST   STANDARD. 

Thou  must  not  undervalue  what  thou  hast. 

In  weighing  it  with  that  which  more  is  graced. 

The  worth  that  weighetli  inward  should  not  long 

For  outward  prices.     This  should  make  thee  strong 

In  thy  close  value  :   naught  so  good  can  bo 

As  that  which  lasts  good  betwixt  God  and  thee. 

Remember  thine  own  verse:  Should  heaven  turn  hell 

For  deeds  well  done.  I  icoiild  do  ever  icell. 


GIVE   ME   A   SPIRIT. 

Give  me  a  Si)irit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  liave  his  sails  tilled  with  a  lusty  wind. 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  masts  crack. 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so  low 
That  she  driuks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air: 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is;  tliere's  not  any  law- 
Exceeds  his  knowledge,  neither  is  it  needful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law  : 
He  goes  before  them,  and  commands  them  all, 
That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational. 


Hobcrt  (Dvccnc. 

If  only  for  one  stanza  that  he  wrote,  Robert  Greene 
(1560-1592),  playwright  and  poet,  deserves  a  mention. 
He  was  born  in  Norfolk,  got  a  degree  at  Cambridge  in 
1578,  travelled  in  Italy  and  Spain,  and  wasted  his  patri- 
mony iu  dissipation.  Returning  home,  he  betook  him- 
self to  literature  as  a  means  of  livelihood.  He  died  iu 
great  poverty  and  friendlessncss.  From  his  last  book, 
"  The  Groat' s-Avorth  of  Wit  bought  with  a  Million  of  Re- 
pentance," Ave  quote  the  following: 


A  DEATH-BED  LAMENT. 

Deceiving  world,  that  with  alluring  toys 
Hast  made  my  life  the  subject  of  thy  scorn, 
Aud  scoruest  now  to  lend  thy  fading  joys. 
To  out-length  my  life,  whom  friends  have  left  for- 
lorn ; — 
How  Avell  are  they  that  die  ere  they  be  born, 
And  never  see  thy  slights,  which  feAV  men  shun, 
Till  unawares  they  helpless  are  undone ! 

Oh  that  a  j'ear  Avere  granted  me  to  live. 
And  for  that  year  my  former  wits  restored ! 
What  rules  of  life,  what  counsel  I  would  give, 
How  should  my  sin  with  sorrow  be  deplored! 
But  I  must  die  of  every  mau  abhorred: 
Time  looselj'  spent  will  not  again  l)e  won ; 
My  time  is  loosely  spent,  aud  I  undone. 


Samuel  Daniel. 

The  son  of  a  music-master,  Samuel  Daniel  (1.5G2-1G19) 
was  born  uear  Taunton,  in  Somersetsliire.  Educated 
under  the  patronage  of  a  sister  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  he 
studied  at  Magdalene  College,  Oxford,  but  took  no  de- 
gree. His  largest  Avork  is  "The  History  of  tlie  Civil 
Wars ;"  lie  wrote  also  a  number  of  Epistles,  Sonnets,  and 


20 


cycloi\t:i)ia  of  jminsif  axd  ami.uicax  poethy 


Masques;  and  in  prose  a  "Ucfencc  of  Rliyinc"  (IGOl) 
and  a  "History  ofEntcland"  (1G13).  Tlie  modern  diar- 
acter  of  liis  Englisli,  as  well  as  of  liis  tliinkinjj^,  has  been 
often  noted  Uy  erities.  "For  his  dietion  alone,"  says 
Soutliej',  "lie  would  deserve  to  be  studied,  even  thonyh 
liis  works  did  not  aljound  in  i)assages  of  sinj;iil:\r  beau- 
ty." He  justly  felieitated  himself  in  his  later  days  that 
he  had  never  written  iiiK-lean  verses;  that  never  had  his 

"  Harmless  pen  at  all 
Distaiiied  wilh  any  loose  immodesty, 
Nor  never  noted  to  be  touched  wilh  g:ill, 
To  ajrgravate  the  worst  man's  infuiny; 
But  still  have  done  the  fairest  ollk'cs 
To  Virtue  and  the  time." 

Daniel  became  "  i>oet-laiircatc  voluntary"  at  the  death 
of  Spenser,  but  was  soon  superseded  by  Ben  Jonson  as 
poet -laureate  by  appointment.  There  eeems  to  have 
been  ill-feeling  between  the  tw'o ;  for  Jonson  says  of 
him:  "He  was  a  good,  lionest  man,  had  no  eliildren,  and 
was  no  poet."  The  slur  is  undeserved.  Some  years  be- 
fore his  death  Daniel  retired  to  a  farm,  where  he  ended 
his  days.  His  "  Ejiistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland  '' 
is  a  noble  specimen  of  meditative  verse.  It  was  much 
admired  by  Wordsworth,  w-hosc  indebtedness  to  it,  in 
tone  at  least,  may  be  traced  in  his  "Character  of  the 
Happy  Warrior." 


KPISTLE   TO   THE   COUNTESS   OF   CUMBER- 
LAND. 

He  that  of  such  a  lieight  liatli  built  liis  iiiiiid. 
And  reared  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so  strong, 
As  neither  hope  nor  fear  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  ])ow"ers ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  A'auity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same: 
What  a  fair  scat  hath  he,  from  Avhence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey! 

And  Avitli  how  free  an  <\ve  dotli  he  look  down 
Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil! 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  mainly  beat 
On  flesh  and  blood :  where  honor,  power,  renown, 
Are  only  gay  afillictions,  golden  toil; 
Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet, 
As  frailty  doth;   and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's  wars 

I?iit  only  as  on  stately  robberies; 

Where  evermore  the  fortuiu>  that  prevails 

Blust  be  the  right  ;  the  ill-succeeding  mars 

The  fiiirest  and  the  best  faced  enterprise. 

Great  pirate  Ponipcy  lesser  pirates  qnails : 

Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced),  still 

Conspires  w  itli  ])ower.  whose  cause  nnist  not  be  ill. 


He  sees  tlie  face  of  right  t'  appear  as  manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man  ; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colors,  all  attires. 
To  serve  his  emls,  .ind  make  his  courses  hold. 
He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can. 
Plot  and  contrive  base  w;iys  to  liigli  ilesires. 
That  the  all-giiidiiig  Providenee  doth  yet 
All  disappoint,  and  niocks  the  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  moved  wilh  all    llie  thiiinler-cracks 
Of  tyrant.s'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Power  that  proudly  sits  on  other.s'  crimes, — 
Ciiarged    with    more    crying    sins    than    those    he 

checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 
Up  ill  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 
Appall  him  not  that  hath  no  side  at  all, 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

Althoiigli  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  eartli) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  Jind  distressed  mortality, 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
AtJtlictioii  upon  imbecility, — 
Yet,  .seeing  thus  the  cour.se  of  things  must  run, 
lie  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-done. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses, 
And  is  encompassed;  .Avhilst  as  craft  deceives. 
And  is  deceived;  whilst  man  doth  ransack  man, 
And  builds  on  lilood.  and  ri.ses  by  distress; 
And  the  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hoi)es, — he  looks  thereon 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  nnwet  eye, 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

Thus,  madam,  fares  that  man  that  hath  jnepaied 

A  rest  for  his  desires;  and  sees  all  things 

Beneath  him;  and  liatli  learned  tliis  boolc  of  m;tii. 

Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty;  and  compared 

The  best  of  glory  with  her  sntferings: 

By  Avhom,  I  see,  you  labor  all  you  can 

To   plant   your   heart,  ajid    set    ymir   thonght.s   as 

near 
I  lis  glorious  mansion  as  your  powers  can  bear. 

Which,  madam,  are  so  soundly  fashioned 

By  that  clear  judgment  that  hath  carried  you 

Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kind. 

As  they  catr  stand  against  the  strongest  head 

Passion  can  make;  inured  to  any  hue 

'{"III-  world  can  east  :  tli;it  cannot  cast  that  mind 


SAMUEL  DANIEL. 


•21 


Out  of  her  form  of  goodness,  tluit.  dolli  see 
JJotli  what  the  best  ami  worst  of  earth  can  be. 

AVIiich  makes,  that  whatsoever  here  befalls, 
You  in  the  region  of  yourself  reniain  ; 
(Where  no  vain  Ijreatii  of  th'  impudent  molests) 
That  lieth  secured  within  the  brazen  walls 
Of  a  clear  conscience,  that  (without  all  stain) 
Rises  in  peace,  in  innocency  lests; 
Whilst  all  what  Alalice  from  without  procures; 
.Shows  her  own  ngly  heart,  but  hurts  not  yours. 

And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  revenge 
Than  women  use  to  do,  j'et  yon  well  know 
Tiiat  wrong  is  better  checked  by  being  contemned 
Than  being  pursued;   leaving  to  Him  to  avenge 
To  whom  it  appertains:   W^herein  you  show 
How  Avorthily  your  clearness  hath  condemned 
Base  maledictiou,  living  in  the  dark, 
That  at  the  rays  of  gooduess  still  doth  bark: — 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
'I'hese  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll:   where  all  th'  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate:    whoso  strong  efiects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress : 
And  that  unless  flbove  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man. 

And  how  turmoiled  they  are  that  level  lie 
\A'itli  earth,  and  cannot  lift  themselves  from  theuce  ; 
That  never  are  at  peace  with  their  desires, 
r>ut  work  beyond  their  years ;   and  even  deny 
Dotage  her 'rest,  and  hardly  will  dispense 
With  death;   that  when  ability  expires, 
Desire  lives  still:   so  much  delight  they  have 
To  carry  toil  and  travail  to  the  grave! 

Whose  ends  you  see,  and  what  can  be  the  best 
They  reach  unto,  when  they  have  cast  the  sum 
And  reckonings  of  their  glory.     And  yon  know 
This  floating  life  hath  but  this  port  of  rest: 
A  heart  prepared  that  fears  no  ill  to  come. 
And  that  man's  greatness  rests  but  in  his  show, 
The  best  of  all  whose  days  consumed  are 
Either  in  war  or  peace — conceiving  Avar. 

This  concord,  madam,  of  a  well-tuned  mind 
Hath  been  so  set  by  that  all-w(u-king  hand 
Of  Heaven,  that  though  the  world  hath  done  his 

worst 
To  put  it  out  by  discords  most  unkind, — • 


Yet  doth  it  still  in  perfect  union  stand 
With  (Jod  and  man  :    nor  ever  will  be  forced 
From  that  most  sweet  accord ;   but  still  agree 
E([ual  in  fortune's  iue((nality. 

And  tliis  note,  madam,  of  your  worthiness 
Kemains  recorded  in  so  many  hearts, 
As  time  nor  malice  cannot  wrong  your  right 
lu  th'  inheritance  of  fame  you  must  possess: 
You  that  have  built  you  by  your  great  deserts 
(Out  of  small  means)  a  far  more  exquisite 
x\nd  glorious  dwelling  for  your  honored  name, 
Thau  all  the  gold  that  leaden  minds  can  frame. 


FxUR   IS   MY   LOVE. 

Fair  is  my  love,  and  cruel  as  she's  fair ; 

Her  brow  shades  frown,  altlio'  her  eyes  are  sunny; 

Her  smiles  are  lightning,  though  her  pride  despair; 

And  her  disdains  are  gall,  her  favors  hone^'. 

A  modest  maid,  decked  with  a  blush  of  honor. 

Whose   feet    do    tread  green   paths  of  youth   and 

love  ; 
The  wonder  of  all  eyes  that  look  upon  her : 
Sacred  on  earth,  designed  a  saint  above  ; 
Chastity  and  Beauty,  which  are  deadly  foes, 
Live  reconciled  friends  within  her  brow  ; 
And  had  she  Pity  to  conjoin  with  those. 
Then  who  had  heard  the  i)laints  I  utter  now  ? 
For  had  she  not  been  fair,  and  thus  unkiud, 
My  muse  had  slept,  and  none  had  known  my  miud. 


EAPtLY   LOVE. 

Ah,  I  remember  well  (aiul  how  can  I 
But  evermore  remember  well?)  when  first 
Oar  flame  began,  when  scarce  Ave  knew  what  was 
The  flame  we  felt ;    when  as  we  sat  and  sighed. 
And  looked  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ailed,  yet  something  we  did  ail. 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well. 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then   would   we   kiss,  then    sigh,  then    look  ;    and 

thus. 
In  that  first  garden  of  our  simplcness, 
W^e  spent  our  childliood.     But  Avheu  years  began 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge — ah,  how  tlien 
Would  she  with  sterner  looks,  with  graver  broWj 
Check  my  presumption  and  mj^  forwardness ! 
Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would  show 
WJiat  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 


S2 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  IIRITISII  AM)   AMEIUCAX  rOETIiY. 


Uicljarb  niicon. 


Little  is  known  of  Aii-son.  He  iniblislicd  in  WM  "A 
Plaine  Confutation  of  o.  Treatise  of  Brownisin,  entitled 
*A  Description  of  the  Visible  C'iuirch ;' "  aiul,  in  lOOG, 
"An  Hoiire's  Recreation  in  Musieke,  apt  for  Instruments 
and  Voyces;"  from  wliieii  the  follow  in-;'  little  poems  are 
taken. 


HOPE. 

From  "An  IIqi'iie's  Ukcheation  in  Misicke." 

In  hope  a  king  doth  go  to  ^sar, 
In  lioi)e  a  lover  lives  full  long; 

In  hope  a  nicrcliiint  sails  full  far, 
In  ho))e  just  men  do  suffer  wrong; 

In  hope  the  plouglinian  sows  his  seed: 

Thus  hope  helps  thons.'uids  at  their  need. 

Then  faint  not,  heart,  among  the  rest; 

Whatever  chance,  ho^ie  thou  the  best. 


CHEKRY-RIPE. 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face. 

Where  roses  and  Avhite  lilies  Wow; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place. 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow; 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which,  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  filled  with  snow ; 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy 
Till  cherry-ripe  thcmsi'lves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still, 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand. 

Threatening  with  i)icrcing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 

These  sacred-  cherries  to  come  nigh. 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


Uobcvt   Goutljiucll. 


The  reign  of  Elizaheth  includes,  among  other  signs  of 
the  times,  the  lianuing  of  a  poet  of  rare  purity  and  spir- 
ituality for  his  devotion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  religion. 
Robert  Southwell  (l.")(;0-l.")05)  was  born  near  Norwich, 
England.  He  was  educated  at  Taris  for  two  years  before 
he  went  to  Rome,  and  was  received,  at  the  age  of  seven- 


teen, into  the  order  of  Jesuits.  From  Rome  he  was  sent 
as  a  missioiuiry  to  England,  and  was  attached  to  tlie 
household  of  Amie,  Countess  of  Arundel,  who  perished 
iu  the  Tower.  Southwell  shared  the  fate  of  all  priests 
who  could  be  found  and  seized  at  that  time  in  England. 
In  1592  he  was  sejit  to  prison,  and  during  three  years 
was  subjected  to  the  t(jrtures  of  the  rack  no  less  than 
ten  times.  At  length,  in  \'>'.)h,  the  Court  of  King's  Bendi 
condemned  him  as  Ijcing  a  Catholic  priest;  he  was  drawn 
to  Tyburn  on  a  hurdle,  was  hanged,  and  had  liis  heart 
burnt  in  sight  of  the  people.  A  good  man  and  a  noljlc, 
of  gentle  disposition  and  blameless  life,  his  fate  reflects 
deepest  infamy  on  his  brutal  and  heartless  ])ersecntors. 
Southwell  exhibits  a  literary  culture  far  above  that  of 
some  poets  of  larger  fame,  and,  as  he  M'as  onlj'  thirt}'- 
five  at  the  time  of  his  execution,  he  probablj'  had  not 
reached  the  maturity  of  his  powers. 


LOVE'S   SERVILE   LOT. 

Lovo  mistress  is  of  many  minds, 
]3ut  few  know  whom  they  servo  ; 

They  reckon  least  how  little  hope 
Their  service  doth  deserve. 

The  will  she  robbeth  from  the  wit, 
The  sense  from  reason's  lore  ; 

She  is  delightful  iu  the.  riiul. 
Corrupted  in  the  core. 

She  shroudeth  vice  in  virtue's  veil. 

Pretending  good  in   ill  ; 
She  otfereth  joy,  but  bringeth  grief, 

A  kiss, — where  she  doth  kill. 

llcr  watery  eyes  have  bijrning  force, 
11(1-  lloods  and  flames  consi)ir"e  ; 

Tears  kindle  sparks,  sobs  fuel  are. 
And  sighs  but  fan  the  lire. 

A  honey  shower  rains  iVcun  her  lips, 
Sweet  lights  shine  in  her  face; 

Slie  hath  the  blush  of  virgin  mind. 
The  mind  of  viper's  race. 

She  ni;iki>s  thee  seek,  yet  fear  to  find; 

To  find,  but  naught  enjoy ; 
In  many  frowns,  some  passing  smiles 

She  yields  to  more  annoy. 

She  lettetli  fall  st>nn>  luring  baits. 

For  fools  to  gatlx'r  \\\) ; 
Now  sweet,  now  sour,  I'nr  (>very  taste 

She  temperefh  her  cup. 


EOBEBT  SOUTHWELL.— JOSHUA   SYLVESTER.— MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


23 


With  sootbiug  words,  iuthralldd  souls 
SLe  chains  iu  servile  bands  ! 

Her  eye  iu  silence  hath  a  speech 
Wliieh  eye  best  understands. 

Her  little  sweet  liatli  many  sours, 
Short  hap,  iunnortal  harms; 

Her  loving  looks  are  nnirdcring  darts, 
Her  songs  bewitching  charms. 

Like  winter  rose,  and  snnnner  ice, 
Her  joys  are  still  nntimely  ; 

Before  her  hope,  behind  remorse, 
Fair  first,  iu  tine  unseemly. 

Plough  not  the  seas,  sow  not  the  sands. 

Leave  off  your  idle  jiain  ; 
Seek  other  mistress  for  your  minds — 

Love's  service  is  iu  vain. 


TIMES  GO  LY  TUENS. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again. 

Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower; 

Tlie  sorest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain, 

The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moist'niug  shower ; 

Times  go  by  turns  and  chances  change  by  course. 

From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow, 
Siie  draws  her  favors  to  the  lowest  ebb ; 

Her  time  hath  equal  times  to  come  and  go, 

Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest  web ; 

No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 

Xor  haj)  so  hard  but  may  iu  time  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf  nor  ever  spring, 
No  endless  night  yet  not  eternal  day; 

The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 

The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay ; 

Thus  with  succeeding  turns  God  tempereth  all, 

Tiiat  man  may  hope  to  rise  yet  fear  to  fall. 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was  lost; 

The  well  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little  fish  ; 
In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are  crossed. 

Few    all    they    need,  but    none    have    all    they 
wish  ; 
I'nmcddled'  joys  here  to  no  man  befall. 
Who  least  hath  some,  who  most  have  never  all. 

1  Unraised  joys. 


3osljua  Stjlncstcr. 


Sylvester  (l.jOo-lGlS)  was  a  hiboiiuus  but  unequal 
writer.  He  styles  hhuself  a  merchant  adventurer.  Lit- 
tle is  known  of  his  life.  His  works  consist  principally 
of  translations.  Iu  regard  to  "Tlie  Soul's  Errand,"  a 
poem  resembling  one  by  Raleigh,  but  sometimes  credited 
to  Sylvester,  see  the  memoir  of  Raleigh  in  this  volume. 


FLUEALITY   OF   WORLDS. 

I  not  believe  that  the  great  Architect 

With  all  these  fires  the  heavenly  arches  decked 

Only  for  show,  and  with  these  glistering  shields 

To  amaze  i)oor  shepherds  watching  iu  the  fields; 

I  not  believe  that  the  least  flower  which  j)ranks 

Our  garden  borders  or  our  common  banks, 

And  the  least  stone  that  in  her  warming  lap 

Our  mother  Earth  doth  covetously  wrap 

Hath  some  peculiar  virtue  of  its  own. 

And  that  the  glorious  stars  of  heaven  have  none. 


LOVE'S  OMNIPRESENCE. 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain. 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above. 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me,  your  humble  swain. 
Ascend  to  heaven  iu  honor  of  my  Love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaveii  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low- 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Wheresoe'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 
Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies. 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 
And  look  npou  you  with  ten  tiionsand  eyes 
Till  heaven  Avaxed  blind,  and  till  the  world  were 

done. 
Wheresoe'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Wheresoe'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 


illifljacl  Praijton. 


Drayton  {circa  15G3-1G.31)  was  of  humble  parentage, 
and  from  his  earliest  years  siiowed  a  taste  for  poetry. 
He  is  one  of  tlie  most  voluminous  of  the  rhyming  tribe. 
Pope  somewliere  speaks  of  "a  very  mediocre  poet,  one 
Drayton."  The  slight  is  undeserved.  Drayton's  works 
extend  to  above  one  liundrcd  thousand  verses.  The 
work  on  which  his  fame  rested  in  liis  own  day  is  tlie 
"Polyolblon,''  a  minute  cliorographical  description  of 
Enalaud  and  Wales.  Mhst  of  liis  principal  pieces  were 
published  before  he  was  thirty  years  of  age.     His  sjiiiit- 


24 


CYCLOrJWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


cd  "Ballad  of  Agiiicourl"  lias  been  tlic  model  for  many 
similar  iiroduetioiis;  and  there  is  much  iilayfiil  graee  in 
the  fairy  faiieies  of  "  Nyini)liidia."  May  not  Drake  have 
taken  a  hint  from  it  in  his  "Culprit  Kay?" 


A   I'AUTING. 

Sjjice  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part : 

Nay,  I  have  done  ;   you  get  no  more  of  nie  ; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  Avitli  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  clearly  I  myself  can  free. 

Shake  hands  foiever,  cancel  all  onr  vows, 

And,  -when  ^ve  meet  at  any  time  again, 

I$o  it  not  seen  in  either  of  onr  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  lovo  retain. 

Now,  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breatli, 

Wheu,  Lis  jiulse  failing.  Passion  speechless  lies  ; 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, — 

Now,  if  thou   v.onld.st,  when   all    have   given   him 

ovei'. 
From  death  to  lif(!  thou  niightst  hiui  vet  recover. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  onr  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But,  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kause,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry ; 

And,  taking  many  a  fort 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincoiirt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
AVith  those  that  stop)ied  his  way, 
Where  the  Fiencli  General  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride 
King  Henry  to  deride. 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  King  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 


And,  turning  to  his  men. 
Quoth  onr  brave  Henry  then: 
'ihongh  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed  ; 
Vet  have  we  well  begun  ; 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raisdd. 

And  for  niysell,,  <inotli  he. 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  nw, 

Nor  more  esteem  me  : 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  tliis  earth  lie  slain  : 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  i)rido  did  swell, 

Lender  onr  sworils  thej'  fell : 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  onr  Graiulsirc  great. 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main    Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  heuchmen  ; 
Exccster  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there: 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they, were 

On  the  false  Freuchmea! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone  : 

Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan  ; 

To  hear  was  wonder  ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake  ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake. 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  ! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm,  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON.— CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


25 


With  Spaiii.sli  vow  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpeuts  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather : 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But,  playing  uiauly  parts, 
Ami  like  true  English  hearts. 

Stuck  close  together. 

Wlien  down  their  I)ows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 
And  ou  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy: 
Arms  were  from  shoulder  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  ^vere  rent, 
Dowu  the  French  i^easants  went : 

Our  meu  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Dowu  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  rent 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good. 
Next  of  the  royal  blood. 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet,  in  that  furious  fight, 

Scarce  such  another ! 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade ; 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still,  as  they  ran  up : 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhoj>e. 

Upon  St.  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was_  this  noble  fray. 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry : — 
Oh,  w^heu  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen. 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harrv  ? 


CljiistopljiT  inavloiuc. 

Marlowe  (1564-1.593)  ranks  among  the  most  eminent 
of  the  Elizubethau  dramatists.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
shoemaker  iu  Canteibur}-.  After  graduating  at  Cam- 
bridge, he  became  a  writer  for  tlic  stage  and  an  actor. 
In  1587,  lie  was  known  as  the  author  of  "  Taniburlaine 
the  Great."  Other  plays  followed  ;  and  for  a  time  Mar- 
lowe and  Sliakspeare  were  competitors.  This  splendid 
rivalry,  and  all  it  might  liave  led  to,  was,  however,  cut 
short  in  1.59.3,  when  Marlowe,  still  not  tiiirty  years  of 
age,  received  a  stab  iu  a  brawl  in  some  inn  at  Dcptfbrd, 
and  died  from  its  effects.  The  pastoral  song,  to  which  a 
reply,  supposed  to  be  by  Raleigh,  was  written,  is  among 
the  few  specimens  we  have  of  Marlowe's  non-dramatic 
verse.  In  some  versions  of  it  the  following  stanza  (com- 
ing next  before  the  last)  is  contained;  but  it  is  believed 
to  have  been  inserted  by  Izaak  Walton,  and  presents  a 
very  uushepherd-like  image : 

"  Th3'  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat. 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall,  on  an  ivory  table,  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  aud  me." 


THE   DEATH   OF  FAUSTUS. 

Bad  Angel.  Now,  Faustus,  let  thine  eyes  with  hor- 
ror stare 
Into  that  vast  perpetual  torture-house  : 

Those  that  are  fed  with  sops  of  flaming  fire, 
Were  gluttons,  and  loved  oulj'  delicates. 
And  laughed  to  see  the  poor  starve  at  their  gates. 
But  yet  all  these  are  nothing ;  thou  shalt  see 
Ten  thousand  tortures  that  more  horrid  be. 

Faust.  Oh,  I  have  seen  enough  to  torture  me. 

B.  Aug.   Nay,   thou    must   feel   them,   taste    the 
smart  of  all ; 
Fie  that  loves  pleasure  must  f(u-  jdeasure  fall. 
And  so  I  leave  thee,  Faustus.  *  *  *  \_Exit. 

The  cJoek  strilcs  eleven. 

Faust.  O  Faustus  I — 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live. 

Stand  still,  ye  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  aud  miduiglit  never  come. 
Fair  Nature's  ej'e,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day;  or  let  this  hour  bo  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 

The  stars  move  still, — time  ruus  —  the  clock  will 
strike. 


26 


CYCLOP JiDI A    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETUY. 


Oil,  I'll  leap  lip  to  beavcu! — Who  pulls  mo  down? 

Yet  will  I  call  on   IIi.m!— Oh  Kparc  iiio,  Luciloi! — 

Where  is  it  now? — 'Tis  ^oiio  : 

And  see  a  threatening  arm — an  angry  brow! 

Mountains  and  liilLs,  come,  come,  and  tall  on  me, 

And  hide  mo  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven! 

No! — Then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth: 

Gape,  earth! — Oh  no;  it  will  not  harbor  mo. 

Ye  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity, 

Whose  influence  hath  allotted  death  and  hell. 

Now  draw  up  Faustns,  like  a  foggy  mist, 

Into  the  entrails  of  yon  laboring  cloud  ; 

That,  when  yon  vomit  forth  into  the  air. 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smokj'^  mouths. 

But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven. 

The  walch  slrihes. 

Oh!  half  the  hour  is  past:  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 

Oh!  if  my  soul  must  sufler  for  my  sin. 

Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain: 

Let  Faustns  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  saved: 

No  end  is  limited  to  damn6d  souls. 

Why  wort  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 

Or,  whj'  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 

Oh!    Pj'thagoras,  —  Metempsychosis!  —  were     that 

true, 
This  soul  should  lly  from  me,  and  I  be  changed 
Into  some  brutish  beast. 
All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die, 
Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  element ! 

Now,  Faustns,  curse  thyself — curse  Lucifer, 
That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

The  clock  strikes  iicelve. 
It  strikes — it  strikes!  now  body  turn  to  air. 

Oil,  soul,  bo  changed  into  small  water-drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean — ne'er  be  found. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Como  live  with  me,  and  be  ray  love. 
And  wo  will  all  the  pleasures  prove. 
That  valleys,  groves,  and  hills  and  fields, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountains  yields:' 


>  To  avoid  the  bad  English,  the  couplet  is  altered  as  follows, 
iu  some  vcisioiis: 

"Thiit  hill  niid  valley,  iji-ove  and  flold, 
And  all  llic  craggy  inonutains  yield." 


And  we  will  sit  njKUi  the  rocks. 
Seeing  the  shei»herds  feed  their  ilocks, 
]5y  sliallow  rivers,  to  w'hoso  falls 
Melddious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  bods  of  roses. 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  ])osies, 
A  cap  of  llowers,  and  a  kirtle. 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  wo  pull; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  Imckles  of  tlie  purest  gold  ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  maj-  thoo  move. 
Come  live  with  me  and  bo  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-nnnning. 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Como  live  with  me  and  be  niv  love. 


ANSWER  TO  THE   SAME.' 

If  all  the  world  and  Love  "were  young. 
And  truth  iu  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  docks  from  held  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
Then  Philomel  becouieth  dumb, 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

Tlie  llo\\(>rs  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reekoniug  yields; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall. 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  .shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses. 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten  ; 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Tliy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Tliy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 


'  Aichhishop  Trench  is  of  opinion  that  the  evidence  which 
ascribes  this  to  Raleigh  is  insufficient. 


EDWARD  FAIRFAX.— ^WILLI AM  SHAKSPEARE. 


27 


All  these  iu  me  no  means  can  move, 
To  come  to  thee  ami  be  thy  love. 

Bnt,  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need ; 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move. 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


Oinari)  i'ahfav. 

The  first  edition  of  Fairfax's  celebrated  tianslation  of 
Tasso's  "Jerusalem  Delivered"  is  dated  KiOO;  the  sec- 
ond, 1G24.  Dryden  ranked  Fairfax  with  Spenser  as  a  mas- 
ter of  Engli.^h  ;  and  Waller  derived  from  liim,  according 
to  his  own  confession,  the  harmony  of  his  numbers.  The 
date  of  Fairfax's  birth  is  imknown,  but  was  probably 
about  \h&\.  He  was  the  natural  son  of  Sir  Thomas  Fair- 
fax, and  had  a  long  and  happy  life  amidst  rural  scenes. 
He  was  living  iu  1631.  The  date  of  his  death  is  not 
known.  He  wrote  a  work  on  "Demouology,"  which 
was  not  printed  until  1859. 


EINALDO  AT  MOUNT  OLIVET. 

It  was  the  time  when  'gainst  the  breaking  day 
Eebellions  night  yet  strove,  and  still  repined ; 
For  iu  the  east  appeared  the  morning  gray, 
And  yet  some  lamps  in  Jove's  high  palace  shined, 
When  to  Mount  Olivet  he  took  his  way. 
And  saw,  as  round  about  his  eyes  he  twined, 
Night's  shadows  hence,  from  thence  the  moruiug's 

shine, 
This  bright,  that  dark  ;  that  earthly,  this  divine. 

Thus  to  himself  he  thought:    How  many  Inight 
And   'splendent   lamps    shine    m    heaven's   temple 

high! 
Day  hath  his  golden  sun,  her  moon  the  night. 
Her  fixed  and  waudering  stars  the  azure  sky: 
So  framed  all  by  their  Creator's  might, 
That  still  they  live  aud  shine,  and  ne'er  will  die, 
Till  in  a  moment,  with  the  last  day's  brand, 
They  burn,  aud  with  them  burn  sea,  air,  and  land. 

Thus  as  he  mused,  to  the  top  he  went. 
And  there  kneeled  down  with  reverence  aud  fear; 
His  eyes  upon  heaven's  eastern  face  he  bent; 
His  thoughts  above  all  heavens  uplifted  were : — 
"The  sins  and  errors  which  I  now  repent. 
Of  my  unbridled  youth,  O  Father  dear, 
Eemember  not,  but  let  thy  mercy  fall. 
And  purge  my  faults  and  my  oftences  all." 


Tiius  prayed  he:    with  purple  wings  up-Uew, 
In  golden  weed,  the  morning's  lusty  (ineen, 
Begilding  with  the  radiant  beams  she  threw 
His  helm,  the  harness,  and  the  mountain  green  : 
Upon  his  breast  and  ibrehead  gently  blew 
The  air,  that  balm  and  nardus  breathed  uusecu  ; 
And  o'er  his  head,  let  down  from  clearest  skies, 
A  cloud  of  pure  aud  precious  dew  there  flies. 


lUilliam  Sljaks^jcavc. 

The  Baptismal  Register  of  Stratford-ou-Avon  contains 
the  Ibllowing  entry:  "April  26,1.504.  Guliehnus,  iilius 
Johannes  Shakespeare."  The  house  iu  which  the  poet 
was  born  stands,  in  a  restored  condition,  iu  Henley 
Street;  and  the  conjectured  room  of  liis  birth  is  scrib- 
bled over — walls,  eeiliug,  windows — with  thousands  of 
names.  His  father,  a  wool-comber,  though  not  opulent, 
seems  to  have  been  in  good  circumstances,  to  have  had 
property  in  land  aud  houses,  aud  to  have  lield  the  high- 
est otHcial  dignities  of  the  town.  But  probably  a  short 
course  in  the  Stratford  grammar-school  was  all  the  reg- 
ular education  Shakspeare  ever  received.  He  married, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  Anne  Hathaway,  seven  or  eight 
years  older  than  himself.  Two  or  three  years  afterward 
he  removed  to  Loudon,  where  he  rapidly  acquired  a 
large  property  in  more  than  one  theatre.  We  do  not 
know  the  order  in  which  his  plays  were  produced,  but 
he  soon  viudieated  the  immense  superiority  of  his  gen- 
ius by  universal  popularity.  He  was  the  companion  of 
the  nobles  and  the  wits  of  the  time,  and  a  favorite  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  herself,  at  whose  request  some  of  his 
pieces  were  written.  The  wealth  which  he  realized  en- 
abled him,  comparatively  early  iu  life,  to  retire  from  his 
professional  career.  There  had  been  born  to  him  a  sou 
and  two  daughters.  He  had  purchased  an  estate  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  native  town,  but  he  enjoyed  it  only  four 
years.     He  died  offerer  in  1616,  aged  fifty-two. 

The  works  of  Shakspeare  consist  of  thirty-seven  plays, 
tragedies,  comedies,  and  liistories  ;  the  poems,  "  Venus 
and  Adonis,"  and  "  Tarquin  and  Luerece,"  with  a  collec- 
tion of  sonnets,  or,  rather,  fourteen -lined  poems,  of  ex- 
quisite beauty  and  variety,  each  consisting  of  three  qua- 
trains of  alternate  rhyme  and  a  closing  couplet.  His 
want  of  care  in  preserving  and  authenticating  the  pro- 
ductions of  his  genius  before  his  death  has  been  sup- 
posed to  indicate  either  his  indifference  to  fame  or  the 
absence  of  a  knowledge  of  the  magnitude  of  what  he  had 
acliieved;  and  yet  there  are  expressions  iu  his  sonnets 
that  seem  to  imply  a  sense  of  his  intellectual  superioritj'. 
Tlie  subject  of  his  dramatic  and  poetical  character  is  so 
vast  that  it  would  bo- idle  here  to  attempt  its  analysis. 

His  Sonnets  represent  him  in  the  full  maturity  of  man- 
hood, and  at  the  lieight  of  his  fame.  They  were  probably 
written  between  the  years  159.5  and  1603,  when  he  was 
living  at  Stratford  in  dignified  retirement.  Of  these 
sonnets  Trench  savs :  "They  are  so  heavily  laden  with 
meaning,  so  double-shotted  (if  one  may  so  speak)  with 
thought,  so  penetrated  and  pervaded  with  a  repressed 


28 


CYCLOVAWIA   OF  lilUTlsll   AM)   A.MKUICAN  rOETRY. 


passion,  that,  packed  as  all  tliis  is  into  narrowest  limits,  it 
sometimes  imparts  no  little  (jbseiirity  to  them  ;  and  they 
often  ie(iuire  to  be  heard  or  read,  not  onec,  but  many 
times — in  faet,  to  be  studied — before  they  reveal  to  us  all 
the  treasures  of  thounht  and  feeiiiii;-  whieh  they  contain." 

These  remarkalile  and  mysterious  sonnets  are  one 
hundred  and  lifty-four  in  number,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  twenty-eiijht,  are  addressed  to  some  male  person, 
to  whom  the  poet  refers  in  a  style  of  alfection,  love,  and 
idolatry  almost  unnatural ;  remarkable,  even  in  the  reitjn 
of  Elizabeth,  for  morbid  extravauanee  and  enthusiasm. 
The  sonnets  were  first  printed  in  KJOl),  bi^  Thomas  Thorpe, 
a  publisher  of  the  day,  who  prefixed  to  the  volume  the 
followinjj;  enij^inatical  dedication  :  "To  the  only  begetter 
of  these  ensuing  sonnets,  Mr.  ^V^  IL,  all  happiness  and 
that  eternity  promised  by  our  ever-living  poet,  wisheth 
the  well-wishing  adventurer  in  setting  forth,  T.  T."  The 
"  W.  11."  alluded  to  by  Thorpe  has  been  conjectured  to 
be  William  Herbert,  afterward  Earl  of  Pembroke,  who,  as 
appears  from  the  folio  of  \()'Zo,  was  one  of  Shakspeare's 
patrons.  This  conjecture  has  received  the  assent  of  Mr. 
Ilallam  and  others.  Many  theories,  none  satisfactory, 
have  been  broached  to  account  for  these  cxceiitional 
productions. 

It  has  been  trul}'  remarked  by  an  anonymous  writer 
that  no  man  of  whom  we  have  any  knowledge  in  litera- 
ture ever  had,  like  Sliakspeare,  "the  faculty  of  pouring 
out  on  all  occasions  such  a  flood  of  the  richest  and  deep- 
est language;  no  man  ever  said  such  splendid  extem- 
pore things  on  all  subjects  universally.  That  excessive 
fluency  which  astonished  Ben  Jonson  when  he  listened 
to  Shakspcare  in  person  astonishes  the  world  yet.  He 
was  the  greatest  master  of  expression  that  literature  has 
known.  Indeed,  by  his  powers  of  expression  he  has  beg- 
gared and  forestalled  posterity.  Such  lightness  and  ease 
in  the  manner,  and  such  prodigious  wealth  and  depth  in 
the  matter,  arc  combined  in  no  other  writer." 


SILVIA. 


From  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona." 

AViio  i.s  Silvia?     What  is  .she, 

That  all  onr  swains  coniuiend  licr  ? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  lieaven.s  snch  grace  did  lend  her, 

Tliat  she  might  admired  he. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair. 

For  hoauty  lives  Avith  kindness? 

Love  doth  t(»  her  eyes  repair, 
To  hilp  iiim  of  his  blindness; 

And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Tlii'ii  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Silvia  is  excelling; 
Slio  exci'ls  each  mortal   thing, 

Upon  the  dull  earth  (hvcUing: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  brintr. 


SIGH  NO  MORE. 

I-HOM  "Mich  .\do  Aboit  XoTinNc' 

Sigh  i!0  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever; 

One  foot  in  sea,  and  cue  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constaut  never: 

Tlien  sigh  not  so, 

Unt  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny ; 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woo 

Into  hey  uonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo, 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  .so, 

Since  summer  first  Avas  leavy : 

Theu  sigh  uot  so. 

But  let  them  go, 

And  he  you  blithe  and  honny: 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into  hey  uouuy,  iiouny. 


ARIEL'S    SONG. 
From  "  The  Tempest." 

Where  the  hee  sncks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  conch  when  owls  do  cry  ; 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  lly 

After  summer  merrily  : 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


MAN'S  INGRATITUDi:. 
From  "As  You  Like  It." 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  Aviud, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude  ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen. 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Ileigh-ho!   sing,  heigh-ho  !   unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  fricudship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly 

Then  heigh-ho!    the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Tbou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAIIE. 


29 


Though  thou  tho  walci's  warp, 

Thy  stiug  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  renienibercil  not. 
Heigh-ho!   sing,  lieigli-ho !   unto  the  green  liolly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  h)viug  mere  folly! 

Th(Mi.  heigli-lio!    tlie  liolly! 

This  life  is  most  .jolly. 


DIRGE   OF  IMOGEN. 

From  "Ctjibeline." 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun. 
Nor  the  furious  -winter's  rages  ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thj^  Avages ; 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 

As  chininej'-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  jiast  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  cat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exerciser  harm  thee ! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 

Quiet  consummation  have; 

And  renowned  be  thy  grave! 


THE   SONG   OF  WINTER. 
From  "Love's  Labok  Lost." 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


When  all  around  the  wind  dotli  l)lo\v, 

And  coughing  drowns  tlie  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl. 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit,  to-who.  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


CLOTEN'S   SERENADE. 

Fkom  "Cymbeline." 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sin 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise! 


SONNETS. 

XVIIL 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  sunnner's  day  ? 
Thou  art  nun-e  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rougli  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date. 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed; 
And  every  f;iir  from  fair  sometimes  declines, 
Bj^  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimmed  : 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fiide, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wand'rest  in  bis  shade, 
AVhen  in  eternal  lines  to  time  tlion  growest. 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  tbee. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  rememl)rance  of  things  ])ast, 
I  sigli  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  souglit. 
And    with    old   woes    new   wail    my    dear    time's 

waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye  unused  to  flow. 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  dcatli's  dateless  night. 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancelled  woe, 
And  moan  th'  exiiense  of  many  a  vanished  sight. 


30 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  liUITISIl   AND  AMKRICAX  I'OETIiT. 


Then  can  I  {j;iit've  at  grievances  foregono 
AihI  heavily  IVoni  woe  to  woo  tell  o'er 
The  sad  aeconnt  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which    I   new  pay  as  if  not   paid   hct'orr  : 
lint  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  I'riend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  an<l  sorrows  end. 

XXXIII. 

Fnll  many  a  s;lorion8  morning  liavc  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy, — • 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  tliis  disgrace. 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 
With  all-triumphaut  splendor  on  my  brow ; 
I^ut,  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine; 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me  now. 
Yet  liini  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's   sun 
staineth. 

I.IV. 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  dotli  give! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  avo  it  deem 
For  that  sAveet  odor  whicli  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms'  have  full  as  deep  a  die, 
As  the  perfuiued  tincture  of  the  roses; 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly. 
When  sunnner's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses; 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwooed  and  uurespected  fade; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so  ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors  made; 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distils  your  truth. 


Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme; 
But  yon  shall  shino  more  bright  in  these  contents 
Thau  unwept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  time. 
When  wastel"iil  war  shall  statues  overturn. 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry. 
Nor  Mars's  sword  nor  war's  quick  lire  shall  burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and  all  oblivions  enmity 
Shall   yon    pace   forth;    your  prai.se  shall   still  tind 
room, 

'  Caiikei'-blooms  are  from  the  canker-roses. 


Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity. 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  ari.se, 
Vou  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovens'  eyes. 


Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the  pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 

Each  changing  jdace  with  that  Avhich  goes  before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 

Nativity  once  in  the  maiu  of  light. 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowned, 

Crook(5d  eclip.ses  "gainst  his  glory  fight, 

And  time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 

Time  doth  transtix  the  llourish  set  on  yr)uth, 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow. 

Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth. 

And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand, 

Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

xc. 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  Avilt  ;  if  ever,  now: 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 

Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 

And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  atter-loss. 

Ah!  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  'scaped  this  sorrow, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquered  woe; 

Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow. 

To  linger  out  a  pur))osed  overthrow. 

If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last. 

When  other  pettj'  griefs  have  done  their  spite; 

But  in  the  onset  come:  .so  shall  I  taste 

At  first  the  very  Avorst  of  fortune's  might; 

And  other  strains  of  woe.  which  now  seem  woe, 

Comitared  with  loss  of  thee,  Avill  not  seem  so. 


From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring. 

When  proud-]ii('d  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim. 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything. 

That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  Avith  him: 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sAveet  smell 

Of  ditferent  iloAvers  in  odor  and  in  hue. 

Could  make  me  any  sunnner's  story  tell. 

Or   from   their  proud  lap   i>luck  them  Avhero  they 

grew  : 
Nor  did  1  Avouder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose; 
They  Avere  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
DraAvn  after  you ;  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  Avinter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  Avith  your  shadow  I  Avith  these  did  play: 


WILLIAM  SHAESPEARE. 


Alas !   'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view; 

Gored  my  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 

Made  old  ott'euces  of  atfections  new  : 

Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  looked  on  truth 

Askance  and  strangely  ;   but,  by  all  above, 

These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth, 

And  worse  essajs  proved  thee  my  best  of  love. 

Now  all  is  done,  save  what  shall  have  no  end  : 

Mine  appetite  I  nevermore  will  grind 

Ou  newer  j)roof,  to  try  an  older  frieud, 

A  god  iu  love,  to  whom  I  am  contined. 

Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the  best, 

Even  to  thy  pure  and  most,  most  loving  breast. 


Oh,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty'  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide, 
Thau  imblic  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  n\y  name  receives  a  brand. 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me,  then,  and  wish  I  were  renewed. 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eysell  'gainst  my  strong  infection  :' 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me,  then,  dear  friend  ;   and  I  assure  ye, 
Even  that  your  i)ity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

cxvi. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments :   love  is  not  love, 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove. 

Oh  no!   it  is  an  ever-fix^d  mark. 

That  looks  ou  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  altho'his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,thougk  rosy  lijis  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks. 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


•  Eiisell  is  an  old  word  for  vinegar.  There  seems  to  be  little 
donbt  that  in  this  and  the  preceding  sonnet  Shakspeare  ex- 
pres^ses  some  of  his  own  honest  feelings  respecting  himself  and 
his  occnpatiou  of  player,  in  which  he  must  have  encountered 
much  that  was  humiliating,  if  not  demoralizing. 


Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fooled  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  arraj^, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  sull'er  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  ui)on  thy  fading  man.siou  si)end  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?     Is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss. 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store. 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed, — without  be  rich  no  more. 
So  slialfc  thou  feed  ou  Death,  that  feeds  ou  men  ; 
And,  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 


The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  in  action  ;   and  till  action,  Inst 

Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust ; 

Enjoyed  no  sooner  than  despised  straight ; 

Past  reason  hunted ;   and  no  sooner  had. 

Past  reason  hated;   as  a  swallowed  bait, 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad  : 

Mad  in  pursuit,  aiul  in  possession  so; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme ; 

A  bliss  in  proof — and  proved,  a  very  woe ; 

Before,  a  joy  proposed  ;   behind,  a  dream  : 

All  this  the  world  well  kuows  ;  yet  none  knows  well 

To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


ULYSSES'S  ADVICE  TO  ACHILLES. 

FnoM  "  TuoiLUs  and  Cressida." 

Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back. 

Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 

A  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes  : 

Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ;  which  are  devoured 

As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 

As  done  :   Perseverance,  dear  my  lord. 

Keeps  honor  bright :   To  have  done  is  to  hang 

Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail, 

Iu  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  Avay  ; 

For  honor  travels  iu  a  strait  so  narrow, 

Where  one  but  goes  abreast :  keep,  then,  the  path  ; 

For  emulation  hatli  a  thousand  sous. 

That  one  by  one  pursue  :   If  yon  give  way, 

Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright, 

Like  to  an  entered  tide,  they  all  rush  by. 

And  leave  yon  hindmost ; — 


32 


CYCLOrJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  I'lrst  rank, 
Lie  there  i'or  pavcnu-nt  to  the  aljject  rear, 
O'errun  and  tranipled  on  :   Then  what  they  do  in 

luescut, 
Tlioiigh  less  than  yonrs  in  i)ast,  mnst  o'ertop  yours: 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionablo  host, 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the  hand. 
And  ■with  Lis  arms  outstretehed,  as  ho  would  fly. 
Grasps  in  the  comer :   Welcome  ever  smiles. 
And  Farewell  goes  out  sighing.     Oh,  let  not  virtue 

seek 
Eemnneraiion  for  the  thing  it  was; 
For  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigor  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 
Love,  friendship,  eliarity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin, — 
That  all,  with  one  conseut,  praise  new-born  gawds. 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past; 
And  give  to  dust  that  is  a  little  gilt 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'erdusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  jiresent  object ; 
Theu  marvel  not,  thou  great  and  complete  man. 
That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship  Ajax  ; 
Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye 
Than  what  not  stirs. 


THE   QUALITY   OF   MERCY. 
From  ''The  Mekciiant  of  Venice." 
The  qualitj'  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
L'^pon  the  place  beneath:  it  is  twice  blessed; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes: 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
The  throndd  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 
I')Ut  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway. 
It  is  enthroudd  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  carthlj"  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Tiierefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Sliould  see  salvation:  we  do  pray  for  mercy. 
And  that  same  ])rayer  doth  teach  ns  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  nntch 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea. 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must    needs    give    sentence    'gainst    the    merchant 
tiicre. 


MOONLKJIIT   AM)    ML'SIC. 
I'lioM  "  The  SlriiciiANT  of  Venice." 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  baidv ! 
Hero  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica :  look,  how  the  Ikxu"  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patens  of  bright  gold. 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims: 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. — 
Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress's  ear, 
And  draw  her  home  with  nuisic. — 

'•I  am  never  merry  Avhen  I  hear  sweet  music." 
The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive: 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud. 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood; 
If  they  but  hear,  perchance,  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears. 
Yon  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand. 
Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music :  therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign   that   Orpheus   drew    trees,   stones,   and 

floods ; 
Since  naught  so  stocki.-<h,  hard,  and  full  of  rage. 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature ; 
The  man  that  hath  not  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  tit  for  treason.s,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  alfections  dark  as  Erebus : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 


ENGLAND. 

From  "IJiciiabd  II." 
Tiiis  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle, 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  .seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself, 
Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  war; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world, 
This  precious  stono  set  in  the  silver  sea. 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands; 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEAIIE. 


3:1 


This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  Eiig-  :  And,  in  the  ealiiiest  and  most  stillest  night, 


land. 
This  dear,  dear  land. 
Dear  for  her  repntatiou  throngh  the  world. 


SOXG  FROM   "TWELFTH  NIGHT." 

O  mistress  mine!  where  are  yoii  roaming? 
O!  stay  and  hear;  your  trne  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 
Trii)  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  iu  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter : 
Present  mirth  hath  x^vesent  huighter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


HENRY  IV.'S   SOLILOQUY   ON   SLEEP. 

How  many  thousands  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep ! — O  sleep  !  O  gentle  sleep ! 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee. 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs. 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 
And  hnslu'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slum- 
ber, 
Thau  in  tlie  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state. 
And  lulled  with  sound  of  sweetest  melody? 
Oh,  thou  dull  god!  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile 
Iu  loathsome  beds,  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'laruni  bell  ?' 
Wilt  thou,  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast, 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains, 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge. 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  thera 
With  deaf'nlng  clamors  iu  the  slippery  clouds, 
That  with  the  hurly  death  itself  awakes? 
Can'st  thou,  O  partial  sleep !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude, 


1  The  alarm  of  danger  was  communicated  by  the  watchman 
in  garrison  towns  by  a  bell.  "lie  had  a  case  or  box  to  shelter 
liini  from  the  weather." 


AVith  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 

Deny  it  to  a  king? — Thou,  happy  low,  lie  down! 

Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 


DETACHED  PASSAGES  FROM  THE  PLAYS. 

How  far  that  little  caudle  throws  his  beams! 
So  shiues  a  good  deed  in  a  uaughty  world. 

Love  all,  trust  a  few, 
Do  wrong  to  none :  bo  able  for  thiuo  enemy 
Ratiier  in  power  than  use;  aud  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  owu  life's  key:  be  checked  for  silence. 
But  never  taxed  for  speech. 

The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces. 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  j)ageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

O  world,  thy  slippery  turns!     Friends  now  fast 

sworn. 
Whoso  double  bosoms  seem  to  wear  one  heart, 
Whose  hours,  whose  bed,  whose  meal,  aud  exercise, 
Are  still  together;  who  twin,  as  'twere,  iu  love 
Unseparable,  shall  within  this  hour. 
On  a  dissension  of  a  doit,  break  out 
To  bitterest  enmity :  so,  fellest  foes. 
Whose  passions  aud  whose  plots  have  broke  their 

sleep. 
To  take  the  one  the  other,  by  some  chance. 
Some   trick    not   worth    an   egg,  shall   grow   dear 

friends, 
Aud  interjoin  their  issues. 

So  it  falls  out, 
Tliat  what  we  have  wo  prize  not  to  the  woilh, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it;  but  being  lacked  and  lost. 
Why  then  we  rack  the  value ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours. 

Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths ; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  tlio  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard. 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear; 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end. 
Will  come  wheu  it  will  come. 


34 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAX  I'OETRT. 


Oiir  iudiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well, 
WLeu   our   deep  plots   do   pall ;    and   that   should 

teach  us, 
There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will. 

There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  thiugs  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out. 
For  our  Lad  neighbor  makes  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful,  and  good  husbandry: 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences. 
And  preachers  to  us  all;  admonishing, 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 
And  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself. 

O  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men, 
Which  we  more  hunt  for  than  the  grace  of  God! 
Who  builds  his  hope  in  air  of  your  good  looks, 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast; 
Ready  with  every  uod  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

Who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honorable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
Oh  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices. 
Were  not  derived  corruptly !  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer! 
How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare ; 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command ; 
How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  gleaned 
From  the  true  seed  of  honor ;  and  how  much  honor 
Picked  from  tho  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times 
To  be  new  varnished ! 


ilolju  lllcliGtci*, 


Webster  {circa  1570-1040)  and  Thomas  Dckker  were 
partners  in  writing  plays.  Webster  also  wrote  for  the 
stage  independently,  and  ranks  among  the  chief  of  tlie 
minor  Elizabethan  tragic  dramatists.  Charles  Lamb  said 
of  the  following  dirge  from  "The  White  Devil,"  tliat  he 
knew  nothing  like  it,  except  the  ditty  that  reminds  Fcr- 
din.ind  of  his  drowned  father,  in  "The  Tempest."  "As 
that  is  of  the  water  watery,  so  this  is  of  the  earth  earthy." 


And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

Tho  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  liis  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  licld-monse,  and  tho  mole. 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And,  when  gay  tombs  are  robbed,  sustain  no  harm ; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men. 

For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 


A  DIRGE. 

Call  for  tho  robin-redbreast  and  tho  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 


FROM  "THE  DUCHESS  OF  M.VLFI." 

This  ti-.i^edy  turns  on  the  mortal  offence  which  the  duchess 
gives  to  her  two  proud  brothers  by  indulgiug  in  a  geuerous 
though  infatuated  passion  for  Antonio,  her  steward. 

Car'wla.  Hence,  villains,  tyrants,  murderers !   Alas! 
What  will  you  do  with  my  lady?     Call  for  help. 

Duchess.  To  whom  ?  to  our  next  neighbors  ?   They 
are  mad  folks. 
Farewell,  Cariola. 

I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  sirup  for  his  cold  ;   and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.  —  Now  what   you 

please. 
What  death  ? 

Bosola.  Strangling.     Here  are  your  executioners. 

Dnch.  I  forgive  them. 
The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs, 
Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 

Bos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  ? 

Duch.  Who  would  be  afraid  on't, 
Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 
In  the  other  world. 

Bos.  Yet,  methinks. 
The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afllict  you  : 
This  cord  should  terrify  you. 

Duch.  Not  a  Avhit. 
What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 
With  diamonds  ?   or  to  be  smothered 
With  cassia  ?  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  ? 
I  know  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits:   and  'tis  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges. 
You  may   open   them   both   ways:    any  way  —  for 

heaven  sake — 
So  I  were  out  of  your  whispering.    Tell  my  brothers 
That  I  perceive  death — now  I'm  well  awake — 
Best  gift  is  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  n)y  last  woman's  fault ; 
I'd  not  bo  tedious  to  you. 

Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 
Yet  stay:  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 
As  princes'  palaces ;   they  th.at  enter  there 


SIR  EGBERT  ATTOX.— ALEXANDER  HUME. 


35 


Must  go  upon  tbeir  kuees.     Come,  violent  death, 
Serve  for  niaudragora  to  make  uio  sleep. 
Go,  tell  my  brothers :   when  I  am  laid  out, 
They  theu  may  feed  in  quiet. 

\_Thcy  sfraiiijJc  hci;  kiicdhtg. 


Sir  llobcrt  ^ijton. 

A  Scottish  courtier  and  poet,  Aytou  (1570-1038)  en- 
joyed, lilvc  Drumniond,  tlic  advantages  of  foreign  travel, 
and  of  acquaintance  with  English  poets.  He  was  born 
in  Fifeshire.  Ben  Jonson  seemed  proud  of  liis  friend- 
ship, for  he  told  Drumniond  that  Sir  Robert  loved  him 
(Jonson)  dearly.  An  edition  of  Ayton's  poems  was  pub- 
lished as  late  as  1871. 


OX  WOMAN'S  I^X'ONSTANCY. 

I  loved  thee  ouee,  I'll  love  no  more  ; 

Tbiue  be  the  grief,  as  is  the  blame ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  Avast  before : 
What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 
He  that  can  love  unloved  again 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain  : 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay, 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away. 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'erthrown. 

If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine  ; 
Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remained  thy  own, 
I  might,  perchance,  have  yet  been  thine. 
But  thou  thy  freedom  did  recall. 
That  if  thou  might  elsewhere  inthrall ; 
And  theu  how  could  I  but  disdain 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  ? 

When  new  desires  had  conquered  thee. 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will. 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 
Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go 
And  prostitute  affection  so  ; 
Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 
To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice, 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast ; 
I'll  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost ; 
The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be 
To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee ; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A-begging  to  a  beggar's  door. 


^Icianiicr  f)umc. 


Hume  {circa  loCO-lGOi))  was  a  minister  of  the  Scotch 
Kirk  in  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century.  He 
publislicd  in  Edinburgh,  in  1599,  a  collection  of  "  Hymns, 
•or  Sacred  Songs,"  of  wliich  now  only  three  copies  are 
known  to  exist.  Tlie  "Story  of  a  Summer  Day"  has 
some  precious  passages,  sliowiug  an  original  vein,  but 
it  is  much  too  long.  Campbell  and  Trench  have  both 
abridged  it,  and  the  same  liberty  has  been  taken  in  the 
following  version.     Hume  died  in  1(509. 


THE   STOKY   OF  A   SUMMER  DAY. 

O  perfect  Light,  which  shaid'  away 

The  darkness  from  the  light, 
And  set  a  ruler  o'er  the  day. 

Another  o'er  the  night, — 
Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies. 

More  vively  doth  appear 
Thau  at  mid-day  unto  our  eyes 

The  shining  sun  is  clear! 

The  shadow  of  the  eartli  anon  ' 

Removes  and  drawds  by. 
While  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gone, 

Appears  a  clearer  sky ; 
Which  soon  perceive  the  little  larks, 

The  lapwing,  and  the  snipe, 
And  tune  their  songs,  like  Nature's  clerks. 

O'er  meadow,  moor,  and  stripe. 

The  dew  upon  the  tender  crops, 

Like  pearlds  white  and  round. 
Or  like  to  melted  silver  drops, 

Refreshes  all  the  ground. 
The  misty  reek,  in  clouds  of  rain. 

From  tops  of  mountains  scales ; 
Clear  are  the  highest  hills  and  plain, 

The  vapors  take  the  vales. 

The  ample  heaven,  of  fabric  sure, 

In  cleanness  doth  surpass 
The  crystal  and  the  silver  pure, 

Or  clearest  polished  glass. 
The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  still, 

That  nowhere  shall  ye  find, 
Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 

Au  air  of  piping  wind. 


1  Perfect  of  the  verb  to  sched,  or  shed;  German,  scheiden,  to 
part,  or  separate  from  one  auotlier. 


36 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BJilTISII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Calm  is  tho  deep  and  purple  sea, 

Yea,  smoother  than  the  sand; 
Tlio  waves,  tliat  weltering  wont  to  be. 

Are  stable  like  tlio  land. 
So  silent  is  the  ccssile'  air, 

That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  liiils  and  dales  and  forest  fair. 

Again  repeats  them  all. 

The  snn,  most  like  a  speedy  post. 
With  ardent  course  ascends  ; 

The  beauty  of  tho  heavenly  host 
Ui)  to  onr  zenith  tends. 

Tho  herds  beneath  some  leafy  tree — 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie ; 

The  stable  ships  upon  the  sea 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry. 

With  gilded  eyes  and  open  wings, 

Tho  cock  his  courage  shows ; 
With  claps  of  joy  his  breast  he  dings, 

And  twenty  times  he  crows. 
Tho  doVe  with  whistling  wings  so  blue 

Tho  winds  can  fust  collect, — 
Her  purple  jiens  turn  many  a  hue 

Against  the  sun  direct. 

Now  noon  is  went ;  gone  is  mid-day ; 

The  heat  doth  slake  at  last ; 
Tho  snu  descends  down  west  away, 

For  three  o'clock  is  past. 
Tho  rayons  of  the  sun  we  see 

Diminish  in  their  strength, 
The  shade  of  every  tower  and  tree 

Extended  is  in  length. 

The  gloaming  comes,  the  day  is  spent. 

The  sun  goes  out  of  sight. 
And  painted  is  the  Occident 

With  purple  sanguine  bright. 
Wliat  i)leasure  were  to  walk  and  see, 

End-lang  a  river  clear, 
The  perfect  form  of  cverj'  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear! 

Oh,  th»>n  it  were  a  seemly  thing, 
Wliilo  all  is  still  and  calm, 

Tho  jiraise  of  God  to  jday  and  sing 
With  cornet  and  with  siialni! 


'  An  unauthorized  word,  probably  the  equivalent  of  cessible, 
yielding,  giving  way  ;  from  the  Latin,  cedo,  cesstim. 


All  laborers  di-aw  homo  at  even. 

And  can  to  other  say, 
"  Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven, 

Wliich  sent  this  summer  day!" 


(Lljomas  CjcniuooL). 

Tlic  dates  of  this  writer's  birth  and  death  are  unknown, 
lie  is  found  writing  for  tlic  stage  in  l.")i)(j,  and  he  contin- 
ued to  exercise  his  ready  pen  down  to  tlic  year  1G40.  He 
lived  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth,  James  I.,  and  Charles  I. 
lie  had,  as  lie  informs  his  readers,  "  an  entire  hand,  or  at 
least  a  main  linger,"  in  two  hundred  and  twenty  plays, 
lie  wrote,  also,  several  prose  works,  besides  attending  to 
his  businesss  as  an  actor.  Of  his  plays  only  twenty-three 
have  come  down  to  us ;  and  among  the  best  is  "  The 
Woman  killed  with  Kindness."  lie  seems  to  have  been 
a  man  of  genius;  and  his  "Search  after  God"  is  a  very 
noble  poem,  showing  that,  in  his  higher  moods,  the  true 
spirit  of  poesy  animated  the  humble  playwright. 


FANTASIES  OF  DRUNItENNESS. 

From  "The  English  Tk.welleb." 

Tliis  gentleman  and  I 

Passed  but  just  now  by  your  next  neighbor's  house. 
Where,  as  they  say,  dwells  one  young  Lionel, 
An  unthriffc  youth  ;   his  father  now  at  sea  : 
And  there,  this  night,  was  held  a  sumptuous  feast. 
Ill  the  height  of  their  carousing,  all  their  brains 
Warmed  with  the  heat  of  wine,  discourse  was  of- 
fered 
Of  ships  and  storms  at  sea ;   when,  suddenly, 
Out  of  his  giddy  wilduess,  one  conceives 
Tho  room  wherein  they  quaffed  to  be  a  pinnace. 
Moving  and  floating,  and  the  confused  noise 
To  be  the  murmuring  winds,  gusts,  mariners ; 
That  their  unsteadfast  footing  did  proceed 
From  rocking  of  the  vessel.     This  conceived. 
Each  one  begins  to  apprehend  tho  danger. 
And  to  look  out  for  safety.     Fly,  saith  one, 
I'p  to  the  main-top,  and  discover.     lie 
Climbs  by  the  bedpost  to  the  tester,  there 
Reports  a  turbulent  sea  and  tempest  towards. 
And  wills  them,  if  they'll  save  their  ship  and  lives, 
To  cast  their  lading  overboard.     At  this. 
All  fall  to  work,  and  hoist  into  the  street. 
As  to  the  se.a,  what  next  came  to  their  hand — 
Stools,  tables,  tressels,  trenchers,  bedsteads,  cup.s, 
Pots,  idatc,  and  glasses.     Hero  a  fellow  whistles; 
They  take  him  lor  the  boatswain  :  one  lies  strug- 
jrling 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


:57 


I'pou  the  floor,  as  if  lie  swam  lor  lifo  ; 

A  third  takes  the  bass-viol  for  the  cock-boat, 

Sits  ill  the  hollow  on't,  labors,  and  rows  ; 

His  oar,  the  stick  with  which  the  fiddler  played; 

A  fourth  bestrides  his  fellow,  thiukiug  to  escape, 

As  did  Arion,  ou  the  dolphin's  back, 

Still  fiimbliiig  on  a  gitteru.     The  rude  multitude, 

Watching  without,  and  gaping  for  the  spoil 

Cast  from  the  windows,  went  by  the  ears  about  it. 

The  constable  is  called  to  atone  the  broil ; 

Wiiich  done,  and  hearing  such  a  noise  within 

Of  imminent  shipwreck,  enters  the  house,  and  finds 

them 
In  this  confusion  ;   they  adore  his  staff, 
And  think  it  Neptune's  trident ;   and  that  he 
Comes  with  his  Tritons  (so  they  called  his  watch) 
To  calm  the  tempest,  and  appease  the  waves: 
And  at  this  point  we  left  them. 


SONG:    PACK   CLOUDS   AWAY. 

Pack  clonds  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow : 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  mount,  lark,  aloft. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  idease  her  mind. 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  ; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing  !   nightingale,  sing  ! 

To  give  uiy  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin-redbreast ! 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow  ! 
Blackbird  and  thrush,  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow. 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves. 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


SEARCH  AFTER   GOD. 

I  sought  thee  round  about,  O  thou,  my  God  ! 

In  thine  abode  : 
I  said  nnto  the  earth,  "  Speak,  art  thou  he  V 

She  answered  me, 
'•  I  am  not."     I  inquired  of  creatures  all, 

In  ""eneral, 


Contained  therein :   they  with  one  voice  proclaim 
Tliat  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a  name. 

I  asked  the  seas  and  all  the  deeps  below. 

My  God  to  know ; 
-I  asked  the  reptiles  and  whatever  is 

In  the  abyss  : — 
Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviathan 

Inquiry  ran  ; 
But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can  sound, 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  asked  the  air  if  that  were  he ;   but  lo ! 

It  told  me  "  No." 
I  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren 

Demanded  then. 
If  any  feathered  fowl  'mongst  them  were  such  ; 

But  they  all,  much 
Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  choir. 
Answered,  "To  find  thy  God  thou  must  look  higher." 

I  asked  the  heavens,  suu,  moon,  and  stars  ;  but  they 

Said,  '■  We  obey 
The  God  thou  seekest."     I  asked  what  eye  or  ear 

Could  see  or  hear, — 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or  know 

Above,  below ; 
AVith  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things  said, 
"  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  him  were  made." 

I  asked  the  world's  great  universal  mass, 

If  that  God  was  ; 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice  replied, 

As  stupefied, 
"  I  am  not  he,  O  man !   for  kuow  that  I 

By  him  on  high 
Was  fashioned  first  of  nothing ;  thus  instated 
And  swayed  by  him  by  whom  I  was  created." 

I  sought  the  court;   but  smooth-tongued  flattery 
there 

Deceived  each  ear  ; 
In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling,  buying. 

Swearing  and  lyiug ; 
In  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  arrayed ; 

And  then  I  said, — 
'•  Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains  be  great ; 
Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I  then 

Even  thus  began  : 
'•'  O  man,  what  art  thou  ?"     What  more  could  I  say 

Than  dust  and  clay, — 


38 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Frail  mortal,  failing,  a  mcro  puff,  a  blast, 

Tliat  cannot  last ; 
Euthioneil  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  nrn, 
Formed  from  that  earth  to  wbicli  I  must  return  ? 

I  asked  myself  \vli:it  this  great  God  might  bo 

That  fashioned  me  ? 
I  answered  :   The  all-potent,  sole,  immense, — 

Surpassing  sense  ; 
Unspeakable,  inserutable,  eternal, 

Lord  over  all ; 
The  only  terrible,  strong,  .jnst,  and  true. 
Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  he  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being;   ho  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  Avater, 
Earth,  air,  and  fire.-    Of  all  things  that  subsist 

He  hath  the  list,— 
Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  eartli  claims, 
lie    keei)s    the    scroll,   and    calls    them    by    their 
names. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining  grace. 

Thy  glorious  face 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be) 

Methiuks  I  see ; 
And  though  invisible  and  infinite 

To  human  sight. 
Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appearest. 
In  which,  to  our  weak  sense,  thou  comest  nearest. 

Oh,  make  us  apt  to  seek,  and  quick  to  find. 

Thou  God,  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith,  in  thee  to  trust, 

Thou  God,  most  just! 
Remit  all  our  offences,  wo  entreat. 

Most  good  !   most  great ! 
Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy,  quest 
Maj',  through  thy  giacc,  admit  us  'mongst  the  blest. 


King  iJamcs  3.  of  (!;ncilaub. 

James  VI.  of  Scotland  and  I.  of  Eiiijland  (15GG-1G;25), 
the  only  olfspi-ing  of  Mary,  queen  of  Scots,  by  her  sec- 
ond husband,  Henry  Stuart  (Lord  Darnlcy),  was  a  prolitic 
author,  and  wrote  both  prose  and  verse.  The  following 
sonnet  from  liis  jicn  will  compare  not  unfavorably  with 
the  verses  of  some  contemporary  poets  of  fame.  It  is 
notewortliy  that  Mary,  her  son  James,  and  her  grandson, 
Charles  I.,  all  wrote  poetry. 


SONNET:    TO   PRINCE  HENRV. 

God  gives  not  kings  the  stylo  of  gods  in  vain. 
For  on  the  throne  his  sceptre  do  they  sway  ; 
And  as  their  subjects  ought  them  to  obey, 
So  kings  should  fear  and  serve  their  God  again. 
If,  then,  yon  would  enjoy  a  happy  reign, 
Ob.serve  the  statutes  of  our  lieavenly  King, 
And  from  his  law  make  all  your  law  to  sjiring. 
If  his  lieutenant  hero  you  would  remain, 
Reward  the  just;   be  8teadfa.st,  true,  and  jilain  ; 
R<'prcss  the  proud,  maiutaiuing  aye  the  right ; 
Walk  always  so  as  ever  in  I  lis  sight 
Who  guards  the  godly,  plaguing  the  profane ; 
And  so  shall  you  in  princely  virtues  shine. 
Resembling  right  your  mighty  King  divine. 


itijomas  ^"aslj. 


Nash  {circa  15G4-1C00)  wrote  a  comedy  called  "Sum- 
mer's Last  Will  and  Testament,"  wliich  was  acted  before 
Queen  Elizabeth  in  15i)2.  He  was  also  concerned  with 
iSIarh)we  in  writing  the  tragedy  of  "Dido."  He  was 
the  Churchill  of  his  day,  and  famed  for  his  satires.  He 
speaks  of  his  life  as  "spent  in  fantastical  satirism,  in 
whose  veins  heretofore  I  misspent  my  sjjirit,  and  prodi- 
gally conspired  against  good  hours." 


SPRING. 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king; 
Then  blomus  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring. 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
CkcJcoo,  jiifi-juij,  pu-we,  lo-witt  a-ivoo. 

The  palm  and  May  nmke  country  liou.ses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day. 
And  wo  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  laj-, 
CacJcoo,  jiif/JK'/,  2in-ii'i',  io-ivitt  a-uoo. 

Tlie  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old-wives  a-sunning  sit. 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet,  4 

Cuckoo,  jii{j-ji(fj,  j)n-wc,  to-witt  a-ivoo.  > 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring  ! 


THE  COMING  OF  WINTER. 

Autumn  hath  all  the  summer's  fruitful  treasure : 
Gone  is  our  sport,  fled  is  our  Croydon's  pleasure ! 
Short  days,  sharp  days,  long  nights,  come  on  apace. 
Ah,  who  shall  hide  us  from  the  winter's  face  ? 


1 


sin  nENEY  WOTTON. 


3U 


Cold  dotli  increase,  the  sickness  ■nill  uot  cease, 
Ami  lieie  wo  lie,  God  knows,  with  little  ease. 
From  winter,  plague,  and  pestilence, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us! 

London  doth  monrn,  Lambeth  is  quite  forlorn  ! 
Trades  cry,  woe  worth  that  ever  they  were  born  ! 
The  want  of  term  is  town  and  city's  harm  : 
Close  chambers  we  do  want  to  keep  us  warm. 
Long  banished  mnst  we  live  now  from  our  friends: 
This  low-built  house  will  bring  us  to  our  euds. 
From  winter,  plague,  and  pestilence. 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 


THE   DECAY  OF   SUMMER. 

Fair  Summer  droops,  droop  men  and  beasts,  there- 
fore ; 
So  fair  a  summer  look  for  uevermore  : 
All  good  things  vauish  less  than  in  a  day  ; 
Peace,  pleutj-,  pleasure,  suddenly  decay. 

Go  not  yet  away,  bright  soul  of  the  sad  year ; 

The    earth    is    hell    wheu   thou   leavest    to    ap- 
pear. 
What !  shall  those  flowers  that  decked  thy  garland 

erst 
Upon  thy  grave  be  wastefuUy  dispersed  ? 
O  trees,  consume  your  sap  in  sorrow's  source ! 
Streams,  turn  to  tears  your  tributary  course ! 

Go  not  yet  hence,  bright  soul  of  the  sad  year ; 

The  earth  is  hell  when  thou  leavest  to  appear. 


Sir  i^cnnj  lHotton. 


Wotton  (1.568-1G39),  a  gentleman  of  Kent,  was  ambas- 
sador at  Venice,  under  James  I.,  and  afterward  Provost 
of  Eton.  He  wrote  a  short  poem  "  in  praise  of  angling," 
and  was  the  friend  of  Izaak  Walton.  As  an  early  discov- 
erer of  Milton's  transcendent  genius,  he  showed  his  su- 
perior literary  culture.  Of  the  famous  little  poem,  "The 
Happy  Life,"  Trench  tells  us  there  are  at  least  half  a  doz- 
en texts,  with  an  infinite  variety  of  readings,  tlicsc  being 
particularly  numerous  in  the  third  stanza,  winch  is,  in- 
deed, somewhat  obscure  as  it  now  stands.  The  licliquue 
WoiOmkmce,  in  which  the  poem  was  first  published,  ap- 
peared in  10.51,  some  twelve  years  after  Wotton's  death; 
but  much  earlier  MS.  copies  are  in  existence:  thus  one, 
in  the  handwriting  of  Edward  Alleyn,  apparently  of  date 
1616.  In  some  versions  the  word  accusers  is  changed  to 
oppressors  in  the  last  line  of  the  fourth  stanza.  A  little 
reflection  will  show  that  the  former  is  the  preferable 
word.  Both  Trench  and  Palgrave  so  regard  it,  and  adopt 
it  as  the  more  authentic  readintr. 


ON  HIS  MISTRESS,  THE  QUEEN  OF  BOHEMIA. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night. 
Which  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes. 

More  by  your  number  than  your  light, — 
You  common  people  of  the  skies. 
What  are  you  wheu  the  Moon  shall  rise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known. 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own, — 
What  are  you  when  the  Rose  is  blown? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  passions  iinderstood 

By  your  weak  accents, — what's  your  praise, 
Wheu  Philomel  her  voice  doth  raise  ? 

So  when  my  Mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beautj^  of  her  mind, 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queeu, 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  uot  designed 
The  eclipse  aud  glory  of  her  kind  ? 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  boru  and  taught 
That  sei'veth  not  another's  will ! 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
Aud  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  pa.ssious  uot  his  masters  are  ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death  ; 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  public  fiime  or  private  breath  : 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  rai.se, 
Or  A'ice  ;   who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterei's  feed. 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great : 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend. 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend ; — 


40 


CTCLOPjEDIA    of  nillTISU  AM)  AMEllICAX  rOETUY. 


This  mau  is  freed  from  servile  bauds 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall  ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  laiitls  ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


jJoljn  Cilhj. 


Lilly  {circa  1554-lGOl)  was  a  native  of  Kent.  His  prin- 
cipal work  was  a  prose  romance  called  "  Eiiphucs."  The 
name  of  the  book  has  passed,  as  an  abstract  term,  into 
our  languiigc ;  but  the  book  itself  is  no  lony,cr  read,  and 
the  cupltuislic  method  of  expression  is  chielly  known  to 
ns  in  these  days  by  caricatures.  Lilly  wrote  nine  plays, 
in  which  some  songs  occur.  Tlie  following  is  IVom  his 
play  of  "  Campaspe,"  1584. 


CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 

Cnpid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses;   Cnpid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  (piiver,  how,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows ; 

Loses  them  too  ;   then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  li[),  the  rose 

Growing  ou  his  cheek,  bnt  none  knows  how  ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin:  — 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  Aviu. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

She  -won,  and  Cnpid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love  I   has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas,  become  of  me  ! 


fjcnvw  Constable. 


Born  about  1.5G0,  and  educated  at  Oxford,  Constable 
published,  in  1.584,  "Diana,  or  the  excellent  conccitful 
sonnets  of  II.  C."  The  volume  was  reprinted  for  the 
Koxburghe  Club  in  1818.  The  following  is  IVuni  "Eng- 
land's Helicon,"  flrst  published  in  IGOO. 


DIAPHENIA. 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly, 

White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily. 
Heigh-ho,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 

I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 

Are  beloved  of  their  dams ; 
How  blest  were  I  if  thou  would'st  prove  m 

Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses, 
Tiiat  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloser. 


Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power; 

For  dead,  thy  breath  to  lite  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  to  all  things  blessdd, 
When  all  thy  praises  arc  expressed, 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee ! 

As  the  birds  do  lovo  the  spring. 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king: 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  rae ! 


iloBcplj  tjall. 


Hall  (1.574-1  G.56),  bishop  successively  of  Exeter  in  1G27, 
and  of  Norwich  in  1G41,  is  rcmcml)crcd  chiefly  for  his 
prose  theological  works,  written  in  the  reigns  of  James 
and  Charles.  His  only  poems  were  a  collection  of  Sat- 
ires, composed  at  Cambridge  University  before  his  twen- 
ty-third year.  They  were  condemned  to  be  burnt  in 
1.599,  by  an  order  of  Bishop  Bancroft.  Hall's  satire  on 
the  amatory  poets  of  his  day,  of  which  we  give  a  speci- 
men, is  coarse,  but  apt  and  pithy. 


ANTHEM  FOE  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  EXETEK. 

Lord,  what  am  I  ?     A  worm,  dust,  vapor,  nothing  ! 
What  is  my  life  ?     A  dream,  a  daily  dying ! 
What  is  my  fle.sh  ?     My  sonl's  uneasy  clothing ! 
What  is  m^'  time  ?     A  minute  ever  flying ! 

My  time,  my  flesh,  my  life,  and  I — 

What  are  we.  Lord,  bnt  vanity  ? 

Where  am  I,  Lord  ?     Down  iu  a  vale  of  death  I 

What  is  my  trade?     Sin,  my  dear  God  offending; 

Jly  sport,  sin  too!   my  stay  a  putt'  of  breath! 

Wliat  end  of  .sin  ?     Hell's  horror  never-ending  ! 
My  way,  my  trade,  sport,  stay,  and  place 
Help  to  make  np  my  doleful  case. 

Lord,  what  art  thou  ?    I'nre  life,  power, beauty, bliss ! 

Where  dwell'st  thou?      Up  above  in  perfect  light. 

What  is  thy  Time?     Eternity  it  is. 

What  state?     Attendance  of  each  glorious  spirit. 
Thyself,  thy  ]ilace,  thy  days,  thy  state 
Pass  all  the  thoughts  of  powers  create. 

How  sh.all  I  reach  thee,  Lord  ?     Oh,  soar  above, 

.\nil)itions  sonl !     Bnt  which  way  .should  I  fly  ? 

Thon,  Lord,  art  way  and  end.     Wliat  wings  have  I  ? 

Aspiring  thoughts,  of  faith,  of  hope,  of  lovo. 
Oh,  let  these  wings  that  way  alone 
Present  me  to  thy  bli.ssful  throne! 


JOHN  MARSTOX.—DR.  JOHN  DONNE. 


41 


ON  LOVE   POETRY. 

Satire  III.,  Book  II. 

Great  is  the  folly  of  ;i  feeble  brain 
O'erruled  with  love  and  tyrannous  disdain  : 
For  love,  however  in  tiio  basest  breast 
It  breeds  high  thoughts  that  feed  the  faucy  best, 
Yet  is  ho  blind,  and  leads  poor  fools  awry, 
While  they  hang  gazing  on  their  mistress'  eye. 
The  love-sick  iioet,  whose  importune  prayer 
Repulsdd  is  with  resolute  despair, 
Hopeth  to  conquer  his  disdainful  dame 
With  public  plaints  of  his  conceived  flame. 
Then  pours  he  forth  in  patched  souuetings 
His  love,  his  lust,  and  loathsome  tlatterings ; 
As  though  the  staring  world  hanged  on  his  sleeve, 
Wiien  once  he  smiles  to  laugh,  and  when  he  sighs 
I  to  grieve. 

Careth  the  world  thou  love,  thou  live,  or  die? 
Careth  the  world  how  fair  thy  fixir  one  be  ? 
Fond  wit-wal,  that  wouldst  load  thy  witless  head 
With  timely  horns  before  thy  bridal  bed  ! 
Then  cau  he  term  his  dirty,  ill-faced  bride 
Lady  aud  queeu  aud  virgin  deified : 
Be  she  all  sooty-black  or  berry-brown, 
She's  white  as  morrow's  milk  or  flakes  new-blown  : 
And  though  she  be  some  dunghill  drndge  at  home. 
Yet  can  ho  her  resign  some  refuse  room 
Amidst  the  well-kuowvi  stars ;   or  if  not  there. 
Sure  will  he  saint  her  in  his  Kalendere. 


iolju  illarstou. 


Marston,  a  rough  but  vigorous  satiiist  and  dramatic 
writer,  produced  his  "Malcontent,"  a  comedj',  prior  to 
1600.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  became  lecturer  at 
the  Middle  Temple,  and  died  in  1633.  He  wrote  eight 
plays,  and  three  books  of  Satires,  called  "The  Scourge 
of  Vilhiny." 


THE   SCHOLAR  AND   HIS   SPANIEL. 

I  was  a  scholar:   seven  useful  springs 
Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 
Of  crossed  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man  ; 
The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 
Delight,  my  spaniel,  slept,  while  I  turned  leaf\'es, 
Tossed  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
Of  titled  words :   and  still  my  spaniel  slept ; 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh. 
Shrunk  up  my  veins :   aud  still  my  spaniel  slept : 
Aud  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 
Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 


Of  antick  Donate :   still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Still  on  went  I ;   first,  an  sit  anima  ; 
Then,  an  it  were  nuirtal.     Oh,  hold,  hold  !  at  that 
They're  at  brain  bullets,  fell  by  the  ears  anuiin 
Pell-mell  together :   still  my  spaniel  slept. 
-Then,  Avhether  'twere  corporeal,  local,  fixed, 
Ex  traduce;   but  whether  't  had  free-will 
Or  no  ;   hot  philosoidun\s 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propped, 
I  staggered,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part. 
But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pried, 
Stufl'ed  uotiug-books  :   and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
At  length  he  waked,  and  yawned  ;  and  by  yon  sky, 
For  aught  I  know,  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 


TO  DETRACTION  I  PRESENT  MY  POESIE. 

Foul  canker  of  fair  virtuous  action. 

Vile  blaster  of  the  freshest  blooms  on  earth. 

Envy's  abhoiTcd  child,  Detraction, 

I  here  expose  to  thy  all-tainting  breath 

The  issue  of  my  brain  :   snarl,  rail,  bark,  bite; 

Kuow  that  my  spirit  scorns  Detraction's  spite. 

Know  that  the  Genius  which  attendeth  on 

And  guides  my  j)owers  intellectual, 

Holds  in  all  vile  repute  Detraction. 

My  soul — an  essence  metaphysical. 

That  in  the  basest  sort  scorns  critic's  rage, 
Because  he  knows  his  sacred  parentage, — 

My  spirit  is  not  puffed  up  with  fat  fume 
Of  slimy  ale,  nor  Bacchus'  heating  grape. 
My  mind  disdains  the  dungy,  muddy  scum 
Of  abject  thoughts  and  Envy's  raging  hate. 
True  judgment  slight  regards  Opinion, 
A  sprightly  wit  disdains  Detraction. 

A  partial  praise  shall  never  elevate 

My  settled  censure  of  my  own  esteem  : 

A  cankered  verdict  of  malignant  hate 

Shall  ne'er  provoke  me  worse  my.self  to  deem. 

Spite  of  despite  and  rancor's  villauy, 

I  am  mjself,  so  is  my  poesy. 


Dr.  iJoIju  Donne. 


Donne  (1573-1031)  was  born  in  Loudon,  and  as  a  child 
was  a  prodigy  of  learning.  He  became  Chaplain  in  Ordi- 
nary to  James  I.,  and  Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  Much  against 
tiic  wishes  of  Ins  devoted  wife,  he  accompanied  Sir  Rob- 
ert Drury  on  an  embassy  to  Paris.     While  there,  Donne 


42 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRF. 


had  a  singular  vision,  whicli  is  often  reproduced  among 
stories  of  psychical  or  supersensual  power.  He  saw  (as 
Izaak  Walton  narrates)  the  appariliuu  of  his  wife  enter 
his  room,  bearing  a  dead  child ;  and  shortly  after  he 
heard  that  his  wife  had  been  delivered  of  a  still-born 
child  at  the  very  moment.  The  best  known  poetical 
writins^s  of  Donne  are  his  "Satires,"  and  "The  Profjress 
of  the  Soul."  His  poems  are  characterized  by  brilliant 
■Nvit,  depth  of  reflection,  and  terseness  of  lanj^uage;  but 
his  versitication  is  generally  rugged  and  iincouth,  and  he 
is  often  so  obscure  as  to  task  the  closest  attention. 


SONNET. 

Death,  he  not  prond,  tliougli  some  liave  calldd  tlieo 
Mighty  aiul  dreadful ;  for  thou  art  not  so : 
For  those  whom  thou  thiuk'st  thou  dost  overtbrow 
Die  not,  poor  Death  ;   nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  nie. 
From  rest  and  sleep,  -which  but  thy  picture  be, 
Much  pleasure  ;   then  from  thee  much  more  must 

flow. 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  tliee  do  go, 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery! 
Thou'rt  slave  to  fate,  chance,  kings,  and  desperate 

men, 
And  dost  with  poi-son,  war,  and  .sickiioss  dwell  ; 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well. 
Or  better,  than  thy  stroke  :  why  swell'st  thou  then  ? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more  :  Death,  thou  shalt  die ! 


THE  SOUL'S  FLIGHT  TO  HEAVEN. 

Think  iu  how  poor  a  prison  thou  didst  lie! 

But  think  that  Death  hath  now  enfranchised  thee! 
And   think   this   slow-paced   Soul   which   late   did 

cleave 
To  a  body,  and  went  but  Ijy  the  body's  leave, 
Twenty,  perchance,  or  thirty  miles  a  day,^ 
Despatches  iu  a  minute  all  the  way 
'Twixt  heaven  and  earth  !     Slie  stays  not  in  the  air. 
To  look  what  meteors  there  them.selves  prepare; 
She  carries  no  desire  to  know,  nor  sense. 
Whether  the  air's  middle  region  is  intense ; 
For  the  element  of  fire,  she  doth  not  know 
Whctlicr  she  pa.ssed  by  such  a  place  or  no ; 
She  baits  not  at  the  nu)on,  nor  cares  to  try 
■\Vlicther  iu  that  new  world  men  live  and  die  ; 
Venus  retards  her  not  to  inquire  how  she 
Can,  Iteing  one  star,  Hesper  and  Vesper  be. 
He  that  charmed  Argus'  eyes,  sweet  Mercury, 
Works  not  on  her  who  now  is  grown  all  eye  ; 


Who,  if  she  meet  the  body  of  the  Sun, 
Goes  through,  not  staying  till  her  course  be  run  ; 
Who  finds  in  Mars's  camp  no  corps  of  guard; 
Nor  is  by  Jove,  nor  by  liis  father,  barred  ; 
But,  ere  she  can  consider  how  she  went. 
At  once  is  at,  and  through,  the  flrinament : 
And,  as  these  stars  were  but  so  many  beads 
Strung  on  one  string,  speed  undistinguished  leads 
Iler  through  those  spheres,  as  through  those  beads 

a  string, 
Whose  quick  succession  makes  it  still  one  thing : 
As  doth  the  pith  which,  lest  our  bodies  slack. 
Strings  fast  the  little  bones  of  neck  and  back. 
So   by   the   Soul   doth   Death   string    Heaven    and 
Earth. 


ELEGY  ON  MISTRESS  ELIZABETH  DRURY. 

She  of  whose  soul,  if  we  may  say  'twas  gold. 
Her  body  was  the  Electruni,  and  did  hold 
Many  degrees  of  that — we  understood 
Her  by  her  sight :   her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
Tliat  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought. 
She,  she,  thus  richly,  largely  housed,  is  goue, 
And  chides  us  slow-paced  snails  who  crawl  upon 
Our  prison's  prison.  Earth,  nor  think  us  well 
Longer  than  whilst  we  bear  our  little  shell. 

— She  whom  we  celebrate  is  gone  before  : 
She  who  had  here  so  much  essential  joy, 
As  no  chance  could  distract,  much  less  destroy  ; 
Who  with  God's  presence  was  acquainted  so 
(Hearing  aud  speaking  to  him)  as  to  know 
His  face  in  any  natural  stone  or  tree 
Better  than  Avhcn  in  images  they  be  ; 
Who  kept,  by  diligent  devotion, 
God's  image  in  such  reparation 
Within  her  heart,  that  what  decay  was  grown 
Was  her  first  Parent's  fault,  and  not  her  own  ; 
Who,  being  solicited  to  any  act, 
Still  heard  God  jdeading  his  safe  i)re-contract ; 
Who  by  a  faithful  confulence  was  here 
Betrothed  to  God,  and  now  is  married  there  ; 
Whose  twilights   were   more   clear   than  our  mid- 
day ; 
Who  dreamed  devout  Her  than  most  use  to  pray: 
Who,  being  here  filled  with  grace,  yet  strove  to  be 
Both  where  more  grace  and  more  capacity 
At  once  is  given.     She  to  Heaven  is  goue, 
Who  made  this  world  in  some  proportion 
A  heaven,  and  here  became  unto  us  all 
Joy  (as  our  joys  admit)  essential. 


BEN  JOXSOX. 


43 


Ben  lonsou. 

Jonson  (15T-i-lG37)  was  thirty  years  old  at  the  death 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  was  ten  years  younger  than 
Sliakspeare,  and  survived  him  twenty-one  years,  living- 
on  almost  to  the  troubled  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I. 
Born  in  the  North  of  England  of  humble  parentage,  Jon- 
son, after  a  period  of  soldier  life  in  the  Low  Countries, 
where  he  fought  bravely,  settled  in  London,  married, 
and  took  to  literature  and  the  stage  as  a  means  of  live- 
lihood. He  tried  his  fortune  as  an  actor,  but  did  not 
succeed.  A  duel  with  a  brother  actor,  whom,  unhappi- 
ly, he  killed,  caused  his  confinement  for  a  time  in  jail. 
While  there,  he  was  visited  by  a  priest ;  and  his  mind 
being  turned  to  religious  subjects,  he  became  a  Roman 
Catholic,  and  continued  one  for  twelve  years.  After 
that,  when  at  the  height  of  his  fame  and  prosperity,  he 
once  more  professed  himself  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  England.  But  an  estimate  of  the  quality  of  his  relig- 
ious feeling  may  be  formed  from  the  fact  that,  on  partak- 
ing of  the  Holj'  Communion  for  the  first  time  after  this 
event,  he  quatfed  oS'the  entire  contents  of  the  chalice! 
"  He  did  everything  lustily,"  says  one  of  his  recent  biog- 
raphers, as  a  comment  on  this  incident.  Whether  "lust- 
ily" or  through  simple  love  of  good  liquor,  and  in  un- 
concern as  to  the  proprieties,  may  remain  a  question. 
Probably  it  was  done  in  the  spirit  of  the  reply  of  Theo- 
dore Hook,  who,  when  asked  by  the  College  functionary 
if  he  could  sign  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  said,  "  Yes,/o?-- 
ty,  if  you  wish  it." 

On  his  release  from  prison,  Jonson  sprang  at  once  into 
fame  by  his  still-acted  play  of  "Every  Man  in  liis  Hu- 
mor," in  the  representation  of  which  no  less  a  person 
than  Shakspearc  took  a  part.  Jonson's  works  consist 
mainly  of  dramas  and  masks,  of  which  he  produced,  in 
all,  more  than  fifty.  Poverty  cast  a  gloom  over  his  last 
years  ;  he  was  obliged  to  solicit  assistance  from  old 
friends ;  and  so  the  bright  life  dimmed,  and  flickered, 
and  went  out.  His  mortal  remains  were  buried  in  the 
north  aisle  of  Westminster  Abbey;  and  Sir  John  Young, 
a  gentleman  from  Oxford,  visiting  the  spot,  gave  eigh- 
teen-peuec  to  a  mason,  to  cut  iipon  the  flag-stone  cover- 
ing the  poet's  clay  this  epitaph:  " 0  Hare  Ben  Jonson P^ 
Such,  at  least,  is  the  tradition. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER, 

WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE,  AND   WHAT 

HE   HATH  LEFT   US. 

To  draw  uo  envy,  Sliakspeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame  ; 
Whili!  I  confess  tliy  Avritings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  muse  cau  prai.se  too  much. 

I,  therefore,  will  begin  :   Soul  of  the  age  ! 
The  applause,  delight,  and  wonder  of  our  stage ! 
My  Shakspeare,  rise !     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 


A  little  farther  off,  to  make  thee  room: 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wit.s  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

Triumph,  my  Britain!   thou  bast  one  to  show 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ; 
And  all  the  muses  still  were  in  their  prime 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or,  like  a  Mercury,  to  charm. 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear. 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 
That  did  so  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 
But  stay!   I  see  thee  iu  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there. 
Shine  forth,  thou  star  of  poets!   and  with  rage 
Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage. 
Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  inourued 

like  night. 
And  despairs  day  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 


SEE   THE   CHARIOT  AT  HAND. 

Fbom  "A  Celebration  of  Cuaris." 

,   See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 
Wherein  my  lady  rideth ! 
Each  tliat  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty  ; 
And,  enamored,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would 
ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  comprisetli ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  wlieu  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her! 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements'  strife. 


44 


CYCLOPJWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRT. 


Have  you  sceu  but  a  brij^lit  lily  grow, 
Ik'foro  iiulo  liiuuLs  have  tout-liod  it? 
Have  you  inaikcd  bi-.t  the  fall  o'  the  snow 

IJefoie  tlio  soil  hath  smutched  it  ; 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  ? 

Or  swau's-down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  iiard  in  the  lire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
O  so  white !   O  so  soft !  O  so  sweet  is  she ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HESPERUS. 

Frosi  "Cynthia's  Kevels." 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  suu  is  laid  to  sleep. 

Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  Avouted  manner  keep  : 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  has  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close : 
Bless  us  then  with  wisht^d  sight. 

Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crj-stal  shining  quiver; 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how'  short  soever : 

Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellentlv  briglit ! 


OX  A  rORTRAIT  OF  SHAKSPEARE.' 

This  figure  that  thou  here  soest  put. 

It  was  for  gentle  Sliakspeare  cut. 

Wherein  the  graver  had  a  strife 

With  nature,  to  outdo  the  life: 

Oh  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit, 

As  well  in  brass,  as  he  liiith  hit 

His  face;  the  print  would  tlicn  surpass 

All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass: 

But  since  he  cannot,  reader,  look 

Not  on  his  picture,  but  his  book. 


>  The  attestntion  of  Ren  .Joiison  to  the  first  engraved  portrait 
of  Shalvsjjeare  f-eems  to  prove  its  t^dclity  as  a  lilceiiess.  The 
portrait  correspouds  with  the  mouiuncntal  effigy  at  Stratford. 


AX   ODE:    TO   HIMSELF. 

Where  dost  tliou  careless  lie? 

Buried  in  ease  and  sloth  ? 
Knowledge  that  sleeps  doth  die  ; 
And  this  security 

It  is  the  common  moth 
That  eats  on  wits  and  arts,  and  [so]  destroys  them 
both. 

Are  all  the  Aoniau  springs 

Dried  up  ?  lies  Thespia  waste  ? 
Doth  Clarius"  harp  want  strings, 
That  not  a  nymph  now  sings? 

Or  droop  tiicy  as  disgraced. 
To  sec  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chattering  pies 
defaced  ? 

If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As  'tis  too  just  a  cause. 
Let  this  thought  quicken  thee : 
Minds  that  are  great  and  free 

Should  not  on  Fortune  pause  ; 
'Tis  crown  enough  to  Virtue   still, — her   own   ap- 
plause. 

What  though  the  greedy  fry 

Be  taken  with  false  baits 
Of  worded  balladry, 
And  think  it  poesy  ? 

They  die  with  their  conceits, 
And  only  piteous  scorn  upon  their  folly  waits. 

Tlieii  take  in  hand  thy  lyre, 

Strike  in  thy  i)roper  strain. 
With  Japhet's-  line,  aspire 
Sol's  chariot  for  new  tire 

To  give  the  world  again  : 
Who  aided  him,  will  thee,  the  issue  of  Jove's  brain. 

And,  since  our  dainty  ago 

Cannot  endure  reproof, 
Make  not  thyself  a  page 
To  that  strumpet  the  stage, 

But  sing  high  and  aloof. 
Safe  from  the  wolf's  black  jaw,  and  the  dull  ass's 
hoof. 


'  A  surname  of  Apollo,  deri\cd  from  his  famous  temjile  at 
Claros,  in  Asia  Minor. 

2  I'rometlieus,  son  of  lapetus,  is  here  referred  to;  identified 
by  Jonson  with  .lapliet,  the  son  of  Noah.    According  to  the  le- 
gend, it  was  l)y  the  aid  of  Minerva,  the  "issue  of  Jove's  brain, 
tlial  Prometheus  ascended  to  heaven,  and  there  stole  from  tin 
chariot  of  the  Sun  the  fire  which  he  brought  down  to  earth. 


jbji:x  joxsox.—sir  johx  da  vies. 


45 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE. 

Underneath  this  sahle  hearse 
Lies  the  snhject  of  all  verse, 
Sydney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another. 
Learned,  and  fair,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  tlirow  a  dart  at  thee ! 


THE   SWEET   NEGLECT. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  yon  -were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  i)o\Ydered,  still  perfumed ; 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed. 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found. 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 
Eobes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free ; 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art. 
That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 


EPITAPH   ON  ELIZABETH,  L.  II. 

"Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 

In  a  little  ?     Eeader,  stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 

As  much  beauty  as  could  die, 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fiiult. 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth ; 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter  where  it  died  to  tell 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


SONG  TO   CELIA. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup. 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee. 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  nic  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  bnt  thee. 


GOOD  LIFE,  LONG  LIFE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  men  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 

Although  it  fiill  and  die  that  night ; 

It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  sec ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


Sir  i?ol)u  Panics. 

Davies  (1570-1626),  an  English  barrister,  was  the  au- 
thor of  "Nosce  Teipsum"  (Know  Thyself),  a  poem  on 
the  immortality  of  the  soul.  It  bears  the  date  of  1G02, 
when  Davies  was  about  thirty-two  years  old.  It  was 
printed  five  times  during  his  life.  In  1.598  Davies  was 
ejected  from  membership  in  the  Society  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  for  having  thrashed  a  man  within  the  sacred 
precincts  of  that  Inn  of  Court.  But  he  was  an  able  law- 
yer; and  having  won  the  favor  of  King  James,  he  rose 
from  one  legal  distinction  to  another,  and  was  knighted 
in  1607. 


THE   SOUL'S  ASPIRATIONS. 

Again,  how  can  she  bnt  innnortal  be. 

When  with  the  motions  of  both  will  and  wit, 

She  still  aspireth  to  eternitj". 

And  never  rests  till  she  attain  to  it  ? 

At  first  her  mother  earth  she  holdeth  dear. 

And  doth  embrace  the  world  and  worldly  things; 

She  flies  close  by  the  ground,  and  hovers  here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  Avings. 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  angiit 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth  agree; 

She  cannot  rest,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought, 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 


46 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


For  who  dill  ever  yet  in  houor,  wealth, 

Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contcutnient  find  ? 

Who  ever  ceased  to  wish,  when  he  had  licaltli ; 
Or,  having  wisdom,  was  not  vexed  in  mind  ? 

Then,  as  a  boo,  wliic  h  among  woods  doth  fall, 
Wliich  seem  sweet  llowors,  with  lustre  fresh  and 

gay, 

She  lights  on  that,  and  tliis,  and  tastotli  all, 
But,  i)leased  with  none,  doth  rise  and  soar  away. 

So,  when  tho  soul  finds  hero  no  true  content, 
And,  like  Noah's  dove,  can  no  sure  footing  take, 

She  doth  return  from  whence  she  first  was  sent, 
And  fiies  to  Him  that  first  her  wings  did  make. 


MYSELF. 

From  "  Nosce  Teipscm." 

I  know  my  body's  of  so  frail  a  kind, 

As  force  without,  fevers  within,  can  kill; 

I  know  the  heavenly  nature  of  mj'  mind  ; 
But  'tis  corrupted  both  in  wit  and  will. 

I  know  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  things, 
Yet  is  she  blind  and  ignorant  in  all ; 

I  know  Fm  one  of  Nature's  little  kings. 

Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  thing  am  thrall. 

I  know  my  life's  a  pain,  and  but  a  span ; 

I  know  my  sense  is  mocked  in  everything ; 
Aud,  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  Man  ; 

Which  is  a  proud  and  yot  a  wretched  thing. 


Beaumont  ani)  i^lctcljcr. 

Francis  Beaumont  (1.580-1010)  and  John  Fletcher  (1.570- 
1625)  were  intimate  IVieuds ;  "  the  Orestes  and  Pylades 
of  the  poetical  world."  Both  were  of  good  descent. 
Beaumont's  father  was  a  Judge  of  the  Common  Pleas  ; 
Fletcher  was  the  son  of  the  Bishop  of  London,  and  had 
for  cousins  Phineas  and  Giles  Fletcher,  the  one  the  au- 
thor of  "The  Purple  Island,"  a  tedious  allegorical  iiooni; 
the  other  the  author  of  "Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph," 
a  work  from  which  Milton  is  said  to  have  borrowed  a 
feather  or  two. 

There  was  a  dilTcrencc  of  ten  years  between  the  ages 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  The  latter,  who  was  the 
elder,  survived  his  friend  nine  years,  continued  to  write, 
and  died  at  the  age  of  forty -nine.  Beaumont  died  at 
thirty,  in  1010,  the  same  year  as  Shakspeare.  Beaumont's 
poetical  taste,  it  was  said,  controlled,  in  their  joint  work, 
Fletcher's  luxuriance  of  wit  aud  fancy.     Their  united 


works  amount  to  about  fifty  dramas,  and  were  very  pop- 
ular in  their  daj',  even  more  so  than  those  of  Shakspeare 
and  Jonson.  As  lyrical  and  descriptive  poets  tliey  arc 
entitled  to  high  praise.  Their  dramas  are  sprightly,  and 
abound  in  poetical  ornament,  but  arc  often  censurable 
for  looseness  of  plot,  repulsiveuess  of  subject,  and  laxity 
of  moral  tone. 


MELANCHOLY.' 

From  "  Nice  Valor  ;  or,  The  Fassionate  Madman." 

Hence,  all  yon  Aain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  tlic  nights 

Wherein  you  si)end  your  folly ! 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  't, 

But  only  melancholy : 

O  sweetest  melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound! 

Fonntain-heads,  aud  jiathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves, 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan. 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  : 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy ! 


CESAR'S  LAMENTATION  OVER  POMPEY'S 
HEAD. 

Fbom  "The  False  One." 

Oh  thou  con([Ucror, 
Thou  glory  of  tho  world  once,  now  tho  i>ity  ; 
Thou  awe  of  nations,  wherefore  didst  thou  fall  thus  ? 
What  poor  fate  followed  thee,  and  plucked  thee  on 
To  trust  thy  sacred  life  to  au  Egyptian  ? — 
The  life  and  light  of  Rome  to  a  blind  stranger, 
That  honorable  war  ne'er  taught  a  nobleness. 
Nor    worthy    circumstance    showed    what    a    man 

was  ? — 
That  never  heard  thy  name  sung  but  in  banquets 
And  loose  lascivious  pleasures  ? — to  a  boy 
That  had  no  faith  to  comprehend  thy  greatness. 
No  study  of  thy  life  to  know  thy  goodness? — 

1  Milton  seems  to  have  taken  some  hints  for  his  "II  Pense- 
roso"  from  this  song. 


BEAUMOXT  AXD  FLETCHER. 


47 


Aud  leave  thy  nation,  nay,  thy  noble  friend, 
Leave  him  distrusted,  that  in  tears  falls  witii  thee — 
lu  soft  relentin>j  tears  ?      Hear  me,  great  Pompey, 
If  thj'  great  spirit  can  hear,  I  must  task  thee, 
TIiou  hast  most  uunobly  robbed  me  of  my  victory, 
My  lovo  aud  mercy. 

^  :^  #  ^  i¥  «■ 

Egyptians,  dare  yo  think  your  highest  pyramids, 
Built  to  out-dnre  the  sun,  as  you  suppose. 
Where  your  iiuworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 
Are  monuments  fit  for  him  ?     No,  brood  of  Nilus, 
Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven  ; 
No  pyramids  set  oft"  his  memories. 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness ; 
To  which  I  leave  him. 


SONG  FROM  "VALENTIN  I  AN." 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince  :   fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers ;   give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ;   easy,  sweet, 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  sou  of  Night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses;   sing  his  pain, 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain. 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide, 
Aud  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride ! 


ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Fhaxcis  CEAraoxT. 

Mortality,  behold  aud  fear ! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here ! 

Tliink  how  many  roj'al  bones 

Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ! 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lauds, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 

Where  from  their  pulpits,  sealed  with  dust, 

They  iireach,  "In  greatness  is  no  trust." 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royalest  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in, 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin  : 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

"  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died.'' 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings : 

Here's  a  -world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep,  and  witli  thy  sweet  deceiving 
Lock  me  iu  delight  awhile  ; 
Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 
All  my  fancies ;  that  from  thence 
I  may  feel  an  influence, 

All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving ! 

Though  l)ut  a  shadow,  Ijut  a  sliding, 
Let  me  know  some  little  joy  ! 
We  that  sufler  long  annoy 
Are  contented  with  a  thought,. 
Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought : 

Oh,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding ! 


SONG  FROM  "ROLLO,  DUKE  OF  NORMANDY." 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn ! 

But  my  kisses  bring  again. 

Seals  of  love,  though  sealed  iu  vain. 

Hide,  oh  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears : 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 


FROM  "THE   HUMOROUS  LIEUTENANT." 

Sdcucus.  Let   uo   man   fear   to  die :    wo  love  to 
sleep  all. 
And  death  is  but  the  sounder  sleep  :   all  ages, 
And  all  hours  call  us ;  'tis  so  common,  easy, 
That  little  children  tread  those  paths  before  us. 
We  are  not  sick,  nor  our  souls  pressed  with  sorrows, 
Nor  go  we  out  like  tedious  tales  forgotten  : 
High,  high,  wo  come,  and  hearty  to  our  funerals; 
Aud  as  the  sun,  that  sets  in  blood,  let's  fall. 

Lysimachus.  'Tis  true  they  have  us  fast :  we  can- 
not 'scape  'em  ; 
Nor  keeps  the  brow  of  Fortune  one  smile  for  us. 
Dishonorable  ends  we  can  escape,  though, 
Aud  worse  than  those,  captivities  :  we  can  die ; 
Aud,  dying  nobly,  though  wo  leave  behind  us 
These  clods  of  flesh,  that  are  too  massy  burdens. 
Our  living  souls  fly  crowned  with  living  conquests. 


48 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRT. 


FKOM  "THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY." 

Lay  a  giiiliind  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear  ; 

Say,  I  died  Irne  : 
My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

Eroni  my  hour  of  birtli : 
Upon  my  bnricd  body  lie 

Lijihtlv,  gentle  earth  ! 


FROM  "THE   CUSTOM   OF   THE   COUNTRY." 

What  sacrifice  of  thanks,  what  ago  of  service, 
What  danger  of  more  dreadful  look  than  death, 
What  willing-  martyrdom  to  crown  me  constant, 
May  merit  such  a  goodness,  such  a  sweetness  ? 
A  love  so  nobly  great  no  power  can  ruin  : 
Most   blessc^d   maid,  go   on :    the   gods   that   gave 

this, 
This  pure  unspotted  love,  the  Child  of  Heaven, 
In  their  own  goodness  must  preserve  and  save  it, 
And  raise  yon  a  reward  beyond  our  recompense. 


yijUip  illassingcr. 


Massinger  (circa  1584-1&10)  began  to  write  plays  in  the 
reign  of  James  I.  Like  many  of  his  literary  brethren, 
lie  was  poor,  and  one  morning  was  found  dead  in  his  bed 
at  Southwark.  No  stone  marks  his  neglected  resting- 
place,  but  in  the  parish  register  appears  this  brief  me- 
morial: "March  20,  1G39- 1640.— Buried  Philip  Massin- 
ger,  a  stkangeu."  His  sepulchre  was  like  his  life — ob- 
scure. Like  the  nightingale,  he  sang  darkling — it  is  to 
be  feared,  like  the  nightingale  of  the  fable,  with  his 
breast  against  a  thorn.  Eighteen  of  his  plays  are  in 
lirint ;  and  one  of  these,  "A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 
Debts,"  is  still  often  played  at  our  theatres.  Sir  Giles 
Overreach,  a  greedy,  crafty  money -getter,  is  the  great 
character  of  this  powerful  drama.  This  part  was  among 
the  best  personations  of  Kean  and  Booth. 


WAITING  FOR  DEATH. 

I'nOM   "  TllK    E-MPEUOU   OF  THE   Kast." 

Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  tmublc,  Death, 

To  stoj)  a  wretch's  breath 
That  calls  on  thee,  and  offers  her  sad  heart 

A  prey  unto  thy  dart  ? 
I  am  nor  young  nor  fair;    be,  therefore,  bold. 

Sorrow  hatli  made  me  old. 


Deformed,  and  Avrinkled  ;   all  that  I  can  crave 

Is  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Such  as  live  ha]»py  liold  long  life  a  jewel ; 

But  to  mo  thou  art  cruel 
If  thou  end  not  my  tedious  misery. 

And  I  soon  ccaso  to  be. 
Strike,  and  strike  liomo,  tlien  ;   pity  unto  me, 

In  one  short  hour's  delay,  is  tyranny. 


FROM   "A  NEW   WAY  TO   PAY   OLD   DEBTS." 

Murij.  Your  jileasure,  sir  ? 

Overreacli.  Ha!   this  is  a  neat  dressing! 
Those  orient  pearls  and  diamonds  well  placed  too! 
The  gown  aft'ects  me  not :   it  should  have  been 
Embroidered  o'er  and  o'er  with  flowers  of  gold  ; 
But  these  rich  jewels  and  qnaint  fashion  help  it. 
And  how  below  ?  since  oft  the  wanton  eye, 
Tiie  face  observed,  descends  unto  the  foot, 
Which,  being  well-proportioned,  as  yours  is, 
Invites  as  much  as  perfect  white  and  red. 
Though  without  art. 
How  like  you  your  new  woman. 
The  Lady  Dow  nfallen  ? 

Mary.  Well  for  a  companion, 
Not  for  a  servant.  *  *  *  I  pity  her  fortune. 

Over.  Pity  her?     Trample  on  her! 

Mary.  You  know  your  own  ways;    but  for  mo, 
I  blush 
When  I  command  her,  that  was  once  attended 
With  persons  not  inferior  to  myself 
In  birth. 

Ovtr.  In  birth?     Why,  art  thou  not  my  daugh- 
ter. 
The  blest  child  of  my  industry  ami  wealth? 
Why,  foolish  girl,  was  't  not  to  make  thee  great 
Tiiat  I  have  run,  and  still  pursue,  those  ways 
Tliat  hale  down  curses  on  me,  Avhich  I  mind  not  ? 
Part  w  itli  these  humble  thoughts,  and  apt  thyself 
To  the  noble  state  I  labor  to  advance  thee  ; 
Or,  by  my  hopes  to  see  thee  honorable, 
I  will  adopt  a  stranger  to  my  heir. 
And  throw  thee  from  my  care!  do  not  provoke  me! 


3oljn  i^ori). 


Ford  (1580-1030),  a  Devonshire  man,  belonged  to  the 
brilliant  dramatic  brotherhood  of  his  period.  He  united 
autliorsliii)  with  practice  as  a  lawyer.  Ilallam  says  that 
Ford  has  "  the  power  over  tears ;"  but  his  themes  are 
often  painful  and  even  rcvoUiug. 


.lOHN  FORD.  — WILLIAM  DRUM  MOM). 


49 


MUSICAL   CONTEST  WITH  A   NIGHTINGALE. 

I'uoM  "The  Lover's  MELANriioLY." 

Miuaplwi).  Passing  from  Italy  to  Grt'oec,  the  tales 
Whioh  jiocts  of  an  elder  time  have  feigned 
To  glorify  tlieir  Tempe  bred  in  me 
Desire  of  visiting  that  Paradise. 
To  Thessaly  I,  came:    and  living  private. 
Without  aeipiaintanee  of  more  sweet  companious 
Thau  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 
I  day  l>y  day  frequented  sileut  groves 
And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 
Til  is  accident  encountered  me  :    I  heard 
The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 
That  art  and  nature  ever  were  at  strife  iu. 

Jmethiis.  I  cannot  yet  conceive  what  you  infer 
By  art  and  nature. 

Men.  I  shall  soon  resolve  you, 
A  sound  of  music  touched  mine  ears,  or,  rather. 
Indeed,  entranced  my  sonl :   as  I  stole  nearer, 
Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute. 
With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony, 
Proclaiming,  as  it  seemed,  so  bold  a  challenge 
To  the  clear  choristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds. 
That,  as  they  flocked  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 
Wondering  at  what  they  heard.     I  wondei'ed  too. 

Amet.  And  so  do  I.     Good !     On — 

Men.  A  nightingale. 
Nature's  best-skilled  musician,  undertakes 
The  challenge ;   and  for  every  several  strain 
The  well-shaped  jonth  could  touch,  she  sung  her 

own. 
He  could  not  run  divisions  with  more  art 
Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  she, 
The  nightingale,  did,  with  her  various  notes, 
Reply  to  ;   for  a  voice,  and  for  a  sound, 
Amethus,  'tis  much  easier  to  believe 
That  such  they  were  than  hope  to  hear  again. 

Amet.  How  did  the  rivals  part  ? 

Men.  You  term  them  rightly ; 
For  they  were  rivals,  and  their  mistress,  harmony. — 
Some  time  thus  sjient,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 
Into  a  pretty  anger  that  a  bird, 
Whom  art  had  never  taught  clifts,  moods,  or  notes, 
Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 
Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice. 
To  end  the  controversy, — in  a  rapture 
Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftl}'. 
So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick, 
That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning, 
Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  differing  method 
Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 
4 


Amet.  Now  for  the  bird. 

Men.  The  bird,  ordained  to  be 
Music's  first  martyr,  strove  to  imitate 
These   several  sounds;    which   when    licr   waibliu"- 

throat 
Failed  iu,  for  grief  down  dropt  she  on  his  lute, 
And  brake  her  heart.     It  was  the  quaintest  sadness 
To  see  the  conqueror  upon  her  hearse 
To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears  : 
That,  trust  me,  my  Amethus — I  could  chide 
Mine  own  uniiianly  weakness — that  made  me 
A  fellow-mourner  with  him. 

Amet.  1  believe  thee. 

Men.  He  looked  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 
Tiien  sighed,  then  wiped  his  eyes  ;  then  sighed  and 

cried, 
"Alas!   poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 
This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it. 
Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 
Shall  nevermore  betray  a  harmless  jieace 
To  an  untimely  end :" — and  in  that  sorrow, 
As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 
I  suddenly  stept  in.' 


illilliam  Drummonli. 

Drummond  (1.58.5 -1&49),  "the  first  Scotch  poet  who 
wrote  well  in  English "  (according  to  Southey),  was 
born  at  Hawthoniden,  near  Edinbuigli.  His  father,  Sir 
John  Drummond,  held  a  situation  about  the  person  of 
James  VL  (afterward  James  I.  of  England).  The  poet 
studied  law,  but  relinquished  it,  as  his  delight  was  iu 
literature.  Drayton  and  Ben  Jonson  were  among  his 
friends;  and  he  says  of  the  latter,  "He  dissuaded  me 
from  poetry  for  tiiat  she  had  beggared  him  when  he 
might  have  been  a  rich  lawyer,  physician,  or  merchant." 
Drummond  reproduced  the  conventional  Italian  sonnet 
with  success.  He  died,  it  is  said,  of  grief  at  the  execu- 
tion of  Cliurles  I. 


THE   UNIVERSE. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  wc;  World  do  name. 
If  we  the  leaves  and  sheets  could  turn  with  care, — 
Of  Him  who  it  corrects  and  did  it  frame 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare, 
Find  out  His  power,  which   wildest  ^jowers  doth 

tame, 
His  providence  extending  everywhere, 
His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare, 
In  every  page  and  period  of  the  same. 

1  Crashaw  has  versified  this  incident  in  his  ">Iusic's  Duel," 
which,  like  most  imitations,  is  far  iufei-ior,  iu  simplicity  aud 
point,  to  the  oiigiutil. 


50 


CTCLOrJEDIA    OF  BIUTISn  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  silly  Avc,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  ^vith  colored  vclliim,  leaves  of  gold, 
Fail"  dangling  ribands,  leaving  what  is  hcst ; 
Ou  the  great  Writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold ; 
Or,  if  hy  chance  wo  stay  our  minds  on  anght, 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 


MAN'S  STKANGE  ENDS. 

A  good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 

A  heauty  fading  like  the  April  llowers, 

A  sweet  with  Hoods  of  gall  that  runs  combined, 

A  pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made  ours, 

Au  honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  Avind, 

A  glory  at  opinion's  frown  tli;i(   lowers, 

A  treasury  Avhich  bankrujit  time  devours, 

A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more  blind, 

A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 

A  style  of  greatness,  in  eifect  Ji  dream, 

A  swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and  laud, 

A  servile  lot  decked  with  a  pompous  name, — 

Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here  holow. 

Till  wisest  death  makes  us  our  errors  know. 


THE  HUNT. 

This  -^vorld  a  hunting  is ; 

The  prey,  poor  man ;  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  Death ; 

His  speedy  greyhounds  are, 

Lust,  Sickness,  Envy,  Care, 

Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss, 

With    all   those    ills    which    haunt    ns    while    we 

breathe. 
Now,  if  by  chance  we  Hy 
Of  these  the  eager  chase. 
Old  Ago  with  stealing  pace 
Casts  ou  his  nets,  and  there  we,  pautiug,  die. 


(!?corcic  lUitljcr. 


Wither  (1.588-1CG7)  was  a  native  of  Iliunpshirc,  and  a 
prolific  writer  in  James's  reign.  In  1013  lie  was  impris- 
oned in  the  Marslialsea  for  liaving  written  a  satire  called 
"Abuses  Stript  and  Wiiipt."  He  was  a  Royalist  under 
Charles  I.,  but  changed  liis  politics,  and,  having  sold  liis 
estate,  raised  a  troop  of  liorse  for  the  Parliament.  Taken 
prisoner  by  the  Royalists  in  1042,  he  is  said  to  have  owed 
his  life  to  Sir  John  Denliam,  who  requested  the  king  not 
to  hang  Willicr,  because,  wliilc  he  lived,  Denham  would 
not  be  tliougiit  the  worst  poet  in  England.  Wither  has 
been  highly  praised  by  Campbell,  Sir  Egcrton  Brydges, 


Leigli  Hunt, and  Charles  Lamb.  He  was  styled  by  Philips 
(107.'))  "a  most  profuse  pourer  forth  of  English  rhyme." 
A  vein  of  honesty,  or  at  least  earnestness  in  present  eon- 
vietion,  seems  to  run  tlirough  his  inconsistencies.  lie 
died  in  misery  and  obscurity,  at  the  age  of  seventy-nine. 


COMPANIONSHIP  OF  THE  MUSE. 

While  in  the  Marshals-en,  Wither  composed  his  poem  of  "The 
Sheplieid's  Ilnntin;;,"  from  tlie  Fourth  Eclogue  of  which  the 
following  extract  is  made.  In  it  Itoget  (Wither)  exhorts  his 
friend  Willy  (William  Browne,  author  of  "Britannia's  Pasto- 
rals") not  to  give  up  poetry.  The  scene  is  supposed  to  be  in 
prison,  where  Browne  visits  him. 


And,  though  for  her  sake  I'm  crost. 
Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost ; 
And  knew  she  would  make  my  trouble 
Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double ; 
I  should  love  and  keep  her  too, 
8|)ito  of  all  the  world  could  do. 
For,  though  banished  from  ray  flocks, 
And,  confined  Avithin  these  rocks, 
Here  I  waste  away  the  light. 
And  consume  the  sullen  night. 
She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay. 
And  keeps  many  cares  away. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow; 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a  grace ; 
Aiul  the  blackest  discontents 
Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 
In  my  former  days  of  bliss. 
Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
That  from  everything  I  saw, 
I  could  sonn>  invention  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height. 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight ; 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustling. 
By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread. 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree, 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 
Than  all  nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  num. 

15y  her  help,  I  also  now. 
Make  this  churli.sh  place  allow 
Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness, 
In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 
The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade. 
That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made ; 


GEORGE   WITHER. 


51 


The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 
Boatiug  oil  these  hollow  caves  ; 
This  black  don  which  rocks  emboss, 
Overgrown  Avitli  ohU^st  moss  ; 
The  rude  portals  that  give  light. 
More  to  terror  thau  delight ; 
This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 
Walled  about  with  disrespect ; 
From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 
A  fit  object  for  despair. 
She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 
To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this : 
Poesie,  thou  swcet'st  content 
That  e'er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent, 
Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee, 
AYhose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive  thee  ; 
Though  thou  bo  to  them  a  scorn, 
That  to  naught  but  earth  are  born, — 
Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Thau  I  am  iu  love  with  thee ! 
Though  our  wise  ones  call  it  madness. 
Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness, 
If  I  love  not  thy  maddest  tits 
Above  all  their  greatest  wits. 
And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy, 
Do  account  thy  raptures  folly. 
Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 
What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them. 


THE  HEAVENLY  FATHER  AND  HIS  ERRING 
CHILD. 

Yet  I  confess  in  this  ray  pilgrimage, 
I  like  some  infant  am,  of  tender  age. 
For  as  the  child  who  from  his  father  hath 
Strayed  in  some  grove  thro'  many  a  crookdd  path, — 
Is  sometimes  hopeful  that  he  finds  the  way. 
And  sometimes  doubtful  he  runs  more  astray : 
Sometime  with  fair  and  easy  paths  doth  meet, 
Sometime  with  rougher  tracts  that  stay  his  feet ; 
Here  goes,  there  runs,  and  yon  amazed  stays, 
Then  cries,  and  straight  forgets  his  care,  and  plays : 
Then,  hearing  where  his  loving  father  calls, 
Makes  haste,  but,  thro'  a  zeal  ill-guided,  falls ; 
Or  runs  some  other  way,  until  that  he 
(Whose  love  is  more  thau  his  endeavors  Ijc) 
To  seek  the  wanderer,  forth  himself  doth  come. 
And  take  him  in  his  arms  and  bear  him  home  : — 
So  in  this  life,  this  grove  of  ignorance, 
As  to  my  homeward,  I  myself  advance. 


Sometimes  aright,  and  sometimes  wrong  I  go, 
Sometimes  my  pace  is  speedy,  sometimes  slow : 
One  while  my  ways  are  pleasant  untor  me, 
Another  while  as  full  of  cares  they  be. 
I  doubt  and  hope,  and  doubt  and  hope  again, 
And  many  a  change  of  passion  I  sustain, 
In  this  my  journey,  so  that  now  and  then 
I  lost,  perhaps,  may  seem  to  other  men, — 
Yea,  to  myself,  awhile,  when  sins  impure 
Do  my  Redeemer's  love  from  me  obscure ! 
But  whatsoe'er  betide,  I  know  full  well 
My  Father,  who  above  the  clouds  doth  dwell. 
An  eye  upon  his  wandering  child  doth  cast. 
And  he  will  fetch  mo  to  my  home  at  last. 


VANISHED  BLESSINGS. 

V  ^  7f  Sf  -Jf  # 

The  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem 
Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key, 
Those  eyes  which  unto  me  did  seem 
More  comfortable  than  the  day — 
Those  now  by  me,  as  they  have  been. 
Shall  never  more  be  heard  or  seen  ; 
But  what  I  once  enjoyed  in  them 
Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a  dream. 

All  earthly  comforts  vanish  thus ; 

So  little  hold  of  them  have  we. 
That  we  from  them,  or  they  from  us, 

May  in  a  moment  ravished  be. 
Yet  we  are  neither  just  nor  wise, 
If  present  mercies  we  despise ; 
Or  mind  not  how  there  may  be  made 
A  thankful  use  of  what  we  had. 


I  WILL  SING  AS  I  SHALL  PLEASE. 

Pedants  shall  not  tie  my  strains 
To  our  antique  poets'  veins ; 
As  if  we  iu  later  days 
Know  to  love,  but  not  to  praise ; 
Being  born  as  free  as  these, 
I  will  sing  as  I  shall  please. 
Who  as  well  new  paths  may  run, 
As  the  best  before  have  done. 
I  disdain  to  make  my  song 
For  their  pleasure  short  or  long : 
If  I  please  I'll  end  it  here. 
If  I  list  I'll  sing  this  year, 


52 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMEUKAy    roETHY. 


And,  though  none  regard  of  it, 

By  myself  I  pleased  can  sit, 

And  mith  that  eonteiitnicnt  cheer  me. 

As  if  half  the  Avoild  did  hear  me. 


SILNXL   I,  WA.STIXG    IX'DESrAIR. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair. 

Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheek  Avith  care, 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be ! 

Should  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 

Or  a  well-dispos6d  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  eaie  I  how  kind  she  be! 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or,  her  merit's  value  known. 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  hest, 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  bo ! 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high. 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  Avitli  them  they  would  do 
Who,  without  them,  dare  to  woo — 
And,  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be ! 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair : 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve  : 
If  she  slight  me  Avhen  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go  : 
For,  if  she  be  not  for  me. 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be ! 


(tl)oiiiaG  Carcu). 


Carcw  ( 1589-1  fioO),  of  an  ancient  Gluucestersliirc  fam- 
ily, was  one  of  the  courtier  poets  who  clustered  round 
tlic  throne  of  Cliarlcs  I.  He  i)roduced  some  light  but 
eminently  beautiful  poems,  and  was  one  of  ttic  first  who 
gave  grace  and  polish  to  English  lyrical  verse.  Late  in 
life  he  became  very  devout,  and  deplored  the  licentious- 
ness of  sonic  of  his  poetns. 


DISDAIN   KETUENED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  li])  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Cclia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return  ; 

I  have  searched  thy  soiil  within, 

And  find  uanght  but  pride  and  scorn ; 

I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 

Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Some  power,  in  my  revenge,  convey 

That  love  to  her  I  cast  away ! 


ON  EETURNING  HER  LETTERS. 

So    grieves    the    adventurous    merchant,  when    he 

throws 
All  the  long-toiled-for  treasure  his  ship  stows 
Into  the  angry  main  to  save  froni  wrack 
Himself  and  men,  as  I  grieve  to  give  back 
These  letters :   yet  so  powerful  is  your  sway, 
As,  if  you  bid  me  die,  I  must  obey. 
Go    then,    blest    papers !       Yon    shall    kiss    those 

hands 
That  gave  yon  freedom,  but  hold  mo  in  bands ; 
Which  with  a  touch  did  give  you  life;   but  I, 
Because  I  may  not  touch  those  hands,  must  die. 

Tell  her,  no  length  of  time,  no  change  of  air, 
No  cruelty,  disdain,  absence,  despair. 


Til  OMA  S  CA  BE  IV.  —  WILLI  J  M  r>E  0  WNE. 


53 


No,  nor  her  steadfast  coustaucy,  can  deter 
Sly  vassal  heart  from  ever  hoiioriiij^  lier. 
Though  tlieso  be  iiowerful  argnineiits  to  prove 
I  love  ill  vain,  yet  I  must  ever  love. 
Say,  if  she  frowu  wheu  you  that  word  rehearse, 
Service  in  i)rose  is  oft  called  love  in  verse  : 
Then  pray  her,  since  I  send  back  on  my  part 
Her  papers,  she  ■will  send  me  back  my  heart. 


MEDIOCRITY   IX  LOVE   REJECTED. 

(j>i\e  nie  more  love,  or  more  disdain, 
The  torrid  or  the  frozen  zone 

Brings  equal  ease  unto  my  pain  ; 
The  temperate  affords  me  none ; 

Either  extreme,  of  love  or  hate. 

Is  sweeter  than  a  calm  estate. 

Give  me  a  storm  ;  if  it  be  love, 
Like  Danae  in  that  golden  shower, 

I  swim  in  pleasure  ;  if  it  prove 
Disdain,  that  torrent  will  devour 

My  vultnre-hopes ;   and  he's  possessed 

Of  heaven  that's  but  from  hell  released ; 

Then  crown  my  joys,  or  cure  my  pain  ; 

Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain." 


SONG, 


Ask  me  no  more,  where  Jove  bestows, 
"Wlien  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauties'  orient  deep, 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  ])ast ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  Aviuters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light, 
Tliat  downward  fall  in  dead  of  uiglit ; 
For,  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

'  The  idea  may  be  funiid  in  an  old  French  saying,  quoted  by 
Lovel:ice:  "Donne  moi  plus  de  pitie  ou  plus  de  cieaulte,  car 
sans  ce  je  ue  puis  pas  vivre,  ue  moiir." 


Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west, 
The  phfTuix  builds  her  spicy  nest 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


lUilliam  Browne. 

Born  in  Dcvonsliii-e  (1590-1045),  Browne  was  educated 
at  Oxlbrd.  Ho  wrote  "Britannia's  Pastorals,"  "The 
Shepherd's  Pipe,"  "The  Inner  Temple  Masque,"  and 
other  poems.  These  were  popular  in  his  own  day,  but 
fell  afterward  into  neglect.  The  best  of  them  were  writ- 
ten before  he  was  twenty  years  of  age,  and  he  published 
none  after  thirty.  "The  Siren's  Song"  is  one  of  the 
most  precious  felicities  of  genius.  It  is  rare  in  literary 
history  that  so  much  promise  is  found  so  inexplicably 
stunted  and  silenced  by  time.  George  Wither  seems  to 
have  had  a  high  estimate  of  Browne's  gifts,  and  wrote  : 

'•  Thou  art  young,  yet  such  a  lay 
!Never  graced  the  month  of  May, 
As  (if  they  i)rovoke  thy  skill) 
Thou  canst  lit  unto  the  quill." 


SHALL   I   TELL   YOU   WHOM   I   LOVE? 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  me ; 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versifie, 
Be  assured  'tis  she,  or  none. 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right. 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art ; 

In  as  many  virtues  digiit 

As  ne'er  yet  embraced  a  heart : 

So  much  good,  so  truly  tried, — 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  nnich  she  hath  : 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath  : 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 
Though,  i)erhaps,  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  nuisters  every  sense. 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth  ; 

Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth  ; 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Onlv  worth  could  kindle  love. 


54 


CYCLOP JEDI A    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEItlCAX  POETRY. 


Such  she  is ;   and  if  you  know 
Siuli  a  one  as  I  have  sung, 

Bo  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so, 

That  she  be  bnt  sonu'whilc  yoniig; 

Be  assured  'tis  she,  or  none, 

Tliat  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


THE  SIREN'S  SONG. 

FnoM  "The  Inneii  Temi-le  Masque." 

Steer,  liither  steer  your  wingdd  pines. 

All  beaten  mariners  I 
Here  lie  Love's  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers, — 
Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  tlio  best 
Which  mal<e  the  phoenix'  urn  and  nest. 

Fear  not  your  ships  ; 

Nor  any  to  oppose  you,  save  our  lijis  ; 
But  come  on  shore. 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  Love  hath  gotten  more. 

For  swelling  waves, — our  panting  breasts, 

Where  never  storms  arise, — 
Exchange,  and  be  a  wliile  our  guests; 

For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes  ; 
The  compass.  Love  shall  hourly  sing ; 
And,  as  he  goes  about  the  ring, 

We  will  not  miss 

To  tell  each  point  he  namcth  with  a  kiss. 
Then  come  on  shore, 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  Love  hath  gotten  more. 


Uobcrt  fjcrrick. 


Ilcrrick  (1.591-1G74)  was  the  son  of  a  goldsmith  of  Lon- 
don, lie  was  ccUicated  for  the  Cliurcli,  and  obtained  from 
Charles  I.  the  living  of  Dean  Prior,  in  Devonshire.  From 
this  he  was  ejected  during  the  civil  wars.  His  works  con- 
sist chiefly  of  religious  and  Anncreontic  poems  in  strange 
association;  and  his  rank  among  the  lyric  writers  of  liis 
day  is  with  the  highest.  He  seeuis  to  have  repented  of 
the  impure  character  of  some  of  his  verse,  for  he  writes: 

"For  those  my  Tinb,iplizi''d  rliynics, 
Writ  ill  my  wild  unhallowed  limes — 
For  every  sentence,  cliinse,  iind  word 
That's  not  iiil.iid  with  thee,  O  Lord  I 
Fortrive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Ont  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine." 

Hcrrick's  vein  of  poetry  is  of  a  liiirh  "Huility  wlion  ho  is 
at  his  best;  bnt  sometimes  he  siidvs  to  mere  doggerel. 
His  verses  to  flowers,  for  which  he  seems  to  have  had  a 
genuine  love,  arc  masterpieces  of  teudcriiess  and  grace. 


TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  dafl'odils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  liasto  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  suu 
Has  not  attained  his  uoon. 
Stay, stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  wo 
Will  go  with  yon  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  yon, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring, 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you  or  anything : 
We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew. 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


NOT  A  PROniET   EVERY   DAY. 

'Tis  not  every  day  that  I 
Fitted  am  to  prophesy  : 
No,  but  when  the  spirit  fills 
The  fantastic  pannicles ; 
Fnll  of  tire,  then  I  write 
As  the  Godhead  doth  indite. 
Thus  enraged,  my  lines  are  luuled, 
Like  the  Sibyl's,  through  the  world 
Ijook  how  next  the  holy  fire 
Either  slakes  or  doth  retire  ; 
So  the  fancy  cools,  till  when 
That  brave  spirit  comes  again. 


ODE  TO  BEN  JONSON. 

Ah,  Ben  ! 
Say,  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests, 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun; 
Where  we  stub  clusters  had 
As  made  ns  nobly  wild,  not  mad, 
And  yet  each  A'crso  of  thine 
Outdid  the  nu-at,  outdid  the  frolic  wine? 


ROBERT  HERRICE. 


55 


My  Ben! 

Or  como  again, 

Or  scud  to  ns 
Thy  Avit's  great  overplus ; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  busbaud  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend ; 
And  having  once  brongbt  to  an  end 

That  iirecions  stock,  the  store 
Of  sucb  a  wit,  the  world  should  have  no  more. 


LITANY  TO  THE   HOLY   SPIRIT. 

In  the  bour  of  n\y  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  in  heart,  .and  sick  in  bead, 
And  witb  doubts  discomforted. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  mo  ! 

When  the  bouse  dotb  sigh  and  weep, 
And  tbe  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  tbe  watcb  do  keep, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
Xo  one  bope  but  of  bis  fees. 
And  bis  skill  runs  on  the  lees. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

Wlien  bis  potion  and  bis  pill 
Has  or  none  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  ine  I 

When  tbe  passing-bell  dotb  toll, 
And  the  Furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fight  a  parting  soul. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  mc  ! 

When  tbe  tapers  now  burn  blue, 

And  the  comforters  are  few. 

And  that  number  more  than  true. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  I 

When  tbe  priest  bis  last  bath  prayed. 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decayed. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 


When  God  knows  I'm  tossed  about 
Either  witb  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet,  before  the  glass  bo  out. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  mo  ! 

Wbeu  tbe  Tempter  mo  pursu'tb 
Witb  tbe  sins  of  all  my  youth. 
And  half  dannis  mo  witb  untruth. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  cars,  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed. 
And  that  opened  wbicb  was  sealed, — 
Wbeu  to  tbee  I  have  appealed, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 


NIGHT-PIECE  TO  JULIA. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  tbee, 
Tbe  sbooting-stars  attend  tbee ; 

And  the  elves,  also. 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sjiarks  of  lire,  befriend  tbee  ! 

No  will-o'-the-wisp  mislight  tbee. 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  tbee  ! 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  tbere  is  none  to  affrigbt  tbee. 

Let  not  tbe  dark  thee  cumber ; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber  ? 
Tlie  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  tbee  their  ligbt. 

Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  tbee 
Thus,  thus  to  como  unto  me  ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I'll  jiour  into  tbee. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Wb}'  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 
Y'our  date  is  not  so  past 


56 


CYCLOrJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  yon  may  stay  yet  here  a  Avhilo 
To  blush  and  {jeiitly  siiiilc, 
Ami  go  at  last. 

What!  ■were  ye  born  to  bo 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  fj;<)od-iiight  ? 

'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  yo  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  ^vorth 
Aud  lose  you  ([uito. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soou  thiugs  have 
Their  eud,  thongli  ne'er  so  brave: 

Aud  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 
Like  you,  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  "rave. 


TO  CORINXA,  TO  GO  A-MAYING. 

Get  up,  get  up!   for  shame!   the  blooming  morn 
Upou  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air! 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each    flower    has    wept,   and    bowed    toward    the 

east, 
Above  au  hour  since ;  yet  you  not  drest — 
Nay,  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
Wheu  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thaidcful  hymns,  'lis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
When  as  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
.Spring,  sooner  than  tlie  lark,  to  feteh  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To    come    forth,  liivo    the    spring- time,   fresh    and 
green, 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair; 
Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  ; 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  tiic  day  has  kept 
Against  you  come  some  orient  ])earls  unwept: 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  tlie  night. 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  Iiill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  si  ill 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  juay- 

ing: 
Few  beads  arc  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 


Come,  ray  Corinna,  come,  and  coming,  mark 
IIow  each  lield  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park, 
Maile  green,  and  trimmed  with  trees;  see  how 
Devotion  gives  eaeh  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  ;    each  pordi.  each  door,  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white  thorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  lields,  and  we  not^ee't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad,  and  let's  obey 
Tlie  ])roclamation  made  for  May, 
And  sin  no  niore,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-^Iaying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
I5ack,  and  with  Avliite  thorn  laden,  home  ; 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream 
Before  that  "we  have  left  to  dream ; 
Aud  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth  ; 
Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  ; 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys'  betraying 
Til  is  night,  and  locks  picked  ;  yet  we're  not  a-May- 
ing. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  ot;r  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  aud  die, 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  ; 
And  as  a  vapor,  or  a  drop  of  rain. 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again. 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight. 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Tlien  while  tinu^  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying. 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Mayiug. 


TO   DIANEME. 

Sweet,  be  not   proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Wiiich,  starlike,  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  yoti  proud  tliat  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives — yours  yet  free; 


FRANCIS  QUARLES. 


57 


Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  liair 
Which  Avaiitons  witli  the  lovesick  air; 
Wheu  as  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sank  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  bo  a  jirecioiis  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 


PKAYER  TO   BEN   JOXSOX. 

When  I  a  verse  shall  make, 
Kuow  I  have  prayed  thee. 

For  old  religion's  sake, 
Saint  Ben,  to  aid  nie. 

Make  the  Tvay  smooth  for  me, 
Wheu  I,  thy  Herrick, 

Honoring  thee  on  my  knee. 
Offer  my  lyric. 

Candles  I'll  give  to  thee, 

And  a  new  altar ; 
And  thou,  Saint  Ben,  shalt  be 

Writ  in  my  Psalter. 


THE   PRIMROSE. 

Ask  me  why  I  send  yon  here 
This  sweet  Infanta  of  the  year  ? 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  Primrose,  thus  bepearled  with  dew  ? 

I  will  whisper  to  your  ears, 
The  sweets  of  love  are  mixed  with  tears. 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  does  show 
So  yellow-green,  aiul  sickly  too  ? 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ? 

I  will  answer.  These  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 


i^rancis  duarlcs. 

Quarles  (1.593-1644),  thougli  quaint  and  fantastic  in  lils 
style,  is  the  author  of  some  geiuiine  poetical  utterances. 
He  seems  to  have  disobeyed  the  advice  he  gave  to  otii-. 
ers — "Clothe  not  thy  language  eitlier  with  obscurity  or 
affectation."  He  was  extravagantly  lauded  in  his  day. 
Piiillips  (167.5)  calls  him  "the  darling  of  our  plebeian 
judgments."  Anotiier  admirer  styles  him  "tliat  sweet 
seraph  of  our  nation,  Quarles."  Numerous  editions  of 
his  "Emblems"  have  appeared  even  during  this  centu- 


ry. His  poetry  is  strongly  tinctured  willi  religious  feel- 
ing. This  docs  not  seem  to  have  saved  liim  from  Puritan 
prosecution.  He  had  his  heart  brolvcn  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  property,  and  especially  of  his  rare  library. 
He  had,  by  the  first  of  his  two  wives,  eighteen  children, 
and  died,  much  troubled,  in  1644.  Jolin  Quarles,  his  son, 
who  died  of  the  i)lagae  in  160.5,  inherited  much  of  his  fa- 
tlier's  poetical  ability. 


THE   VANITY   OF   THE   WORLD. 

False  world,  thou  liest :    thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  delight ; 
Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

They  are  so  slight ; 
Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night : 
Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  suppliest, 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  thou  viest 
With   heaven.      Fond   earth,  thou   boast'st ;    fal.se 
world,  thou  liest. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endless  treasure ; 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure  ; 
Thou  a.sk'st  the  conscience  what  she  aiLs, 

And  swear'st  to  ease  her: 
There's  none  can  want  where  thou  suppliest. 
There's  none  can  give  where  thou  deniest. 
Alas!  fond  world,  thou  boast'st;  false  world,  thou 
liest. 

What  well-advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say  ? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay : 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play: 
Thy  game  at  weakest  still  thou  viest ; 
If  seen,  and  then  revied,  deniest : 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st ;  false  world,  thou 
liest. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coined  treasure ; 
A  paradise  that  has  no  stint, 

No  change,  no  measure  ; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in't, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure. 
Vain  eartli !   that  falsely  thns  compliest 
With  man  I     Vain  man  !  that  thou  reliest 
On  earth!    Vain  man,  thou  dot'st ;  vain  earth,  thou 
liest. 


58 


CTCLOPJWIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


What  mean,  dull  souls !  in  this  Ligh  measure 

To  liabcidaHli 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  tlrosa  and  trash ! 
The  height  of  whoso  enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  Hash! 
Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  suppliest 
Us  mortals  with?     Are  these  the  high'st? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace?     False  world,  thou 
liest ! 


DELIGHT  IN  GOD  ONLY. 

I  love  (and  have  some  cause  to  love)  the  earth : 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature — therefore  good ; 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
She  is  my  tender  nurse — she  gives  uie  food. 

But  what's  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with  thee? 

Or  what's  my  mother  or  mj^  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air :   her  dainty  sweets  refresh 

Mj-  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me  ; 

Her  shrill-mouthed  quire  sustain   me   with  their 
flesh. 

And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me : 
But  what's  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to  thee  ? 

I  love  the  sea :   she  is  my  fellow-creature, 

My  careful  purveyor;   she  provides  me  store; 

She  walls  me  round ;  she  makes  my  diet  greater ; 

She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  : 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with  thee, 
What  is  tlie  oceau  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey. 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye  ; 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney, 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky: 

But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to  thee? 

Without  thy  presence,  heaven's  no  heaven  to  me. 

Without  thy  presence  earth  gives  no  refection  ; 

Without  thy  presence  sea  affords  no  treasure  ; 

Without  thy  presence  air's  a  rank  infection  ; 

Without  thy  presence  heaven  itself  no  pleasure: 
If  not  possessed,  if  not  enjoyed  in  thee, 
Wiiat's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to  me  ? 

Tlie  liiglicst  honors  that  the  world  can  boast 
Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire  ; 
The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are  at  most 
But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire; 


The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle  bo 
But  nightly  glow-worms,  if  compared  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence  wealth  is  bags  of  cares; 

\Vis(h>ni  but  folly;  joy  discjuiet,  sadness ; 

Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares; 

Pleasures  but  pains,  and  mirtli   but  pleasiifg  mad- 
ness : 
Without  thee.  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be, 
Nor  have  they  being,  when  compared  with  thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Not  having  thee,  what  have  my  labors  got  ? 

Let  me  enjoy  but  tliee,  what  further  crave  I  ? 

Aiul  having  thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 
I  wish  nor  sea  nor  land ;   nor  would  I  be 
Pos.sessed  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossessed  of  thco. 


fjcnrn  King. 


King,  blsliop  of  Chichester  (1.j91-1G09),  w.is  the  author 
of  poems,  elegies,  and  sonnets.  His  monody  on  liis  wife, 
who  died  before  her  twenty-fifth  year,  is  beautiful  and 
tender,  containing  the  germ  of  some  famous  passages  by 
modern  poets. 


FEOM  THE  EXEQUY  ON  HIS  WIFE. 

Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint. 

Instead  of  dirges  this  complaint ; 

And  for  sweet  flowers  to  crown  thy  hearse, 

Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 

p-rom  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might'st  see 

Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 

Dear  lo.ss !   since  thy  untimely  fate. 
My  task  has  been  to  meditate 
On  thee,  on  thee :   thou  art  the  book, 
Tiio  library,  whereon  I  look, 
Though  almost  blind.     For  thee,  loved  clay, 
1  languish  out,  not  live,  the  day. 
Using  no  other  exercise 
But  what  I  practise  with  mine  eyes, 
By  which  wet  glasses  I  hud  out 
How  lazily  time  creeps  about 
To  one  that  mourns;   this,  only  this. 
My  exercise  and  business  is : 
So  I  compute  the  weary  hours 
With  sighs  dissolvM  into  showers. 

Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 
Never  to  bo  disquieted ! 
My  la.st  good-night !     Thou  wilt  not  wako 
Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake ; 


i 


HENRY  EIXG.—BARTEN  HOLY  DAY. 


59 


Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  ii\y  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves,  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there  :   I  will  uot  fail 

To  meet  thee  iu  that  hollow  Tale. 

Aud  tliink  not  much  of  my  delay ; 

I  am  already  on  the  way, 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make  or  sorrows  breed. 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 

Aud  every  hour  a  step  toward  thee. 

At  night  when  I  betake  to  rest, 

Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  west 

Of  life  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail 

Than  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale. 

Thus  from  the  sun  )ny  bottom  steers, 

And  my  day's  compass  dowiiward  bears, 

Nor  labor  I  to  stem  the  tide 

Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 

'Tis  true,  with  shame  aud  grief  I  yield, 
Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field, 
Aud  gotten  hast  the  victory, 
In  thus  adventuring  to  die 
Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 
A  just  precedeuce  iu  the  grave. 
But  hark!  my  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum. 
Beats  my  apiiroach,  tells  thee  I  come ; 
And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 
I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on. 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  aud  comfort.     Dear  (forgive 
The  crime !),  I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart. 
Till  we  shall  nieet  and  never  part. 


SIC   VITA. 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are  ; 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue. 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew  ; 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood. 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood^ 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out ;   the  bul)blo  dies ; 
The  spriug  entombed  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew  dries  up  ;   the  star  is  shot ; 
The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot ! 


13artcn  t)oliii)aii. 

A  nutive  of  Oxford  (15'.t:M0Gl),  Ilolyiluy  became  cliap- 
hiin  to  Charles  I.,  and  Archdeacon  of  OxCord.  He  trans- 
lated Juvenal,  and  wrote  a  "Survey  of  the  World,"  a 
poem  containing  a  thousand  distichs,  IVom  which  we  cull 
the  following  specinicns,  taken  from  Trunch's  collection. 
They  will  rejjay  study. 


DISTICHS. 

River  is  time  in  water;  as  it  came, 
Still  so  it  flows,  yet  never  is  the  same. 

I  wake,  and  so  new  live  :   a  night's  protection 
Is  a  new  wonder  whiles  a  resurrection. 

The  sun's  up,  yet  myself  and  God  most  bright 
I  can't  see ;   I'm  too  dark,  and  he's  too  light. 

Clay,  saud,  aud  rock  seem  of  a  ditferent  birth; 
So   men:    some   stilf,  some   loose,  some    firm  —  all 
earth ! 

By  red,  green,  blue,  which  sometimes  paint  the  air. 
Guilt,  pardon,  heaven,  the  rainbow  does  declare. 

The  world's  a  prison  ;   no  man  can  get  out : 

Let  the  atheist  storm  then  ;  Heaven  is  round  about. 

Tlie  rose  is  but  the  flower  of  a  brier; 
The  good  man  has  an  Adam  to  his  sire. 

The  dying  mole,  some  say,  opens  his  eyes: 
The  rich,  till  'tis  too  late,  will  uot  be  wise. 

Pride  cannot  see  itself  by  mid-day  light ; 
The  peacock's  tail  is  farthest  from  his  sight. 

The  swallow's  a  swift  arrow,  that  may  show 
With  what  an  iustant  swiftness  life  doth  flow. 

The  nightingale's  a  quire — no  single  note. 
Oh,  various  power  of  God  iu  one  small  tliroat ! 

The  silkworm's  its  own  wonder :   without  loom 
It  docs  provide  itself  a  silken  room. 

Herodotus  is  history's  fresh  youth  ; 
Thucydides  is  judgmeut,  age,  and  truth. 

In  sadness,  Machiavel,  thou  didst  uot  well 
To  help  the  world  to  ftister  run  to  hell. 


60 


CYCLOP JiDlA    OF  niUTlSII  AND  AMEIUCAN  POETRY. 


Down,  pickiixo !   to  tlio  depths  for  {jjold  let's  go ; 
We'll  uiideruiiiie  IVni.     Isn't  heaven  helow  ? 

Who  gri)ies  too  niiicli  cjtsts  all  upon  Ihc  j:;r()iin(l; 
Too  great  a  greatness  greatness  dotli  eouloinKl. 

All  things  are  wonder  since  the  world  began  : 
Tlic  world's  a  riddle,  and  the  meaning's  man. 

Father  of  gifts,  who  to  the  dust  didst  give 
Life,  say  to  these  mj*  meditations,  Live! 


Janus  Sljirlcti. 


Shiiicy  (1596-1666),  born  in  London,  Mas  the  last  of  the 
Elizabetiian  dramatists.  Indieations  of  the  true  poet 
flash  out  in  many  passages  of  his  plays.  But  his  narrow 
eircumstances  probably  prevented  him  from  giving  his 
genius  fair  scope.  lie  wrote  (or  bread,  and  lived  on  into 
the  reign  of  Charles  II.  The  great  fn-e  of  1666  burnt 
Idm  out  of  house  and  home  ;  and  a  little  after,  in  one  of 
the  suburbs  of  London,  his  wife  aud  he  died  on  the  same 
day.  Shirley  took  orders  in  the  English  Church,  but  left 
his  living  on  being  converted  to  the  Church  of  Rome. 
"Gentle,  modest,  and  fall  of  sensibility,"  says  his  biog- 
rapher, "he  seems  to  have  conciliated  the  affection  of  all 
his  associates." 


DEATH'S   CONQUESTS. 

This  famous  little  poem  appears  in  Shirley's  ouc-act  drama 
of  "The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses,"  and  is  supposed  to 
be  recited  or  sung  by  Calchns  Ijefore  the  dead  body  of  A.jax. 
Oldys  refers  to  it  as  "  the  line  song  which  old  Bowman  used  to 
sing  to  King  Charles  II.,  and  which  he  has  often  sung  to  me." 

The  glories  of  otir  Idood  aud  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate  ; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings. 
Sceptre  and  crown 
-Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  Ww  dnst  bo  eqiml  made 
With  the  i)oor  erook(5d  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  nu'n  witli  swords  nmy  reap  tlie  field. 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  tliey  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tanu;  but  one  another  still. 
Early  <u-  late. 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  witluM-  on  your  brow. 

Then  boast  no  more  yotir  mighty  deeds: 


Upon  Death's  pui-jde  altar  lujw, 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds. 

Your  lieads  must  come 

To  the  cold  t(nn)) ; 
Only  the  actions  of  tiie  just 
Smell  sweet,  aud  blo.ssoui  iu  their  dust. 


©corcjc  C)cibcrt. 


Herbert  (1.59.3-1638)  was  the  brotlier  of  Lord  Ilcriiert 
of  Chcrbury,  the  deistie  mystic.  Disappointed  in  court 
advancement  by  the  death  of  James  I.,  George  took  holy 
orders,  and  earned  the  appellation  of  "  Holy  "  by  his  ex- 
emplary discharge  of  his  sacred  otHce.  His  style,  like 
that  of  so  many  of  his  brother  poets,  is  founded  on  the 
manner  of  his  friend  Donne.  The  volume  of  his  poems, 
still  often  republished,  is  entitled  "The  Temple."  He 
died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-nine. 


MAN. 


My  God!    I  heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a  stately  habitation 
But  he  that  means  to  dwell  therein. 
What  house  more  stately  hath  there  been. 
Or  can  be,  than  is  JSlan,  to  whose  creation 
All  things  are  in  decay? 

For  Man  is  everything, 
And  more:   he  is  a  tree,  yet  bears  no  fruit; 
A  beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more  : 
Eeason  and  speech  we  only  bring. 
Parrots  may  thank  us,  if  they  are  not  mute, 
They  go  upon  the  score. 

Man  is  all  symmetry. 
Full  of  proportions,  one  limb  to  another, 
And  all  to  all  the  world  besides  : 
Each  part  nniy  call  the  farthest  brother; 
For  head  with  foot  hath  privat<'  amity, 
Aud  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Nothing  has  got  so  far 
But  Man  hatii  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey. 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  star; 
Ho  is  in  little  all  the  sphere ; 
Herbs  gladly  cure  his  flesh,  because  that  they 
Find  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow. 
The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  aud  fountains 
flow  : 


i 


GEORGE  HERBERT.  — WILLIAM  STRODE. 


Gl 


Nothing  wo  soo  but  means  our  good, 
As  our  delight  or  as  our  treasure : 
The  -whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food, 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  stars  have  us  to  bed ; 
Niji'ht  draws  the  curtain  which  the  sun  withdraws; 
Music  and  light  attend  our  head  ; 
All  things  unto  our  Hesh  are  kind 
lu  their  descent  and  being ; — to  our  mind, 
lu  their  ascent  and  cause. 

Each  thing  is  full  of  duty : 
Waters,  united,  are  our  navigation  ; 
Distinguish(?d,  our  habitation  ; 
Below,  our  drink  ;   above,  our  meat ; 
Both  are  our  cleanliness.     Hath  one  such  beauty' ? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat! 

More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he'll  take  notice  of;   in  every  path 

He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 

AVhcn  sickness  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
O  mighty  Love !     !Man  is  one  world,  aud  hath 

Another  to  attend  him. 

Since,  then,  my  God,  thou  hast 
So  brave  a  palace  built,  oh,  dwell  in  it. 

That  it  may  dwell  with  thee  at  last ! 

Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit. 
That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve  thee. 

And  both  thy  servants  be. 


THE   ELIXIR. 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  thee  to  see  ; 

And  what  I  do  in  anything, 
To  do  it  as  for  thee  : 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast. 

To  run  into  an  action  ; 
But  still  to  make  thee  prepossessed, 

And  give  it  his  perfection. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glass. 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye  ; 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 

And  then  the  heaven  espy. 

All  may  of  thee  partake  ; 
NothiucT  can  be  so  mean 


AVliicli  with  his  tinctui-e,  for  tliy  sake, 
Will  not  grow  briglit  and  clean. 

A  servant,  with  this  clause, 

IMakes  drudgery  divine  : 
Wlio  sweeps  a  room  as  for  thy  laws 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine. 

Til  is  is  the  famous  stone 

That  tnrneth  all  to  gold  ; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 

Cannot  for  less  be  told. 


SWEET   DAY. 

Sweet  day!   so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright! 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ! 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose !   whose  hue,  angry  aud  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eje  ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring !   full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ! 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes ; 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chieHy  lives. 


lUilliam  Strode. 


This  accomplished  divine  was  born  in  Devonshire 
alioiit  1598;  died  1644.  His  scattered  poetical  pieces 
have  never  been  collected  into  a  volume.  He  was  in- 
stalled Canon  of  Christchurcli  in  lC;i8. 


MUSIC. 


When  Avhispering  strains  with  creeping  wind 
Distil  soft  passions  through  the  heart ; 
And  when  at  every  touch  we  find 
Our  pulses  beat  and  bear  a  part ; 

When  threads  can  make 

A  heartstring  ache, 


62 


CYVLOrjCDIA    OF  BIUTISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


rhilosoi)liy 

Can  scarce  deny 

Our  souls  are  inado  of  liarinouy. 

■\Vheu  unto  heavenly  joys  %vo  faino 
Whate'er  the  soul  allecteth  most, 
Which  only  thus  we  can  explaiu 
By  music  of  the  heavenlj'  host, 

Whose  lays,  avo  think, 

Make  stars  to  -wink  ; 

Philosophy 

Can  scarce  deny 

Our  souls  consist  of  harmony. 

Oh,  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air ! 
My  senses  rock  with  Avondcr  sweet! 
Like  snow  on  wool  thy  fallings  are; 
Soft  like  a  spirit's  are  thy  feet! 

Grief  who  needs  fear 

That  hath  an  ear  ? 

Down  let  him  lie, 

And  slumbering  die. 

And  change  his  soul  for  harmony. 


iJlnomjmouG  anb  iHisccUancouG  Poems 
of  tljc  13tlj  ant)  Ibtl)  Centuries. 


CHEVY  CHASE. 


Anonymous. 


A  "chevanchec"  (conupted  into  Chevy  Chase)  is  the  French 
word  for  a  raid  over  the  enemy's  border.  It  represented  i^nch 
attaclvS  as  were  often  made  by  the  Scots  against  England.  The 
famons  battle  of  Otterburn,  in  13SS,  came  of  a  "chevauchee." 
The  corrupted  name  was  translated  into  the  "  Unnting  of  the 
Clicviot,"  a  confusion  easily  made,  since  there  are  Cheviot  Hills 
in  Northumberland  as  well  as  in  Otterburn.  In  the  oldest  ex- 
tant version  of  "Chevy  Chase,"  tlie  name  means  "the  Cheviot 
hunting-ground."  It  is  claimed  that  the  old  ballad  of  "The 
Hunting  of  the  Cheviot"  has  prim-ity  over  this,  wliich  is  proba- 
bly not  older  than  the  time  of  James  I.  It  is  the  version  of 
which  Addison  said,  "The  old  song  of  Chevy  Chase  is  the  fa- 
vorite ballad  of  the  common  people  of  England  ;  and  Ben  Jon- 
sou  used  to  say  he  had  rather  been  the  author  of  it  thau  of  all 
his  works." 

God  i)rosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all! 
A  woeful  hunting  once  there  did 

III  Chevy  Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 
Earl  Piercy  took  his  way  : 


Tiie  child  may  rue  that  was  unborn 
The  hunting  of  that  day! 

The  stout  Earl  of  North unibeilaiul 

A  vow  to  God  did  make. 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take, 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy  Chaso 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay, 

AVho  sent  Earl  Piercy  present  word 

He  would  prevent  the  sport. 
Tbo  English  Earl,  not  fearing  him, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort, 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might. 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftlj'  ran 

To  chase  the  fallow-deer ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt. 

When  daylight  did  appear; 

Aiul  long  before  high  noon  they  had 

A  hundred  fat  bucks  slain. 
Then,  having  dined,  the  drivers  went 

To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

W^ell  able  to  endure  ; 
And  all  their  rear  with  special  caro 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  Avoods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
And  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Earl  Piercy  to  the  quarry  Avent 

To  view  the  tender  deer; 
Quoth  he,  "Earl  Douglas  promised  onco 

Tills  day  to  meet  mo  here; 

"But  if  I  thought  he.Avould  not  come, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 
With  that  a  braA-e  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Earl  did  sav: 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


63 


"  Lo,  yoluler  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, 

His  men  iu  armor  bright, 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

All  marching  iu  our  sight ; 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Tividale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed." 
"  Ob,  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Piercy  said, 

"And  take  your  bows  -with  speed; 

'•'And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen. 

Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 
For  there  was  never  champion  yet, 

III  Scotland  nor  iu  France, 

"That  ever  did  on  horseback  come. 

But,  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man. 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas,  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Kode  foremost  of  bis  company, 

Whose  armor  shone  lilie  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  said  he,  "  whose  men  you  be 

Tbat  hunt  so  boldly  here  ; 
That  without  my  consent  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  tbat  did  answer  make 

Was  noble  Piercy,  he, — 
Who  said,  "  We  list  not  to  declare 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be  ; 

"Yet  will  wo  spend  our  dearest  blood 

The  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath. 

And  thus  in  rage  did  say : 

"Ere  thus  I  will  outbraved  be 

One  of  us  two  shall  die  ! 
I  know  thee  well !   an  earl  thou  art. 

Lord  Piercy !     So  am  I. 

"  But  trust  me,  Piercy,  pity  it  were, 

And  great  offence,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  harmless  men. 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  trj'. 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"Accurst  be  he,"  Lord  Piercy  said, 

"  By  whom  this  is  denied." 


Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth, — 
Witherington  was  bis  name, — 

Who  said,  "  I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  lieury  our  king,  for  shame, 

"That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot. 

And  I  stand  looking  on  : 
You  two  be  Earls,"  said  Witherington, 

"And  I  a  Squire  alone. 

"PU  do  the  best  tliat  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand  ! 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
PU  light  with  heart  and  hand  !" 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true, — 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  seut 
Full  fourscore  Scots  thej^  slew. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Douglas  bade  on  the  bent ; 
Two  captains  moved  with  mickle  might— 

Their  spears  in  shivers  went. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 
No  slackness  there  was  found, 

But  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

O  Christ !  it  was  great  grief  to  see 
How  each  man  chose  his  spear. 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 
Did  gush  like  water  clear ! 

At  last  these  two  stout  Earls  did  meet. 
Like  captains  of  great  might; 

Like  lions  moved,  they  laid  on  load. 
They  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 

Till  blood  upon  their  cheeks,  like  rain, 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"Oh,  yield  thee,  Piercy!"  Douglas  said, 
"And  in  faith  I  will  thee  bring 

Where  thou  shall  high  advaucM  be 
By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  this  rejwrt  of  thee: 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 


64 


CYCLOrjEDIA    OF  BIIITISU  AM)  AMEltlCAN  POETRY. 


"No,  Douglas!"  quoth  Lord  Piercy  tlieu, 

"  Thy  proffer  I  do  scoru  ; 
I  -will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born  !" 

Willi  tluit  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  how, 
"Which  struck  Karl  Douglas  to  the  heart 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow  ; 

AVho  never  spake  more  words  than  these  ; 

"Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all! 
For  why  ?  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 

Lord  Piercy  sees  my  fall." 

Then,  leaving  strife,  Karl  Piercy  took 

The  dead  man  by  tho  hand, 
And  said,  "Karl  Douglas!   for  thy  life 

"Would  I  had  lost  my  land ! 

'•'  O  Christ !   my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ! 
For  sure  a  more  renowudd  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take !" 

A  knight  amongst  tho  Scots  there  was, 

Who  saw  Karl  Douglas  die, 
Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

Upon  the  Lord  Pieicy. 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  ho  was  called. 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright. 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ean  fiercely  through  the  tight: 

He  passed  the  English  archers  all 

Without  a  dread  or  fear, 
And  through  Karl  Piercy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear. 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

His  body  ho  did  gore. 
The  statf  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  those  nobles  die. 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain, 

An  Kiiglish  archer  then  perceived 
The  noldc  Karl  was  slain  : 

He  had  a  1)0W  bent  in   his  hand 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Unto  the  head  drew  he: 


Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery, 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set. 
The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

Li  his  heart-blood  was  wet. 

Tliis  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun. 
For  when  they  rung  the  e\('ning  bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

Willi  stout  Karl  Piercy  there  were  slain 

Sir  John  of  Ogerton, 
Sir  Rolicrt  liatclitfe  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron  ; 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Poth  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Kalph  Raby  there  was  slain, 
Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  W^itherington  needs  must  I  wail. 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps ; 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  oft'. 

He  fought  upon  his  stumps. 

And  with  Karl  Douglas  there  were  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery ; 
Sir  Charles  Carrel,  tli.at  from  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  Hy ; 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Eatcliffe  too, — 

His  sister's  son  was  he, — 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed. 

Yet  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell,  iu  like  case, 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die  ; 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

Scarce  tifty-tive  did  lly. 

Of  tiftcen  hundred  Knglishmeu 

Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 
The  rest  were  slain  in  Chevy  Chase, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

Put  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  ]>urplc  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away; 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times 

When  they  were  clad  in  clay. 


ANONYMOUS   AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


This  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Whei-o  Scothiud's  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
"Was  -with  au  arrow  shiin. 

"  Oh,  heavy  news  !"'  King  Janios  did  say  ; 

"  Scotland  can  witness  bo 
I  have  not  any  captain  luoro 

Of  such  account  as  he !" 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space. 
That  Piercj'  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy  Chase. 

"Now  God  bo  with  him!"  said  our  king, 

"  Sith  'twill  no  better  bo  ; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  good  as  he ! 

"Yet  shall  not  Scot  nor  Scotland  say 

But  I  will  vengeance  take, 
And  be  revenged  on  them  all 

For  brave  Lord  Piercy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After  on  Humble  Down ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain. 

With  lords  of  great  renown ; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die  : 
Thus  ended  the  hunting  iu  Chevy  Chase 

Made  by  the  Earl  Piercj'. 

God  save  the  King,  and  bless  the  laud 

In  iilenty,  joy,  and  peace  ! 
And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 

Twixt  noblemen  may  cease ! 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS. 

Anonymous. 

There  has  beeu  much  dispute  as  to  the  historical  grouiids  for 
this  ballad,  styled  by  Coleridge  "  the  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir 
Patrick  Spens."  The  weight  of  testimony  is  in  favor  of  its  re- 
ferring to  the  fate  of  an  expedition  which  iu  12S1  carried  one 
Lady  Margaret  to  Norway,  as  the  bride  of  King  Eric.  Mr. 
Robert  Chambers  translates  from  Fordoun  this  account  of  the 
incident :  "  In  12S1,  Margaret,  daughter  of  Alexander  III.,  was 
married  to  the  King  of  Norway;  leaving  Scotland  on  the  last 
day  of  July,  she  was  conveyed  thither  in  noble  style,  in  com- 
pany with  many  knights  and  nobles.  In  returning  home,  after 
the  celebration  of  her  nuptials,  the  Abbot  of  Balmerinock,  Ber- 
nard of  Moute-Alto,  and  many  other  persons  were  drowned."' 
But  why,  if  the  expedition  sailed  "the  last  day  of  July,"  should 
5 


Sir  Patrick  object  to  "the  time  of  the  year?"  Perhaps  the 
best  answer  will  be,  We  must  not  hold  ballad-makers  to  too 
strict  an  account.  Percy's  version  difTcrs  considerably  from 
the  following,  which  will  be  found  to  conform  pretty  closely  to 
Walter  Scott's  edition,  "made  up  from  two  MS.  copies,  collated 
with  several  verses  recited  by  a  friend."  Tlie  versions  given 
by  Scott,  Jamieson,  Buchan,  Motherwell,  Allinghani,  and  Hob- 
erts  all  seem  to  diCor. 

Tlio  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town. 

Drinking  the  blude-red  Avine  : 
"Oh  where  Avill  I  get  a  skeely  skipp(5r,' 

To  sail  this  new  ship  o'  mine  ?" 

Then  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight. 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee  : 
"Sir  Patrick  Spcus  is  the  best  sailor 

That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  lett<!r, 

And  sealed  it  wi'  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

"  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  thou  nuiuu  bring  her  hame." 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

A  loud  laugh  laughed  he  ; 
The  neist  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read. 

The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"Oh  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

Has  tauld  the  king  o'  me. 
To  send  ns  out  at  this  time  o'  the  year 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

"  Be  't  wind  or  weet,  be  't  hail  or  sleet. 

Our  ship  maun  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  maun  fetch  her  hame." 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Mononday  morn, 

W^i'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
And  they  ha'e  landed  iu  Noroway 

L*i>on  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway  but  twac, 
Wlien  that  tlie  lords  o'  Norowaj' 

Began  aloud  to  say  : 

'  A  skilful  captain. 


66 


cyclopjEdia  or  British  and  American  poetry. 


"  Yo  Scottishraen  spend  a'  our  king's  gowd, 

And  a'  our  queenis  foe." 
"  Yo  lee,  ye  lee,  yo  lecars  loud  ! 

Fn'  loud  I  bear  ye  loe  ! 

'•For  I  bronj^lit  as  nuicli  o'  (lie  wliitc-  iiionic 

As  gauc'  my  incu  and  iiic, 
And  a  half-fovi'-'  o'  the  gude  red  gowd, 

Out  o'er  the  sea  Nvitli  me. 

"  Mak'  ready,  niak'  ready,  my  merry  men  a' ! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  tlie  morn." 
"  Now,  ever  alake  !   my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 

"  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  anld  moon  in  her  arm  ; 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  eomo  to  harm  !" 

They  hadna  sailed  a  leagne,  a  league, 

A  league,  but  barely  three, 
When    the    lift    grew   dark,   and    the   wind    blew 
loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  top-masts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  cam'  o'er  the  broken  ship, 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"  Oh  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

Will  tak'  the  helm  in  hand. 
Till  I  gae  up  to  the  tall  top-mast. 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  laud?" 

"  Oh  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gndc. 

To  tak'  the  helm  in  band, 
Till  yon  gae  up  to  the  tall  top-mast — 

Ibit  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  bolt  flew  out  o'  the  gude  ship's  side. 

And  the  saut  sea  it  cam'  in. 

"Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claitli, 

Anither  o'  the  twine, 
And  wnp  them  into  our  gude  ship's  side. 

And  let  ua  the  sea  come  in." 


>  Served,  eufflced. 

*  The  eighth  of  a  peck. 


Tliey  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Anither  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wappcd  them  into  the  gude  ship's  side, 

13nt  aye  the  sea  cam'  in. 

Oh  lailh,  lailh  were  our  Scots  lords'  sons 

To  weet  their  milk-white  hands  ; 
But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  was  o'er, 

They  wat  their  gowden  bands. 

Oh  laith,  laith  were  our  Scots  lords'  sous 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon  ; 
But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  was  played, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  Avas  the  feather-bed 

That  floated  on  the  faem. 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam'  hame. 

The  hidyes  wrang  their  fingers  white, — 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair ; 
A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves, - 

For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Oh  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 

AVi'  the  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, — 

For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half  o'er,  half  o'er  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fifty  fathom  deep, 
And  tliere  lies  gndo  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

AVi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 


GIVE  PLACE,  YOU  LADYES  ALL. 

Ballad  of  15G6. 

Give  ])lace,  you  ladyes  all, 

Unto  jny  mistrcsse  faire. 
For  none  (d"  yon,  or  great  or  small, 

Can  with  my  love  compare. 

If  yon  A\ onld  knowe  her  well. 
You  shall  her  nowe  beholde. 


AXOXYMOrS  AXD  MISCELLAXEOi'S  POEMS. 


67 


If  any  tonge  at  all  may  tell 
Her  beauties  manyfolde. 

She  is  not  high  ue  lowc, 

But  just  the  perfect  height, 
Below  my  head,  above  my  hart, 

And  than  a  wand  more  straight. 

She  is  not  full  ne  spare, 

But  just  as  she  sholde  bee. 
An  armfuU  for  a  god,  I  sweare ; 

And  more — she  loveth  mee. 

Her  shape  hath  noe  defect. 

Or  none  that  I  can  liude, 
Such  as  iudeede  you  might  expect 

From  so  well  formde  a  minde. 

Her  skin  not  blacke,  ne  white, 

But  of  a  lovelie  hew. 
As  if  created  for  delight ; 

Yet  she  is  mortall  too. 

Her  haire  is  not  too  darke, 

Xo,  nor  I  weene  too  light ; 
It  is  what  it  sholde  be  ;   and  marke — 

It  pleaseth  me  outright. 

Her  eies  nor  greeue,  nor  gray, 

Nor  like  the  heavens  above ; 
And  more  of  them  what  ueedes  I  say, 

But  that  they  looke  and  love  ? 

Her  foote  not  short  ne  long, 

And  what  may  more  surprise, 
Though  some,  perchance,  maj'  thiuke  me  wrong, 

"Tis  just  the  fitting  size. 

Her  hande,  yea,  then,  her  hande. 

With  fingers  large  or  fine, 
It  is  enough,  you  understand, 

I  like  it — and  'tis  mine. 

In  briefe,  I  am  content 

To  take  her  as  she  is, 
And  holde  that  she  by  heaven  was  sent 

To  make  compleate  my  blisse. 

Then,  ladies,  all  give  place 

Unto  my  mistresse  faire. 
For  now  you  knowe  so  well  her  grace. 

You  needes  must  all  dispaire. 


TAK'  YOUR  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  YE. 

Anonymois. 

The  foUowiug  is  printed  by  Roberts  as  it  nppe.irs  in  the 
-"Tea-table  Miscellany,"  wiib  the  addition  of  the  second  stan- 
za from  Tercys  version,  which  is  nndonbtodly  genuine,  aiul  is 
required  if  the  gndeman  is  to  answer  his  wife  stanza  for  stan- 
za. The  ballad  nnist  have  been  common  to  both  conutrics  at 
an  early  period,  as  Shakspeare  makes  Othello  qnote  a  stanza 
of  it.    The  simplicity  is  marked. 

Ill  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  cauld. 

And  frost  and  snaw  on  ilka  hill, 
And  Boreas  wi'  his  blasts  sae  bauld 

Was  threatening  a'  our  kye  to  kill ; 
Then  Bell  my  wife,  wha  loves  na  strife, 

She  said  to  me  right  hastily, 
"Get  up,  guderaan,  save  Crummie's  life, 

And  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 

'•  O  Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  and  scorn? 

Thou  ken'st  my  cloak  is  very  thin  ; 
It  is  so  bare  aud  over  Avorn, 

A  crick  he  thereon  canna  rin. 
Then  I'll  nae  langer  borrow  nor  lend ; 

For  anes  I'll  new  appareled  be ; 
To-morrow  I'll  to  town  and  spend, 

I'll  ha'e  a  new  cloak  about  me."' 

"My  Crummie  is  a  usefu'  cow, 

Aud  she  is  come  o'  a  gude  kine; 
Aft  hath  she  wet  the  bairuies'  mou', 

Aud  I  am  laith  that  she  should  tyiie. 
Get  up,  gndeman,  it  is  fu'  time. 

The  sun  shines  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  end, 

Gae  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 

"  My  cloak  was  anes  a  gude  grey  cloak, 

AVhen  it  was  fitting  for  my  wear; 
But  now  it's  scantly  worth  a  groat. 

For  I  ha'e  woru't  this  thirty  year. 
Let's  spend  the  gear  that  we  ha'e  won, 

We  little  ken  the  day  well  dee; 
Then  I'll  be  proud,  .since  I  have  sworn 

To  ha'e  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"In  days  when  gude  King  Robert  rang, 
His  trews  they  cost  but  half  a  cniwri  : 

He  said  they  were  a  groat  owre  dear, 
Aud  ca'd  the  tailor  thief  and  loun. 

He  was  the  king,  that  wore  a  crown. 
And  thoii'rt  a  m.in  o'  laigh  degree  ; 


68 


CYCLOrJWIA    OF  JlIUTISIl   AM)  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


'Tis  pride  puts  a'  tlio  country  down, 
Sae  tak'  your  auUl  cloak  about  ye." 

"Every  land  lias  its  aiii  langli. 

Ilk  kind  o'  corn  it  lias  its  liool ; 
I  think  the  warld  is  a'  run  wrang, 

When  ilka  will'  her  man  wad  rule. 
Do  ye  not  see  Kob,  Jock,  and  llab, 

As  they  are  jnriided  gallantly, 
While  I  sit  hnrklin"  in  the  ase  ? 

I'll  ha'e  a  new  cloak  about  uic." 

"Gndeman,  I  wnt  'tis  thirty  year 

Since  we  did  am*  anither  ken; 
And  we  ha'e  had  atwcen  ns  twa 

Of  lads  and  bonny  lasses  ten  : 
Now  they  are  women  grown  and  men  ; 

I  wish  and  praj'  weel  may  they  be ! 
And  if  yon'd  prove  a  good  husband, 

E'en  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 

Bell  my  wife  she  loves  na  strife. 

But  she  wad  guide  me,  if  she  can  ; 
And  to  maintain  an  easy  life, 

I  aft  maun  yield,  tho'  I'm  gndeman. 
Nought's  to  be  won  at  woman's  hand, 

Unless  ye  gie  her  a'  the  plea ; 
Then  I'll  leave  off  where  I  began, 

And  tak'  my  auld  cloak  about  me. 


THE   HEIR   OF   LINNE. 

Anonymois. 

This  ballad,  with  three  or  fonr  slight  variations  that  appear 
ill  other  versions,  is  from  Pcrcy'.s  "  Heliques."  There  is  a 
Scotch  version  of  it;  but  it  differs  niucli  from  the  following, 
and  is  far  inferior. 

IWKT   IIHST. 

Lithe"  and  listen,  gentlemen  ; 

To  sing  a  song  I  will  begin  : 
It  is  of  a  lord  of  fair  Scotlfind, 

Which  was  the  unthrifty  heir  of  T,inne. 

His  father  was  a  right  good  hud. 
His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree; 

But  they,  alas !   were  dead  him  fro, 
And  he  loved  keeping  companie. 

To  spend  the  day  with  merry  cheer. 
To  drink  and  revel  every  night. 


'  Crouching. 


"  Wait,  stny. 


To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morn, 
It  was,  I  ween,  his  heart's  delight. 

To  riih',  to  run,  to  rant,  to  roar; 

To  alway  spend  and  never  spare  : 
I  wot  an'  he  were  the  king  himsel'. 

Of  gold  and  fee  he  mote  be  bare. 

So  fares  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne, 
Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent  ; 

And  he  maun  sell  his  lands  so  broad — 
His  house,  and  lands,  and  all  his  rent. 

His  fitlier  had  a  keen  steward. 
And  Jolm  o'  Scales  was  called  ho  ; 

But  .John  is  become  a  gentleman, 

And  Jt)hn  has  got  baitli  gold  and  fee. 

Says,  "Welcome,  welcome.  Lord  of  Linne  ! 

Let  nought  disturb  thy  merry  cheer ; 
If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  lauds  so  broad. 

Good  store  of  gold  I'll  give  thee  here." 

"My  gold  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent; 

My  laud  now  take  it  unto  thee  ; 
Give  mo  the  gold,  good  John  o'  Scales, 

And  tliine  for  aye  my  land  shall  be." 

Then  John  he  did  him  to  record  draw, 
And  John  he  gave  him  a  god's-pennic  ;' 

But  for  every  pound  that  Johu  agreed. 
The  land,  I  wis,  was  well  Avorth  three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  board  ; 

He  was  right  glad  the  laud  to  win  : 
"Thr  land  is  mine,  the  gold  is  thine. 

And  now  I'll  be  the  Lord  of  Linne." 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  land  so  broad. 
Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen  ; 

All  but  a  poor  and  lonesome  lodge, 
That  stood  far  oft'  in  a  lonely  glen. 

For  so  he  to  his  father  hight : 

"My  son,  when  I  am  gone,"  said  he, 

"Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  land  so  broad. 
And  thou  wilt  speud  thy  gold  so  free  : 

"  But  swear  to  me  now  upon  the  rood, 
That  lonesome  lodge  thou'lt  never  spend 

1  Enrnest-money. 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


69 


For  -when  all  the  world  doth  frowu  on  tlice, 

Thou  there  shalt  iiiul  ;i  iaithful  fiieud." 

The  licir  of  Linnc  is  full  of  gold  : 

And,  "  Como  with  mo,  my  frioiuls,"  said  ho; 
"Let's  driuk,  aud  rant,  ami  merry  make, 

And  ho  that  spares  uo'er  mote  he  tlui'e.'" 

They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made. 

Till  all  his  gold  it  wax6d  thin ; 
And  then  his  friends  they  slunk  away. 

They  left  the  nuthriftj'  heir  of  Linne. 

He  had  never  a  penny  left  in  his  purse, 

Never  a  penny  left  but  three  ; 
And  one  was  brass,  another  was  lead, 

And  t'other  it  was  white  mouie. 

"Now  well-a-day !'"  said  the  heir  of  Linne; 

"Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me! 
For  when  I  was  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

I  never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 

"  But  many  a  trusty  friend  have  I, 
Aud  why  should  I  feel  dule  or  care  ? 

I'll  borrow  of  them  all  by  turns. 
So  need  I  not  be  ever  bare." 

But  one,  I  wis,  was  not  at  home. 
Another  had  j)aid  his  gold  away; 

Another  called  him  thriftless  loon. 

And  sharply  bade  him  wend  his  way. 

"Now  well-a-day!"  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
"  Now  well-a-day,  aud  woe  is  me  ! 

For  when  I  had  my  land  so  broad. 
On  me  they  lived  right  merrilie. 

"To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 
I  wis,  it  were  a  burning  shame ; 

To  rob  and  steal,  it  were  a  sin  ; 
To  work  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 

"Now  I'll  away  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 
For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend  ; 

When  all  the  world  should  frown  on  me, 
I  there  should  find  a  trusty  friend." 

PAIIT   SKCOXD. 

Away  then  hied  the  heir  of  Linne, 
O'er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen, 

1  Tlu-ive. 


Until  he  came  to  the  lonesome  lodge. 
That  stood  so  low  in  a  loiuly  gleu. 

He  look(^d  up,  ho  look<jd  down, 
In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  win  ; 

But  bare  and  lothely  were  the  walls : 

"  Hero's    sorry    cheer  !"    <piotli    the    heir    of 
Linne. 

The  littlo  window,  dim  and  dark, 
Was  hung  with  ivy,  brier,  and  yew ; 

No  shimmering  sun  here  ever  shone. 
No  halesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 

No  chair,  no  table  ho  mote  spy. 

No  cheerful  hearth,  no  welcome  bed  ; 

Nought  save  a  rope  with  a  running  noose, 
Tliat  dangling  liung  up  o'er  his  head. 

And  over  it,  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written  so  plain  to  see  : 
"Ah,  graceless  wretch!   hast  spent  thy  all, 

Aud  brought  thyself  to  xienui'ie  ? 

"All  this  my  boding  miud  misgave; 

I  therefore  left  this  trusty  friend : 
Now  let  it  shield  thy  foul  disgrace, 

And  all  thy  shame  and  socrows  end." 

Sorely  shent'  with  this  rebuke. 

Sorely  shout  was  the  heir  of  Linne  ; 

His  heart,  I  wis,  was  near  to  burst. 
With  guilt  and  sorrow,  shame  and  sin. 

Never  a  word  spak'  tlie  heir  of  Liinie, 
Never  a  word  he  spak'  but  three : 

"This  is  a  trusty  friend  indeed, 
And  is  right  welcome  unto  me." 

Then  round  his  neck  the  cord  ho  drew, 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  bodio ; 

When  lo !   the  ceiling  burst  in  twain. 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling  he. 

Astonied  lay  the  heir  of  Linne, 

Nor  knew  if  he  were  live  or  dead : 

At  length  ho  looked  and  saw  a  bill, 
Aud  in  it  a  key  of  gold  so  red. 

He  took  the  bill,  aud  looked  it  on  ; 
Straight  good  comfort  found  he  there ; 

'  Shnnied,  niortifletl. 


70 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  IIUITISII  AM)  AMEUICAN  POETRY. 


It  told  him  of  a  Lole  in  the  ■wall 

In  \vhich  there  stood  three  chests  iu-fere.' 

Two  were  full  of  the  bcjitcn   g<jld, 
The  third  avu.s  full  of  white  juonie  ; 

And  over  them,  in  V)ro;id  letters, 

These  words  were  writt(;n  so  i)l;un  to  see: — 

"  Once  more,  my  son,  I  set  theo  clear ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  i)ast ; 
For  hnt  thon  amend  thee  of  thy  life, 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last." 

"And  let  it  be,"  said  the  heir  of  Linnc  ; 

"And  let  be,  but  if  I  amend  : 
For  here  I  will  make  mine  avow, 

This  rede^  shall  guide  mo  to  the  end." 

Away  then  went  the  heir  of  Liune, 
Away  ho  went  with  merry  cheer; 

I  wis,  he  neither  stint  nor  staid, 

Till  John  o'  the  Scales'  house  ho  cam'  near. 

And  when  he  cam'  to  John  o'  the  Scales, 
Up  at  the  speere^  then  look6d  he  : 

There  sat  three  lords  at  the  board's  end, 
AVere  drinking  of  the  Avine  so  free. 

Then  up  bespak'  the  heir  of  Liune, 
To  John  o'  the  Scales  then  spak'  he  : 

"  I  pray  thee  now,  good  John  o'  the  Scales, 
One  forty  pence  to  lend  to  me." 

"Away,  away,  thon  thriftless  loon  ! 

Away,  away!   this  may  not  be; 
For  a  curse  be  on  my  head,"  he  said, 

"  If  ever  I  lend  thee  one  pennie !" 

Then  bespak'  the  heir  of  Liune. 

To  John  o'  the  Scales'  Avife  then  spak'  he  : 
"  Madam,  some  alms  on  me  bestow, 

I  pray,  for  sweet  Sainto  Charitie." 

"Away,  away,  thon  thriftless  loon  ! 

I  swear  thou  gettest  no  alms  of  me  ; 
For  if  wo  sulci  hang  any  losel  hero. 

The  first  we  would  begin  with  thee." 

Thi'U  up  bespak'  a  good  fellow, 

AVhicli  sat  at  John  o'  tlio  Scales  his  lioard  ; 


•  Together. 

^  Advice. 

3  Au  aperture  in  the  wall ;  a  shot  wiiulow. 


Said,  "Turn  again,  thou  heir  of  Liune  ; 
Some  time  thou  wast  a  right  good  lord  : 

"Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast  been, 
And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee  ; 

Therefore  I'll  lenil  thee  forty  pence, 
And  oilier  forty,  if  need  be. 

"And  ever  I  pray  thee,  John  o'  the  Scales, 

To  let  him  sit  in  thy  compauie  ; 
For  well  I  wot  thou  hadst  his  land. 

And  a  good  bargain  it  was  to  thee." 

Then  up  bespak'  him  John  o'  the  Scales, 
All  wud'  he  answered  him  again  : 

"  Now  a  curse  be  on  my  head,"  he  said, 
"But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargain." 

"And  here  I  proffer  thee,  heir  of  Liune, 
Before  these  lords  so  fair  and  free. 

Thou  shalt  have  't  back  again  better  cheap. 
By  a  hundred  merks,  than  I  had  it  of  thee." 

"  I  draw  you  to  record,  lords,"  he  said  : 
With  that  he  gave  him  a  god's-pennie. 

"Now,  by  my  faj',"  said  the  heir  of  Linue, 
"And  here,  good  John,  is  thy  monie." 

And  he  pulled  forth  the  bags  of  gold. 
And  laid  them  douu  upon  the  board  : 

All  woe-begone  was  John  o'  the  Scales, 
So  shent  he  could  saj-  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold. 
He  told  it  forth  with  mickle  din  : 

"The  gold  is  thine,  the  laud  is  mine; 
And  now  I'm  again  the  Lord  of  Liune  !" 

Says,  "  Have  thou  here,  thou  good  fellow  ! 

Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me  ; 
Now  I'm  again  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee." 

"Now^  well-a-day !"  quoth  Joan  o'  the  Scales; 

"Now  well-a-day,  and  woo  is  my  life! 
Yesterday  I  was  Lady  of  Liune, 

Now  I'm  but  Joan  o'  the  Scales  his  wife." 

"Now  fare  thee  well,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
"  Farewell,  good  John  o'  the  Scales,"  said  he; 

'■  When  next  I  want  to  sell  my  laud. 

Good  John  o'  the  Scales,  I'll  conie  to  thee." 
>  Fnrions. 


JXONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


■1 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAIDE. 

Anostmocs. 

This  famous  old  ballad  appears  in  "Arnold's  Chronicle," 
Itriiited  about  1502.  Ou  it  Prior  founded  his  versified  story  of 
"Henry  and  Emma,"  much  inferior  to  this  in  simplicity  and 
force.  We  have  adhered  quite  closely  to  the  old  si)ellinjr,  in- 
asmuch as  it  could  hardly  be  dissevered  from  the  style  without 
injury  to  the  latter.  The  "bauished  mau ''  aud  ihe  "  uul-browu 
maid"  are  well  contrasted. 

Be  it  riglit  or  wrong,  these  men  amoug 

On  •women  do  coiiiplaine  ; 
Affirmyug  this,  how  that  it  is 

A  hibonr  spent  in  vaine 
To  love  them  wele,  for  never  a  dele 

They  love  a  mau  agayne ; 
For  lete  a  man  do  what  he  can 

Their  favour  to  attayne, 
Yet,  yf  a  uewe  do  them  iinrsne, 

Their  first  trew  lover  than 
Laboureth  for  nought ;  for  from  her  thought 

He  is  a  banysshed  man. 

I  say  not  uaj-,  but  that  all  day 

It  is  both  writ  aud  sayde 
That  woman's  fayth  is,  as  who  sayth, 

All  utterly  decayed ; 
But,  nevertheless,  right  good  witnes 

In  this  case  might  be  layd  : 
That  thej-  love  trew,  aud  contyuew, 

Record  the  Nut-browne  Maide, 
Whiche  from  her  love,  whan  her  to  prove 

He  cam  to  make  his  mone, 
Wolde  uot  departe  ;   for  in  her  harte 

She  lovyd  but  hym  allone. 

Then  betweeue  us  lete  us  discusse 

"What  was  all  the  nianer 
Betwene  them  too ;   we  wyl  also 

Tell  all  the  peyne  aud  fere 
That  she  was  in.     Nowe  I  begyune, 

So  that  ye  me  auswere ; 
Wherefore,  all  ye  that  present  be, 

I  pray  you,  geve  an  eare. 
I  am  the  knyght ;   I  cum  be  nyght, 

As  secret  as  I  can. 
Saying,  "Alas!   thus  stondyth  the  case — 

I  am  a  bauvsshed  mau."' 


And  I  your  wylle  for  to  fulfylle 
In  this  wyl  not  refuse  ; 


Trusting  to  shewe,  in  wordis  fewe, 

That  men  have  an  ille  use 
(To  their  owue  shame)  Avymeu  to  blame, 

And  causeles  them  accuse  : 
Tliereforo  to  you  I  auswere  now, 

Alio  wymen  to  excuse, — 
Mine  owne  berto  dere,  witli  yon  what  chiere  ? 

I  pray  you,  tell  anoon  ; 
For,  in  my  myude,  of  all  maukyude 

I  love  but  you  allou. 


It  stoudeth  so :   a  deed  is  do 

Whereof  moche  harme  shal  growe ; 
My  desteuy  is  for  to  dye 

A  shamful  dethe,  I  trowc. 
Or  ellis  to  flee  :   the  one  must  be : — 

None  other  wej-  I  knowe 
But  to  withdrawe  as  an  outlaw. 

And  take  me  to  my  bowe. 
Wherefore,  adieu,  my  own  hert  trewe 

None  other  red  I  can  ; 
For  I  muste  to  the  greue  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  bauysshed  man. 


0  Lorde,  what  is  this  worldis  blisse, 
That  chauugeth  as  the  mone  ? 

My  somer's  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  derked  before  the  none. 

1  here  you  say  farewel :   Nay,  nay, 
W^e  departe  not  so  sone. 

W^hy  say  ye  so  ?   wheder  wyll  ye  go  ? 

Alas  !   what  have  ye  done  ? 
Alle  my  welfare  to  sorrow  aud  care 

Shulde  chaunge,  yf  ye  were  gon  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  maukyndo 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


I  can  beleve  it  shal  you  greve, 

And  son\ewhat  you  di.strayne  ; 
But  aftyrwarde  your  payuds  harde 

Within  a  day  or  tweyno 
Shall  sone  aslakc,  and  ye  shal  take 

Comfort  to  you  agayne. 
Wliy  shuld  ye  nought  ?  for,  to  make  thought, 

Your  labour  were  in  vayne. 
And  thus  I  do,  and  pray  you  too. 

As  hertely  as  I  can  ; 
For  I  must  to  the  greeue  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  bauysslied  mau. 


72 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  lililTISII  AXD  AMEltlCAX  rOETllY. 


Now,  syth  that  yo  Lave  shewed  to  nie 

The  secret  of  your  iiiyude, 
I  shall  1)0  playne  to  you  ajiiiyne, 

Lyke  as  ye  shal  nio  fynde. 
Syth  it  is  so,  that  ye  wyll  go, 

I  ^Yole  not  leve  behynde ; 
Shal  never  be  sayd  the  Nut-browue  Mayd 

Was  to  her  love  uukiud  : 
Make  you  redy,  for  so  aui  I, 

Although  it  were  anoon  ; 
For,  iu  my  niyude,  of  all  niaukyude 

I  love  but  you  alouc. 


Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  hede, 

"What  men  wyl  thiuk  and  say : 
Of  youge  and  olde  it  shal  bo  told 

That  ye  be  gone  away, 
Your  wanton  wylle  for  to  fulfylle, 

In  grcene  woode  you  to  play ; 
And  that  ye  niyght  from  your  delyte 

No  longer  make  delay. 
Rather  than  yo  shuld  thus  for  me 

Be  called  an  ill  woman, 
Yet  wolde  I  to  the  grecuc  woode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysshed  man. 

SHE. 
Though  it  be  sungo  of  old  and  yonge 

That  I  shuld  be  to  blamo. 
Theirs  be  the  charge  that  spoke  so  large 

In  hurting  of  my  name  ; 
For  I  wyl  ^irove  that  feythful  love 

It  is  devoyd  of  shame ; 
In  your  distresso  and  heavinesse 

To  parte  wyth  you,  the  same : 
And  sure  all  tlio'  that  do  not  so, 

Trewe  lovers  ar  they  none ; 
For,  iu  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


I  counsel  you,  remembrc  how 

It  is  no  mayden's  lawo 
Nothing  to  doubt,  but  to  renne  out 

To  wood  with  an  outlawe; 
For  ye  must  tliero  iu  your  hando  here 

A  bowe,  to  l)cre  and  drawo ; 
And,  as  a  theef,  thus  must  you  lyeve. 

Ever  iu  drede  and  awe ; 


Whereby  to  you  gret  harme  meghte  grow 

Yet  had  I  lever  than 
That  I  had  to  the  greeno  woode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysshed  man. 


I  thinke  not  nay,  but  as  yo  saye, 

It  is  no  mayden's  lore  ; 
But  love  maj'  make  me  for  jour  sake. 

As  ye  have  said  before. 
To  com  on  fote,  to  hunte,  and  shote, 

To  gete  ns  mete  and  store ; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  aske  no  more : 
From  which  to  parte  it  makith  my  lierte 

As  colde  as  ony  ston  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankyndo 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe. 

That  men  hym  take  and  biude, 
Without  pitee  hangdd  to  bee. 

And  waver  with  the  wynde. 
If  I  had  neede  (as  God  forbede  I), 

What  rescue  coude  j'e  fiude  ? 
For  sotho,  I  trow,  ye  and  your  bowe 

Shnkl  drawe  for  fere  behyude  ; 
And  no  merveyle,  for  lytcl  avayle 

Were  in  your  couucel  than  : 
Wherefore  I  to  the  woode  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banysshed  man. 


Ful  wel  knowe  ye  that  Avymeu  bee 

But  febyl  for  to  fyght ; 
No  woraauhed  is  it,  iiuleede, 

To  bee  bolde  as  a  knight : 
Yet,  in  such  fere  yf  that  ye  were 

Among  onemys  day  and  uyght, 
I  wolde  wythstonde  with  bowe  iu  haude. 

To  greevo  them  as  I  myght, 
Aud  you  to  save — as  wymen  have 

From  doth  men  many  one  : 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankyndo 

I  love  but  von  alone. 


Yet  take  good  hede  ;   for  over  I  drede 

That  ye  coude  not  sustoin 
The  thorney  waves,  the  deep  valleys, 

The  snowe,  the  frost,  the  reyn, 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


73 


The  colde,  tlie  bete :   for,  drye  or  wete, 

We  must  lodge  on  the  playu ; 
And  us  aboove  noue  other  roof 

But  a  brake  bussh  or  twayne  ; 
Wbiebe  sone  sbubl  greve  you,  I  beleve, 

And  ye  wuble  gbidly  than 
That  I  bad  to  the  greene  woode  go, 

Alone,  a  bauyssbed  man. 


Sytli  I  have  here  been  partyucro 

With  you  of  joy  and  blysse, 
I  must  also  i^arte  of  your  woo 

Endure,  as  reason  is  : 
Yet  am  I  sure  of  one  pleasure  ; 

And,  shortly,  it  is  this  : 
That  where  ye  bee,  me  semetb,  iiei"d6,' 

I  colde  not  fare  amysse. 
Wythout  more  speche,  I  you  beseche 

That  we  were  soon  agone ; 
For,  in  my  niynde,  of  all  mankynde 

I  love  but  vou  alone. 


Yf  ye  go  tbydcr,  ye  must  consider, 

Whan  ye  have  lust  to  dine, 
Ther  sbel  no  mete  be  fore  to  gete, 

Nor  driuke,  here,  ale,  nor  wine. 
No  shetis  clene  to  lye  betwene, 

Made  of  thred  and  twyne  ; 
None  other  house  but  levys  aud  bowes 

To  kever  your  bed  aud  myn  : 
So,  myne  berte  swete,  this  evil  di^te 

Shuld  make  yon  pale  and  wan  ; 
Wherefore  I  will  to  the  greene  woode  go. 

Alone,  a  bauyssbed  mau. 


Amonge  the  wylde  dere,  such  an  arch^re 

As  men  say  that  ye  bee 
Ne  may  not  fayle  of  good  vitiiyle. 

Where  is  so  grete  plente. 
And  watir  cleere  of  the  ryvere 

Shal  be  ful  swete  to  me  ; 
Wytb  whiche  in  liele"  I  shal  right  wele 

Endure,  as  ye  shall  see  ; 
And,  or  we  go,  a  bed  or  too 

I  can  provide  auone  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  maukyude 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


'  Par  (lieu. 


-  Health. 


Lo,  yet  before  ye  must  do  more, 

Yf  ye  Avyl  go  with  me  : 
As  cutte  your  here  up  by  your  ere,* 

Your  kirtle  by  the  knee ; 
Wytb  bowe  in  haiidc,  for  to  wlthstoude 

Your  enmys,  yf  uede  be  ; 
And  this  same  nyght,  before  daylighr, 

To  woodward  wyl  I  flee. 
And  yf  ye  wyl  all  this  fiilfylle. 

Do  it  shortly  as  ye  can  ; 
Ellis  wyl  I  to  the  greene  woode  go 

Alone,  a  bauyssbed  man. 


I  shal  as  now  do  more  for  you 

Than  'longeth  to  womanhede ; 
To  short  my  here,  a  bowe  to  here. 

To  shote  iu  tyme  of  nede. 
O  my  swete  moder !   before  all  other 

For  you  have  I  most  drede ! 
But  now  adiew  !   I  must  ensue 

Wher  fortune  dotli  me  lede. 
All  this  make  ye :   Now  leto  us  flee  ; 

The  day  cums  fast  upon  ; 
For,  iu  my  mynde,  of  all  maukyude 

I  love  but  you  aloue. 


Nay,  nay,  not  so  ;   ye  shal  not  go. 

And  I  shal  telle  you  whye, — 
Your  appetyte  is  to  be  lyght 

Of  love,  I  wele  aspie. 
For  like  as  ye  have  sayd  to  me. 

In  lyke  wyse  hardely 
Ye  wolde  ausw^re  whosoever  it  Avere, 

In  way  of  company. 
It  is  sayde  of  olde,  Sone  bote,  sone  colde ; 

And  so  is  a  wom^u. 
Wherefore  I  to  tlie  wode  wyl  go. 

Alone,  a  bauysshed  num. 

SHE. 

Yf  ye  take  hede,  it  is  no  nede 
Suche  Avordis  to  say  be  mee  ; 

For  oft  ye  preyd,  aud  loug  assayed, 
Or  I  you  lovid,  pcrd6  : 

Aud  though  tliat  I  of  auncestry 
A  baron's  doughter  be, 


1  As  cut  your  hair  up  by  your  ear. 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETIIY. 


Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved, 

A  squyer  of  lowe  degree— 
And  ever  sluil,  wbatso  befallo  ; 

To  dey'  therefore  aiioue ; 
For,  in  my  niyndc,  of  all  iiKinkyudo 

I  love  but  you  aloiie. 


A  baron's  cbildc  to  be  bcgyled ! 

It  Avcre  a  cussdd  dede ! 
To  be  felow  Avith  an  ontlawe! 

Alinyghty  God  forbede ! 
You  bettyr  were  the  pouer  sqnydr 

Aloue  to  forest  ycde,^ 
Than  ye  shnlde  saye  anotlior  day 

That  be  my  wyked  dedo 
Ye  were  betrayed :   Wherefore,  good  raaide, 

The  best  rede  that  I  can 
Is  that  I  to  the  greene  woodc  go. 

Alone,  a  bauysshed  man. 


Whatsoever  bcfalle,  I  never  sbal 

Of  this  thing  you  upbraid ; 
But  yf  ye  go,  and  leve  me  so, 

Than  have  ye  me  betraiod. 
Remenibre  you  wele  liow  that  ye  dole  ; 

For  yf  ye,  as  ye  sayde, 
Be  so  unkynde,  to  levc  bohynde 

Yonr  love,  the  Nut-brown  Maide, 
Trust  me  truly  that  I  shall  dcy 

Sone  after  ye  be  gone ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankyndo 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


Yf  that  ye  went  ye  sliuldc  ropente, 

For  in  the  forest  now 
I  have  purveid  me  of  a  maido 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you  ; 
Another  fayr^r  tlian  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  wel  avowe ; 
And  of  yon  bothe  eche  shnlde  be  wrothe 

With  other,  as  I  trowe. 
It  were  myn  ease  to  lyve  in  jieasc  ; 

So  wyll  I,  yf  I  can  ; 
Wherefore  I  to  the  woodc  wyl  go, 

Aloue,  a  banysshed  man. 


1  To  die. 


«  Weut. 


SIIK. 

Though  in  the  wodc  I  understode 

Ye  had  a  paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought 

But  that  I  will  be  your: 
And  she  shall  fynd  me  softe  and  kyude, 

And  eonrteis  every  our ; 
Glad  to  fulfylle  all  that  she  wylle 

Comraaunde  me  to  my  jjower : 
For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundred  mo. 

Yet  wolde  I  be  that  one  ; 
For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankyndo 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


Mine  ounne  dear  love,  I  see  the  prove 

That  ye  bo  kyude  and  trene ; 
Of  mayde  and  wyf  in  all  my  lyf 

The  best  that  ever  I  kuewe. 
Be  mery  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad. 

The  case  is  chaungcd  newe ; 
For  it  vs-ere  ruthe  that  for  your  truthe 

You  shnlde  have  cause  to  rewe. 
Be  not  dismayed  whatsoever  I  sayd 

To  you  whan  I  began  ; 
I  will  not  to  the  greene  woode  go, 

I  am  no  banysshed  man. 

SHE. 

Theis  tidingis  be  more  glad  to  mo 

Than  to  be  made  a  queen, 
Yf  I  were  sure  they  shuld  endure ; 

Bnt  it  is  often  seen, 
When  men  wil  broke  promyso,  they  speke 

The  wordis  on  the  spleue.' 
Ye  shape  some  wyle  me  to  begyle. 

And  stele  fro  mo,  I  wene  : 
Then  were  the  case  Avurs  than  it  Avas, 

And  I  more  Avo-begone  ; 
For,  in  mj'  mynde,  of  all  maukynde 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Ye  shal  not  nede  further  to  drede  ; 

1  wyl  not  disparage 
You  (God  defeude !),  sitli  you  descendo 

Of  so  gret  a  lineage. 
Nou  understonde  :   to  Westmerlande, 

Which  is  mine  herytage. 


•  On  .1  siuUlen. 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  wyl  you  biiugc  ;    and  wyth  a  ryng, 

Be  Avcy  of  maryiige, 
I  wyl  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  sliortlj'  as  I  can  : 
Thus  Lave  ye  wone  an  crle's  son, 

And  uot  a  banysslied  man. 

AUTHOR. 

Here  may  ye  see  that  wyiueu  be 

In  love,  meke,  kiude,  and  stable  ; 
Let  never  man  rcpreve  tbem  than, 

Or  calle  tbem  variable  ; 
But  rather  prey  God  that  we  maj* 

To  them  be  comfortable  ; 
Which  somtyme  provycth  suche  as  he  lovcth, 

Yf  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men  wolde  that  wymen  sholde 

Be  meke  to  them  eche  one  ; 
Much  more  ought  they  to  God  obey. 

And  serve  but  Hvm  alone. 


SIR  JOHN   BARLEYCOKX. 

ANOKTMOrS. 

This  favorite  old  ballad,  often  attributed  to  Burns  becanse  of 
his  alteration  of  some  of  the  lines,  is  an  anonymous  production, 
and  believed  to  be  anterior  to  164G. 

There  came  three  men  out  of  the  West, 

Their  victory  to  try ; 
And  they  have  taken  a  solemn  oath 

Poor  Barleycorn  should  die. 
They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  in, 

And  harrowed  clods  on  his  head  : 
And  then  they  took  a  solemn  oath 

Poor  Barleycorn  was  dead. 
There  he  lay  sleeping  in  the  ground 

Till  rain  from  the  sky  did  fall ; 
Then  Barleycorn  sprung  up  his  head, 

And  so  amazed  them  all. 

There  he  remained  till  midsummer, 

And  looked  both  pale  and  wan  ; 
Then  Barleycorn  he  got  a  beard. 

And  so  became  a  man. 
Then  they  sent  men  with  scythes  so  sharp,' 

To  cut  him  off  at  knee  ; 
And  then  poor  little  Barleycorn 

They  served  him  barbarously  : 
Then  they  sent  men  with  pitchforks  strong, 

To  pierce  him  through  tlie  heart ; 
And,  like  a  dreadful  tragedy, 

They  bound  him  to  a  cart. 


And  then  they  brought  him  to  a  barn, 

A  prisoner,  to  endure  ; 
And  so  they  fetched  him  out  again. 

And  laid  him  on  the  floor : 
Then  they  set  men  with  holly  clubs 

To  beat  the  flesh  from  his  bones; 
But  the  miller  he  served  him  worse  than  that, 

For  he  ground  liim  betwixt  two  stones. 
Oh,  Barleycorn  is  the  choicest  grain 

That  ever  was  sown  ou  land  ! 
It  will  do  more  than  any  grain 

By  the  turning  of  your  hand. 

It  will  make  a  boy  into  a  man, 

And  a  man  into  an  ass ; 
It  will  change  your  gold  into  silver. 

And  your  silver  into  brass : 
It  will  make  the  huntsman  hunt  the  fox 

That  never  wound  his  horn  ; 
It  will  bring  the  tinker  to  the  stocks. 

That  people  may  him  scorn  : 
It  will  put  sack  into  a  glass. 

And  claret  in  the  can  ; 
And  it  will  cause  a  man  to  drink 

Till  he  neither  can  go  nor  stan'. 


TRUTH'S   INTEGRITY. 


ASONTMOCS. 


The  following  Is  from  a  black-letter  copy,  reprinted  in  Ev- 
ans's "Old  Ballads,"  London,  1777. 

FIRST  PART. 

Over  the  mountains, 

And  under  the  waves ; 
Over  the  fountains. 

And  under  the  graves ; 
Under  floods  which  are  deepest, 

Which  do  Neptune  obey ; 
Over  rocks  which  are  steepest, 

Love  will  find  out  the  waj'. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glowworm  to  lie  ; 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  receipt  of  a  fly ; 
Where  the  gnat  dares  not  venture. 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay  ; 
But  if  Love  come,  he  will  enter, 

And  find  out  the  way. 

Y'ou  may  esteem  him 
A  child  of  his  force, 


76 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AXJJ  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Or  you  may  deem  bim 

A  coward,  which  is  worse ; 

But  if  ho  whom  Lovo  doth  honor 
J{o  conci'alcd  from  tlio  »lay, 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  him, 
Lovo  will  lind  out  the  way. 

Soni((  think  to  lose  him, 

M'liicli  is  too  unkind ; 
And  some  do  vsuppose  him, 

Poor  heart,  to  be  blind  : 
But  if  he  were  hidden. 

Do  the  best  you  maj-, 
Blind  Lovo  (if  you  so  call  him) 

AVill  find  out  the  way. 

Well  may  the  eagle 

Stoop  down  to  the  fist. 
Or  you  may  inveigle 

The  Phronix  of  the  East : 
With  fear  the  tiger's  movdd 

To  give  over  his  prey. 
But  never  stop  a  lover — 

He  will  iind  out  the  way. 

From  Dover  to  Berwick, 

And  nations  thereabout. 
Brave  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick, 

That  champion  so  stout, 
With  his  warlike  behavior 

Through  the  world  ho  did  stray. 
To  win  his  Phillis'  lavor : 

Love  will  llnd  out  the  way. 

In  order  next  enters 

Bevis  so  brave, 
After  adventures 

And  policy  brave. 
To  see  whom  ho  desired. 

His  .Josian  so  gay. 
For  wlioui  his  heart  was  fired: 

Love  will  lind  out  the  way. 

siccoNi)  PAirr. 

The  CJordian  knot 

Which  true-lovers  knit. 
Undo  it  you  cannot. 

Nor  yet  break  it : 
Make  use  of  your  inventions 

Their  fancies  to  betray. 
To  frustrate  their  intentions ; 

Love  will  lind  out  the  Avay. 


From  court  to  the  cottage, 

In  bower  and  in  hall, 
From  tli(!  king  unto  the  beggar, 

Love  e()n([uers  all. 
Though  ne'er  so  stout  and  lordly. 

Strive  or  do  what  you  may  ; 
Yet,  bo  yon  ne'er  so  hardj', 

Lovo  will  find  out  the  waj'. 

Love  hath  power  over  princes 

And  greatest  emperors ; 
In  any  provinces 

Such  is  Love's  power. 
There  is  no  resisting 

But  him  to  obey ; 
In  spite  of  all  contesting, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

If  that  he  were  hidden. 

And  all  men  tliat  are 
Were  strictly  forbidden 

That  place  to  declare  ; 
Winds,  that  have  no  abidiugs. 

Pitying  their  delay, 
Would  come  and  bring  him  tidings, 

And  dii'ect  him  the  way. 

If  the  earth  should  part  him. 

He  would  gallop  it  o'er ; 
If  the  seas  should  o'ertlnvart  him, 

Ho  would  swim  to  the  vshore. 
Should  his  love  become  a  swallow. 

Through  the  air  to  stray, 
Lovo  will  lend  wings  to  follow, 

And  will  lind  out  the  way. 

There  is  no  striving 

To  cross  his  intent, 
There  is  no  contriving 

His  plots  to  prevent; 
But  if  once  the  message  greet  him 

That  his  true  love  doth  stav. 
If  death  should  come  and  meet  him. 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 


THE   TWA   SISTERS  O'   BIXXOEIE. 

Anonymous. 

This  l)allad  was  popular  in  Enjjlaiid  before  1C5G.    Tliere  are  ■ 

several  versions  of  it.    Jamiesou  ".'ivcs  one  taken  clown  from  j 

ttie  recitation  of  n  Mrs.  15ro\vn,  "wlio  had  it  from  an  old  worn-  , 

an  :"  but  he  interpolates  it  with  several  stanzas  of  his  own.  | 
There  are  numerous  parodies  of  the  piece.     Both  Scott  and 


JXOXYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Janiiesou  adopted  the  "  Binnorie  "  burden  without  saying  dis- 
tinctly where  it  came  from.  We  have  selected  the  version  in 
Allingham's  collectii>n  as  the  best  and  probably  the  most  au- 
thentic. Opinions  ditler  as  to  the  pronunciation  of  Diniwrie. 
Loclchart  and  Aytoun  say  the  accent  should  be  on  the  first  syl- 
lable ;  other  and  equally  good  authorities  say  Ilinno'rie. 

Tlu'it'  wore  twa  sisters  sat  iu  a  bow'r : 

(Binnorie,  O  Ciunorie  !) 
A  kniglit  cam'  tliere,  a  noble  wooei", 

By  the  Lonny  luill-ilanis  o'  liiunorie. 

He  courted,  the  eldest  wi'  glove  and  ring, 

(Binnorie,  O  Biuuorie !) 
Bnt  be  lo'ed  the  youngest  aboon  a'  thing, 

By  tlie  bonny  luill-danis  o'  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  Avas  vexed  sair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair, 

By  the  bounj'  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  I) 
She  cried  npou  her  sister  dear. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  O  sister,  sister,  tak'  my  hand," 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand. 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie." 

She's  ta'eu  her  by  the  lilj-  hand, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  down  they  went  to  the  river-strand, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
The  eldest  cam'  and  pushed  her  in. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand  !" 

(Binnorie,  O  Biuuorie !) 
"And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land" — 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove !" 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"And  sweet  "William  sail  be  your  love" — 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie. 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam, 

(Biuuorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
Till  she  cam'  to  the  mouth  o'  yon  mill-dam, 

By  the  bonny  niill-dauis  o'  Binnorie. 


Out  then  cam'  the  miller's  son 

(Binnorie,  O  Biuuorie!) 
And  saw  the  fair  maid  sounnnin'  in, 

By  the  bonuy  iuill-dau)s  o'  Binnorie. 

"O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam!" 

(Binnorie,  O  Biuuorie!) 
"There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan," 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  miller  quickly  dn^w  the  dam, 

(Biuuorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  there  he  found  a  drowned  woman. 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie. 

Round  about  her  middle  sma' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
There  went  a  gowden  girdle  bra', 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie, 

On  her  fingers,  lily-white, 

(Binnorie,  O  Biuuorie  !) 
The  jewel-rings  Avere  shiuiug  bright. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Biuuorie. 

And  by  there  cam'  a  harper  fine, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
Harped  to  nobles  when  they  dine. 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
He  sighed  and  made  a  heavy  moan, 

By  the  bonuy  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He's  ta'eu  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 

(Biuuorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
Aud  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  went  into  h(>r  fathers  hall, 

(Hinnorie,  O  I5innorie  !) 
And  played  his  harp  before  them  all, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Aud  sune  the  harp  sang  loud  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
"Fareweel,  my  father  and  mither  dear!" 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


78 


CYCLOJ'.EDI.l    OF  nniTJSJI  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRT. 


And  iieist  when  the  harp  began  to  sing, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binuorio!) 
'Twas  "  Farcwcel,  sweetheart!"  said  the  string, 

15y  the  bonny  niill-danis  o'  Biuuoric. 

And  llicn,  as  i)]aiu  as  jdain  could  be, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"There  sits  my  sister  who  drownf^d  me!" 

By  the  bonny  jnill-dams  o'  15innorie. 


DOWIE  DENS  O'  YAKKOW. 

Anonymous. 

Of  this  bnllntl  there  are  viiiious  versions.  Wc  have  chosen 
tliat  colhitcd  by  Mr.  Alliiiirliani.  It  is  sii))pose(l  to  be  founded 
on  fact,  bnt  tliere  is  little  except  loose  tradition  by  which  to 
verify  it.  The  river  Yarrow,  nuich  famed  in  son;;,  runs  through 
a  wide  vale  in  Selkirkshire,  between  lofty  green  hills,  and  joins 
the  Tweed  above  the  town  of  Selkirk.  The  "Teuuies"  is  a 
farm  below  the  Yarrow-  Kirk. 

Late  at"  e'en,  drinking  tbe  wine. 
And  ere  they  paid  the  hiwing,' 

They  set  a  combat  them  between, 
To  fight  it  in  the  dawing. 

"  Wliat  thongh  ye  bo  my  sister's  lord  ? 

We'll  cross  our  swoids  to-morrow." 
"What  thongh  my  wife  your  sister  be? 

I'll  meet  ye  then  on  Yarrow." 

"Oil,  stay  at  hame,  my  ain  gude  lord! 

Oh,  stay,  my  ain  dear  marrow  !" 
My  cruel  brother  will  yon  betray 

On  the  dowie^  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

"Oh,  fare  ye  weel,  my  lady  dear! 

And  put  aside  your  sorrow  ; 
For  if  I  gae,  I'll  sune  return 

Frac  the  bonny  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

.She  kis.sed  his  cheek,  she  kaimed  his  hair. 

As  oft  she'd  done  before,  O  ; 
She  belted  him  Avi'  liis  gude  brand. 

And  he's  awa'  to  Yarrow. 

When  he  gaed  up  the  TtMinics  bank, 

As  he  gacMl  many  a  morrow. 
Nine  armed  nun  lay  in  a  den. 

On   tin;  dowic   liracs  n'  ^ari'ow. 

'  Reckoning. 

2  Married  ;  husband  or  wife. 

3  Doleful. 


"Oh,  come  ye  here  to  hunt  or  hawk 

Till!  bonny  I'orest  flnn'ough  ? 
(Jr  come  ye  here  to  wield  your  brand 

Upon  tho  banks  o'  Yarrow  f" 

"I  come  not  liere  to  hunt  or  hawk, 

As  oft  I've  dune  before,  O  ; 
But  I  come  here  to  wield  my  brtiud 

Upon  the  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

"If  ye  attack  me  nine  to  ane. 

That  God  may  send  ye  sorrow  ! — 

Yet  will  I  fight  while  stand  I  may. 
On  tlus  bonny  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

Two  has  he  hurt,  and  three  has  slain, 
On  the  bloody  braes  o'  Yarrow  ; 

But  the  stubborn  knight  crept  in  behind. 
And  i)ierced  his  body  thorough. 

"Gae  hame,  gao  hame,  you  brither  John, 
And  tell  your  sister  sorrow, — 

To  come  and  lift  her  leafu'  lord 
On  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

Her  brither  John  gaed  o'er  yon  hill. 

As  oft  he'd  done  before,  O ; 
There  he  met  his  sister  dear. 

Cam'  rinnin'  fast  to  Yarniw. 

"I  dreamt  a  dream  last  night,"' she  says; 

"I  wish  it  binua  sorrow; 
I  dreamt  I  pu'd  the  heather  green 

Wi'  my  true  love  on  Y'arrow." 

"I'll  read  your  dream,  sister,"  he  says; 

"I'll  read  it  into  sorrow: 
Ye'rc  bidden  go  take  up  your  love  ; 

He's  sleeping  sound  on  Yarrow." 

She's  torn  the  ribbons  frae  her  head 
That  were  baitli  braid  and  narrow; 

She's  kilted  up  her  lang  claithing. 
And  she's  awa'  to  Yarrow. 

She's  ta'en  him  in  her  amies  twa, 
And  gi't'U  him  kisses  thorough  ; 

She  sought  to  bind  his  many  wounds, 
But  he  lay  dead  on  Yarrow. 

"Oil,  hand  your  tongue, "'  her  father  says, 

"And  let  be  a'  your  sorrow; 
I'll  wed  you  to  a  better  lord 

Tiian  hiiu  ve  lost  on  Yarrow." 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  I'OEMS. 


7'J 


"  Ob,  hand  your  tougue,  father,"  she  says 
"  Far  warse  ye  mak'  my  sorrow : 

A  better  bnd  conld  uever  bo 
Thau  hiui  that  lies  on  Yarrow." 

She  kissed  his  lips,  she  kaimed  his  hair. 

As  aft  she'd  doue  before,  O ; 
Aud  there  wi'  grief  her  heart  did  break, 

Upou  the  bauks  o'  Yarrow. 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  EESCUE  OF  WILL  STUTLY. 

Anonymous. 

This  is  but  one  of  the  numerous  Robin  Hood  ballads,  popu- 
lar in  England  eai'ly  in  the  15th  century,  perhaps  earlier.  It 
is  from  an  old  black-letter  copy  in  the  collection  of  Anthony 
Wood.  Robiu  Hood  was  born  about  IIGO,  in  the  reign  of 
Heury  II. 

When  Kobiu  Hood  iu  the  greenwood  lived, 
Derry,  dernj,  down, 
Under  the  greenwood-tree, 
Tidings  there  came  to  him  with  speed. 
Tidings  for  certainty. 

Hey  down,  derry,  derry,  down, 

Tliat  Will  Stntly  snrprlsed  was, 

And  eke  in  prison  lay ; 
Three  varlets  that  the  sheriff  had  hired, 

Did  likely  him  betray  : 

I,  and  to-morrow  hanged  nuist  be, 

To-morrow  as  soon  as  it  is  day  ; 
Before  they  conld  this  victory  get. 

Two  of  them  did  Stntly  slay. 

AVhen  Robin  Hood  he  heard  this  news, 

Lord  !   he  was  grieved  sore  ; 
And  to  his  merry  men  he  did  say 

(Who  altogether  swore), 

That  Will  Stntly  should  rescued  be, 

And  be  bronglit  back  again  ; 
Or  else  should  many  a  gallant  wight 

For  his  sake  there  be  slain. 

He  clothed  himself  in  scarlet  red. 

His  men  were  all  in  green  ; 
A  finer  show,  thronghout  the  world, 

In  no  place  could  be  seen. 

Good  Lord  !   it  was  a  gallant  sight 

To  see  them  all  on  a  row  ; 
With  every  man  a  good  broad  sword, 

And  eke  a  good  yew  bow. 


Forth  of  the  greenwood  are  they  gone, 

Yea,  all  courageously. 
Resolving  to  bring  Stutly  home, 

Or  every  man  to  die. 

And  when  they  came  the  castle  near, 

Whereas  Will  Stutly  lay, 
"I  hold  it  good,"  saith  Kobiu  Hood, 

"  We  here  iu  ainbush  stay, 

"And  scud  one  forth  some  news  to  hear. 

To  yonder  palmer  fair. 
That  stands  under  the  castle  wall, 

Some  news  he  may  declare." 

With  that  steps  forth  a  brave  young  man. 

Which  was  of  courage  bold. 
Thus  did  he  speak  to  the  old  nuin  : 

"  I  pray  thee,  palmer  old, 

"Tell  me,  if  that  thou  rightly  ken. 

When  must  Will  Stntly  die, 
Who  is  one  of  bold  Robin's  men, 

And  here  doth  prisoner  lie  ?" 

"Alack!  alas!"  the  palmer  said, 

"And  forever  wo  is  me! 
Will  Stutly  hanged  must  be  this  day, 

On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

"  Oh,  had  his  noble  master  known. 

He  would  some  succor  send  ; 
A  few  of  his  bold  yeomandrie 

Full  soon  would  fetch  him  hence." 

"  I,  that  is  true,"  the  young  man  said ; 

"  I,  that  is  true,"  said  he. 
"  Or,  if  they  were  near  to  this  place, 

They  soon  would  set  him  free. 

"  But  fare  thee  well,  thou  good  old  man. 

Farewell,  and  thanks  to  thee ; 
If  Stutly  hanged  be  this  day, 

Revenged  his  death  will  be." 

He  was  no  sooner  from  the  palmer  gone. 
But  the  gates  were  ojjciu^d  wide, 

And  out  of  the  castle  Will  Stutly  came, 
Guiirded  on  every  side. 

When  he  was  forth  of  the  castle  come. 

And  saAv  no  help  was  nigh, 
Tims  he  did  say  to  the  sheriff, 

'i'luis  he  said  gallantly  : 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  lililTISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Now  seeing  that  I  needs  must  die, 

Grant  me  one  boon,"  said  he, 
"  For  my  noble  master  ne'er  liud  a  man, 

'J'liiit  lianged  was  on  the  tree  : 

"Give  mo  a  sword  all  in  my  hand, 

And  let  me  be  nnbound. 
And  with  thee  and  thy  men  I'll  light, 

'Till  1  lie  dead  on  the  gronnd." 

But  his  desire  he  would  not  grant, 

His  wishes  were  in  vain  ; 
For  the  sheriff  had  sworn  ho  hanged  should  bo, 

And  not  by  the  sword  be  slain. 

"Do  but  unbind  my  hands,"  he  says; 

"  I  will  no  wea|)ons  crave  ; 
And  if  I  hangc^d  be  this  day. 

Damnation  let  me  have." 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no,"  tho  sheriff  said, 

"  Thou  shalt  on  the  gallows  die, 
I,  aud  so  shall  thy  master  too, 

If  ever  in  me  it  lie." 

"Oh,  dastard  coward!"  Stntly  cries, 

"  Thou  faint-heart  peasant  slave  ! 
If  ever  my  master  do  thee  meet, 

Thou  shalt  thy  payment  Lave. 

"  My  noble  master  doth  thee  scorn, 

Aud  all  thy  coward  crew  ; 
Such  silly  imps  unable  are 

Bold  Kobiu  to  subdue." 

But  when  he  was  to  the  gallows  come. 

And  ready  to  bid  adieu. 
Out  of  a  bush  leaps  Little  John, 

Aud  comes  Will  Stutly  to: 

"I  i)ray  thee,  Will,  l)ef()re  thou  die. 

Of  thy  dear  friends  take  leave ; 
I  needs  must  borrow  him  for  a  while. 

How  say  you,  master  shrievo  ?" 

"Now,  as  I  live,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  That  varlet  well  I  know  ; 
Some  sturdy  rebel  is  that  same, 

Therefore  let  him  not  go." 

Then  Little  John  most  hastily 

Aw.ay  cut  Stutly's  bands. 
And  from  one  of  the  sheriff's  men 

A  sword  twitcht  from  his  hands. 


"  Here,  Will,  take  thou  this  same,  my  lad, 

Thou  canst  it  better  sway ; 
And  here  defend  thyself  awhile, 

For  aid  will  come  straightway." 

And  there  they  turned  tlieiu  Ijack  to  back, 

In  the  middle  of  them  that  day, 
Till  Robin  Hood  approaeh(^d  near, 

With  many  an  archer  gay. 

With  that  an  arrow  1)y  them  flew, 

I  wist  from  liobin  Hood. 
"  Make  haste,  make  haste,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  Make  haste,  for  it  is  good." 

The  sheriff  is  gone,  his  doughty  men 

Thought  it  no  boot  to  stay. 
But  as  their  master  had  them  taught. 

They  ran  full  fast  away. 

"Oh  stay,  oh  stay,"  Will  Stutly  said; 

'•  Take  leave  ere  you  depart ; 
You  ne'er  will  catch  bold  Kobin  Hood, 

Unless  you  dare  him  meet." 

"  Oh  ill  betide  you,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  That  you  so  soon  are  gone  ; 
My  sword  may  in  the  scabbard  rest, 

For  here  our  work  is  done." 

"  I  little  thought,"  Will  Stutly  said, 

"  When  I  came  to  this  place, 
For  to  have  met  with  Little  John, 

Or  seen  my  master's  face." 

*rhus  Stutly  was  at  liberty  set, 

And  safe  brought  from  his  foe : 
^'  Oh  thanks,  oh  thauks  to  nij-  mastdr, 

Since  here  it  was  not  so. 

"And  once  again,  my  fellows  all, 
We  shall  in  the  green  woods  meet. 

Where  we  will  make  our  bow-strings  twang, 
Music  for  us  most  sweet." 


BEGONE,  DULL  CARE. 

AsoNTMors  (before  1689). 

Begone,  didl  care ! 

1  prithee  begone  from  me  ; 
Begone,  dull  care ! 

Thou  and  I  can  never  agree. 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


81 


Long  -while  thou  hast  been  tarryiug  here, 
And  fain  thou  -^-oulilst  nio  kill  ; 

But  i'  faith,  dull  care, 

Thou  never  shalt  have  thy  -will. 

Too  much  care 

Will  make  a  young  man  gray; 
Too  much  care 

Will  turn  au  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dauce,  and  I  ^vill  sing, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
For  I  hold  it  is  the  wisest  thing 

To  drive  dull  care  awaj'. 

Hence,  dull  care ! 

I'll  none  of  thy  company ; 
Hence,  dull  care ! 

Thou  art  no  pair  for  inc. 
We'll  hunt  the  wild  boar  through  tbe  wold. 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
And  then  at  uight,  o'er  a  cheerful  bo^Yl, 

We'll  drive  dull  care  away. 


MAN'S     MORTALITY. 
Simon  AVastell  (15G0-1G30). 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see. 

Or  like  the  blossom  ou  the  tree. 

Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 

Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day. 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade. 

Or  like  the  gonrd  which  Jonas  had; — 

Even  such  is  man,  whose  thread  is  spun, 

Drawn  out  and  cnt,  and  so  is  done. 

The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth  ; 

The  flower  fades,  tbe  morning  hasteth ; 

The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies ; 

The  gonrd  consumes,  and  man  he  dies. 

Like  to  the  grass  that's  newly  sprung. 
Or  like  a  tale  that's  new  begnn, 
Or  like  the  bird  that's  here  to-day, 
Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 
Or  like  au  hour,  or  like  a  sjian, 
Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan  ; 
Even  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath. 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 

The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended  ; 

The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew's  ascended  ; 

The  hour  is  short,  the  span  not  long ; 

The  swan  near  death ;  man's  life  is  done. 

****** 
6 


KOBIN   HOOD   AND  ALLIX-A-DALE. 

Anonymous. 

Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free. 

All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 
And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outliiw 

That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 
As  Eobin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood. 

All  uiuler  the  greenwood  tree. 
There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man. 

As  tine  as  fine  might  be. 
The  youngster  was  clothed  in  scarlet  red. 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gaj" ; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  i)lain. 

And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 
The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh — 

"Alack,  and  a  well-a-day!" 
Then  steppdd  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller's  son, 
Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow. 

When  as  he  saw  them  come. 

"Stand  off,  stand  off!''  the  young  man  said; 

"What  is  your  will  with  me?" 
"  You  must  come  before  our  master  straight. 

Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 
And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  asked  him  courteously, 
"Oh,  hast  thou  any  monej'  to  spare 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ?" 
"I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"But  five  shillings  and  a  ring; 
And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 

To  have  it  at  my  wedding. 

"Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  soon  from  mo  was  ta'en. 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  .slain." 
"What  is  thy  name?"  then  said  Robin  Hood; 

"Come,  tell  me  without  any  fail." 
"By  the  faith  of  mj'  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  My  name  it  is  AUiu-a-Dale." 
"What  wilt  thon  give  me,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  In  ready  gold  or  fee, 


82 


CYCLOPEDIA    UF  BlilTlSU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


To  help  tlice  to  tliy  trno  love  again, 
And  deliver  her  unto  f liec  ?" 

"I  have  no  money,"  then  (juoth  the  yoiinj^  man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee  ; 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  he." 
"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come,  tell  me  without  guile." 
"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"It  is  but  live  little  mile." 
Then  Kobiu  he  hasted  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  bin, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  AUiu  should  keep  his  wedding. 

"What  hast  thou  here?"  the  bishop  then  said; 

"I  prithee  now  tell  unto  me." 
"I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Kohin  Hood, 

"And  the  best  in  the  north  countree." 
"  O  welcome,  O  welcome !"  the  bi.shop  he  said, 

"  That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 
"  Yoii  shall  have  no  music,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"Till  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  I  see." 
With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  olil ; 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

"This  is  not  a  fit  match,"  quoth  bold  Robin  Hood, 

"  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here  ; 
For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 

Tiie  bride  shall  choose  her  own  dear." 
Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three, 
When  four-and-twenty  bowmen  bold 

Came  leaping  o'er  the  lea. 
And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row. 
The  very  first  man  was  Allin-a-Dale 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thy  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"Young  AUin,  as  I  hear  say; 
And  you  shall  be  married  at  this  same  time. 

Before  we  de|)art  away." 
"That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand  ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church. 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 
Robin  Hood  pulled  otl"  the  bishop's  coat, 

And  put  it  on  Little  John  : 


"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Kohin  said, 

"This  clolh  doth  make  tiiee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  <iuiro 

'J'lic  people  began  to  laugh  ; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  in  the  church. 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 
"Who  gives  mo  this  maid?"  said  Little  John. 

(^loth  Robin  Hood,  "That  do  I; 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allin-a-Dalc, 

Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 
And  thus  having  end  of  this  merry  wedding, 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen  ; 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  greenwood. 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 


WALY,  WALY. 

ASONTMOCS. 

First  published  as  an  old  song  in  Allan  Ramsay's  "Tea-Table 
Miscellany,"  in  17-24.  Part  of  it  (by  Robert  Chambers  all  of  it) 
has  been  pieced  into  a  later  ballad  on  the  Marciiioness  of 
Douglass ;  married  1670,  and  deserted  by  her  husband. 

Oh  waly,  waly,'  up  the  bank. 

Oh  waly,  waly,  donn  the  brae,' 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn-side," 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae  ! 
I  leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thoclit  it  was  a  trustie  tree. 
But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak', — 

And  sae  did  my  fause  love  to  me. 

Oh  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new! 
Bnt  when  it's  auld  it  waxetli  cauld. 

And  fadeth  awa'  like  the  morning  dew. 
Oil,  wherefore  should  I  busk*  my  heid. 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

Ami  says  he'll  never  lo'e  me  mair. 

Xoo  Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  be  pressed  l)y  me  ; 
Saint  Anton's  WelP  sail  be  my  drink  ; 

Since  my  true  love's  forsaken  me. 
Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  oft'  the  tree  ? 
Oh  gentle  death,  when  wilt  Ihoii  come? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wean'e. 


'  An  exclamatiDU  of  sorrow,  the  root  and  the  prouunciatior 
of  which  are  preserved  in  cateriraul. 

"  Ilill-sidc.  =•  Drook.  ■•  Adorn. 

6  Saint  Anton's  Well  was  at  the  foot  of  Arthur's  Seat,  by 
Edinburgh. 


AXONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


83 


'Tis  uot  tlio  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawiiig  snaw's  iuclemeucie, 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  nie  cry  ; 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  Ave  cam'  iu  by  Glas-gow  touii, 

Wo  were  a  comely  sicbt  to  see  ; 
My  love  was  clad  iu  the  black  velvet, 

All'  I  mysel'  iu  cramasie.' 

But  bad  I  wist,  before  I  kissed, 

That  h)vo  had  beeu  so  ill  to  win, 
I'd  locked  my  heart  iu  a  case  o'  goud. 

And  i)iuued  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
Oh,  oh !   if  my  young  babe  were  boru, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee ; 
And  I  myscl'  wore  deid  and  goue, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me! 


EDWAED. 


Anontjious. 


This  remfirkable  little  dramatic  ballad  was  first  printed  in 
Percy's  "Reliques,"  from  a  manuscript  transmitted  by  Lord 
llailes.  There  are  several  versions,  and  a  good  German  trans- 
lation of  it  by  Herder. 

"Why  does  your  brand  sae  drap  wi'  blude, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
Wiiy  does  your  brand  sae  di-ap  wi'  blude. 

And  why  sae  sad  gang  ye,  O  ?" 
"  Oh,  I  ha'e  killed  my  hawk  sae  gude, 

Mither,  mither : 
Oh,  I  ha'e  killed  my  hawk  sae  gude, 

Aud  I  ha'e  uae  mair  but  he,  O." 

"Your  hawk's  blude  was  never  sae  red, 

Edward,  Edward  : 
Your  liawk's  blude  was  never  sae  red, 

My.  dear  son,  I  tell  tliee,  O." 
"  Oh,  I  ha'e  killed  my  red-roan  steed, 

Mither,  mither : 
Oh,  I  ha'e  killed  my  red-roan  steed. 
That  was  sae  fair  aud  free,  O." 

"Your  steed  was  auld,  and  ye've  plenty  mair, 

Edward,  Edward  : 
Your  steed  was  auld,  aud  ye've  plenty  mair; 

Some  itlier  dule  ye  dree,^  O." 
"  Oh,  I  lia'o  killed  my  father  dear, 

Mitlier,  mither : 
Oh,  I  lia'e  killed  my  father  dear ! 
Alas  !   and  wae  i.s  me,  O  !" 


Crimson. 


'^  Some  other  ;;rief  you  suffer. 


"What  penauco  will  ye  dree  for  that, 
ICdward,  Ivlward  ? 
What  iienanco  will  ye  dree  for  tliat? 
My  dear  son,  now  tell  me,  O." 
"I'll  set  my  feet  iu  yonder  boat. 

Mither,  mitlu'r : 
I'll  set  my  feet  in  yonder  boat, 

And  I'll  fare  o'er  the  sea,  O." 

"And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  towers  and  ha', 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  towers  and  ha'. 

That  were  sae  fair  to  see,  O  ?" 
"I'll  let  them  stand  till  they  doun  fa', 

Mither,  mither : 
I'll  let  them  stand  till  they  doun  fa' ; 
For  here  I  mannna  be,  O." 

"And  what  Avill  ye  leave  to  your  bairns  and  Avifc, 

Edward,  Edward  f 
And  what  will  yo  leave  to  your  bairns  and  wife. 

When  ye  gang  o'er  tlie  sea,  O  f 
"The  warld's  room:   let  them  beg  through  life, 

Mither,  mither : 
The  warld's  room  :   let  them  beg  through  life  ; 
For  them  I  ne'er  maun  see,  O." 

"And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  mither  dear, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  mitlier  dear? 

My  dear  sou,  now  tell  me,  O." 
"The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  bear, 

Mither,  mitlier : 
The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  bear, — 
Sic  counsels  ye  gied  me,  O !" 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG. 

Anonymols  (1570). 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long. 
Is  tlie  burdeu  of  my  song. 
Love  tiiat  is  too  hot  and  strong 

Burnetii  soou  to  waste. 
Still  I  would  not  have  thee  cold, 
Not  too  backward  or  too  bold ; 
Love  that  lasteth  till  'tis  old 

Fadctii  uot  iu  liaste. 

If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 
'Twill  not  prove  as  true  as  touch  ; 
Love  me  little,  more  than  such, 
For  I  fear  tlie  end. 


84 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  JlIilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I'm  ■with  little  well  content, 
And  ;i  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent, 
To  be  steadfast  friend. 

Say  thou  lov'st  mo  while  thou  live, 
I  to  thee  my  love  ^vill  give, 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

"While  that  life  endures: 
Nay,  and  after  death,  in  sooth, 
I  to  thee  will  keep  my  truth 
As  now.  in  my  May  of  youth, 

This  mj'  love  assures. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever. 
And  it  will  through  life  iiers6ver; 
Give  me  that,  with  true  endeavor 

I  will  it  restore  ; 
A  suit  of  durance  let  it  be 
For  all  \^•eathers  ;   tliat  for  me, 
For  the  land  or  for  the  sea, 

Lasting  evermore. 

Winter's  cold  or  Summer's  heat, 
Autumn's  tempests  on  it  beat, 
It  can  never  know  defeat, 

Never  can  rebel : 
Such  the  love  that  I  would  gain, 
Such  the  love,  I  tell  thee  plain, 
Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vaiu — 

So  to  thee  fiirewell ! 


TRUE  LOVELINESS. 

Anontmocs. 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  tin;  moon's  despair. 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 

Nor  mermaid's  yellow  luide  of  hair : 
•  *  ^  *  *  * 

Give  me,  instead  of  bejuity's  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 
Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust. 

Yet  never  linked  with  error  lind, — 
One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes. 
Like  the  care-burdened  honejMly, 

That  hides  his  nnninnrs  in  the  rose, — 
My  earthly  comforti  r  !   wlmse  love 

So  indefeasible  might   be. 
That  when  my  spirit  W(mnpd  above, 

Hers  could  not  .stay  for  sympathy. 


LINES   WKITTEN   BY   ONE    IX    THE    TOWER, 
BEING   YOUNG,  AND   CONDEMNED   TO   DIE. 

ClIIDIOCK  Tyciibors. 

Chidiock  Tychboii),  the  .nuthor  of  the.=e  lines,  sh.ired  in  Bab- 
ington's  con.^pi racy,  and  was  executed  with  liim  in  15S6.  For 
more  about  him,  see  an  ariicic  in  D'Israuli's  "Curiosities  of 
Literatnre." 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares; 

My  feast  of  joy  is  l)ut  a  dish  of  pain; 
My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  held  of  tares  ; 

And  all  my  good  is  but  vaiu  hope  of  gain  : 
The  day  is  fled,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun  ; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  lift;  is  d(jne. 

The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung: 
The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green  ; 

My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I  am  but  young ; 
I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  was  not  seen  : 

My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done. 

I  sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  the  womb; 

I  looked  at  life,  and  saw  it  was  a  shade; 
I  trod  the  earth,  and  knew  it  was  my  tomb  ; 

And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made  : 
The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  glass  is  run  ; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done. 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Anonymous. 

Mr.  ^lotherwcll  supposes  that  this  ballad  is  prob.ibly  a  La- 
ment for  one  of  the  adherents  of  the  house  of  Argyle,  who  fell 
in  the  battle  of  Glenlivat,  October,  1594. 

Hie  upon  IIiel;inds,  and  low  nptm  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell  rade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled  and  gallant  rade  he  ; 
Hame  cam'  his  horse,  but  never  cam'  he! 

Out  cam'  his  auld  niitlier,  greeting  fu'  sair  ; 
And  out  cam'  his  bonnii'  bride,  riving  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled  and  booted  rade  he  ; 
Toom'  hame  cam'  the  saddle,  but  never  cam'  he! 

"  Mj'  meadow  lies  green,  and  my  corn  is  unshorn  : 
My  barn  is  to  bigg,^  and  my  babie's  unborn." 
Saddled  and  briilled  and  booted  rade  he; 
Toom  cam'  the  saddle,  but  never  cam'  he ! 


1  Empty. 


2  Build. 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


85 


The 

of  the 
jiecess 
fill,  it 
pcu. 


SILENT  MUSIC. 

following  is  fouiul  in  "Observations  on  the  Art  of  Eiig- 
lesy  "  (Loudon,  1002),  by  Thomas  Campion.  The  purpose 
book  is  mainly  to  prove  that  ihynic  is  altogether  an  nu- 
ary  appendage  to  English  verse.  The  lines  are  so  grace- 
is  a  wonder  that  wc  have  nothing  more  from  the  same 

Rose-cheeked  Laurn,  conic  I 
Sing  tlioii  smoothly  ^vith  thy  beauty's 
Siknit  music,  either  other 

Sweetly  gracing. 

Lovely  forms  do  flow 
From  concent  divinely  IVamcd  ; 
Heaven  is  mnsic,  and  thy  beauty's 

Birth  is  heavenly. 

These  dull  notes  we  sing, 
Discords  need  for  helps  to  grace  them  ; 
Only  beauty  purely  loving 

Knows  no  discord; 

But  still  moves  delight, 
Like  clear  springs  renewed  by  flowing, 
Ever  perfect,  ever  in  them- 
selves eternal. 


THE   HEAVENLY  JERUSALEM. 

ANONtMOCS. 

This  old  poem,  which  was  altered  and  enlarged  by  David 
Dickson,  a  Scotch  clergyman  C15S3-1GG2),  seems  to  have  been  by 
no  means  improved  by  the  enlargement;  and  we  give  it  here  in 
its  earlier  form.  Probably  the  hymn  has  received  contributions 
from  various  hands,  and  it  would  seem  to  be  partly  derived 
from  translations  from  the  Latin. 

Jerusalem,  my  happj'  home, 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  au  end  ? 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 
O  happy  harbor  of  the  saints ! 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil  I 
lu  thee  no  sorrow  may  be  fouud, 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 

In  thee  no  sickness  may  be  seen, 

Nor  hurt,  nor  ache,  nor  sore  ; 
There  is  no  death,  nor  ugly  dole. 

But  Life  for  evermore. 
There  lust  and  lucre  cannot  dwell, 

There  envy  bears  no  sway ; 
There  is  no  hunger,  heat,  nor  cold, 

But  i)lcasure  every  way. 


Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stones, 

Thy  biilwaiks  diamonds  square; 
Thy  gates  are  of  right  orient  pearl. 

Exceeding  rich  and  rare. 
Thj''  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 

With  carbuncles  do  shine; 
Thy  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold. 

Surpassing  clear  and  fine. 

Thy  houses  are  of  ivory, 

Thy  windows  crystal  clear; 
Thy  tiles  arc  made  of  beaten  gold ; — 

O  God,  that  I  were  there  ! 
Ah,  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem  ! 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee ! 
W^onld  God  my  woes  were  at  au  end. 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see  I 

Thy  saints  are  crowned  with  glorj-  great ; 

They  see  God  face  to  face ; 
They  triumph  still,  they  still  rejoice  ; 

Most  happy  is  their  case. 
We  that  are  here  in  banishment 

Continually  do  moan  ; 
We  sigh  and  sob,  we  weep  and  wail. 

Perpetually  we  groan. 

Our  sweet  is  mixed  with  bitter  gall, 

Our  pleasure  is  but  pain  ; 
Our  joys  scarce  last  the  lookiug  ou, 

Our  sorrows  still  remain. 
But  there  they  live  in  such  delight. 

Such  pleasure,  and  such  play, 
As  that  to  them  a  thousand  years 

Doth  seem  as  yesterday. 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant  walks 

Continually  are» green; 
There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  arc  seen. 
Quite  through  the  streets,  with  silver  sound. 

The  flood  of  Life  doth  flow; 
Upon  whose  banks  on  every  side 

The  wood  of  Life  doth  grow. 

There  trees  for  evermore  bear  fruit, 

And  evermore  do  spring; 
There  evermore  the  angels  sit. 

And  evermore  do  sing. 
Jerusalem,  my  happy  home, 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee! 
Would  God  my  woes  were  at  au  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see ! 


cK  iju'.KDiA  OF  jiiirnsn  am)  ameuicax  poetry. 


HELEN   OF   KIKKCONNELL. 


Ilclcn  Irving,  daughter  of  the  laird  of  Kirkconncll,  in  Dnm- 
friesshlrc,  was  beloved  by  two  fjeiitlenicn.  Tlie  name  of  the 
one  suitor  was  Adam  Fleminf;;  that  of  the  other  has  escaped 
tradition.  The  addresses  of  the  latter  were,  however,  favored 
by  the  lady,  and  the  lovers  were  obliged  to  meet  in  the  chuich- 
yard  of  Kirkconnell.  During  one  of  these  interviews,  the  jeal- 
ous and  despised  lover  suddenly  ajipearcd  on  the  opi)osite  bank 
of  the  stream,  and  levelled  his  carbine  at  tlie  breast  of  his  rival. 
Helen  threw  herself  before  her  lover,  received  in  her  bosom  the 
ballet,  and  died  in  his  arms.  A  desperate  and  mortal  combat 
ensued  between  the  rivals,  in  which  Fleming  was  cut  to  pieces. 
The  graves  of  the  lovers  are  still  shown  in  tlie  church-yard  of 
Kirkcounell. 

I  -wish  I  were  where  Heloii  lies! 
Niglit  and  day  on  nie  she  ciio.s. 
Oh  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirkcounell  lea  ! 

Cnrst  he  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  bnrd'  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  nie ! 

Oil,  think  ye  na  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spake  nae  mair  ? 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 
On  fair  Kirkcounell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  tlie  water-side, 
None  hut  my  foe  to  he  my  guide. 
None  hut  my  foe  to  lie  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea, — 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  draw; 
I  hackM  him  in  pieces  sina', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  snia', 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Ik-len  fair,  beyond  compare ! 
I'll  weave  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  hind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  dee  ! 

Oh  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  "  Haste,  aud  come  to  me  I" 

O  Ilclcn  fair!    O  Helen  chaste! 
Were  I  with  thee  I  would  be  blest. 


Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest. 
On  fair  Kirk<-onnell  lea. 

I  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  o'er  my  een. 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying. 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  aud  day  on  me  she  cries. 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies. 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


Hiiun  Cljavlcs  iJ. 


Cliarlcs  I.,  King  of  England,  grandson  of  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  was  born  at  Dunfermline,  in  Scotland,  in  IGOO, 
and  executed  in  London,  January  SOtii,  IWO.  The  poem 
from  which  the  following  twelve  triplets  arc  taken  con- 
sists of  twenty-four,  most  of  them  quite  inferior  to  the 
following.  Archbishop  Trench  docs  "not  doubt  that 
these  hues  arc  what  they  profess  to  be,  the  composition 
of  King  Charles  ;  their  authenticity  is  stamped  on  every 
line."  They  are  creditable  to  his  literary  culture,  aud 
show  that  he  inherited  some  of  the  poetical  faculty  of 
his  gnindmothcr. 


1  Maid. 


A  EOYAL   LAMENTATION. 

Great  Monarch   of  the   Avorld,  from   whose   power 

springs 
The  potency  and  power  of  kings, 
Record  the  royal  woe  my  snflering  sings. 

Nature  and  law  by  Thy  divine  decree 
(The  only  root  of  righteous  royalty), 
AVith  this  dim  diadem  invested  me. 

With  it  the  sacred  sceptre,  pnrjde  robe, 
The  holy  unction,  and  the  royal  globe  ; 
Yet  am  I  levelled  Avith  the  life  of  .lob. 

The  fiercest  furies,  that  do  daily  tread 
Upon  my  grief,  my  gray  discrowned  head. 
Are  they  that  owe  my  bounty  for  their  bread. 

Great  Britain's  heir  is  forced  into  France, 
Whilst  on  his  father's  head  Lis  foes  advance  : 
Poor  child  I   he  weeps  at  his  inheritance. 

With  my  own  power  my  majesty  they  wound, 
In  the  King's  name  the  king's  himself  uncrowned ; 
So  doth  the  dust  destroy  the  diamond. 


I 


SIR   WILLIAM  DAVEXJXT.—SIE   THOMAS  BllOWyE. 


87 


Witli  iiropositions  daily  tbey  encliant 

I\Iy  people's  ears — such  as  do  reason  daniit, 

Aud  the  Almiglity  will  not  let  me  grant. 

Tliey  promise  to  erect  mj'  royal  stem. 

To  make  me  great,  to  advance  my  diadem. 

If  I  will  lirst  fall  do^YU  aud  wor.sliip  them. 

My  life  they  prize  at  such  a  slender  rate, 
Tliat  in  my  aV>sence  they  draw  bills  of  hate, 
To  prove  the  king  a  traitor  to  the  State. 

Felons  obtain  more  privilege  than  I ; 
They  are  allowed  to  answer  ere  they  die ; 
'Tis  death  for  me  to  ask  the  reason  whj*. 

But,  sacred  Saviour,  with  thy  words  I  woo 

Thee  to  forgive,  and  not  be  bitter  to 

Such  as  thou  kuow'st  do  not  know  what  they  do. 

Augment  my  patience,  nullify  my  hate, 

Preserve  my  issue,  and  inspire  my  mate ; 

Yet,  though  we  perish,  bless  this  Church  and  State! 


Sir  lllilliam  Danenaut. 

A  native  of  Oxford,  Davenant  (160.5-1668)  succeeded 
Ben  Jouson  as  poet-laureate.  He  was  tlie  son  of  an  inn- 
keeper, and  educated  at  Oxford.  In  16i3  he  was  kniglited 
b}-  King  Charles.  His  works  consist  of  dramas,  masques, 
addresses,  aud  an  unfinished  epic  called  "Gondibert," 
which  he  dedicates  to  Hobbes.  He  left  a  son,  Charles, 
who  sat  in  Parliament,  and  distinguished  himself  some- 
what as  a  literary  man. 


THE   SOLDIER  GOING  TO  THE   FIELD. 

Preserve  thy  sighs,  unthrifty  girl. 

To  purify  the  air ; 
Thy  tears  to  thread,  instead  of  pearl, 

On  bracelets  of  thy  hair. 

The  trumpet  makes  the  echo  hoarse, 
And  wakes  the  loiuler  drum  ; 

Expense  of  grief  gains  no  remorse, 
Wheu  sorrow  should  be  dumb  : 

For  I  must  go,  where  lazy  peace 
Will  hide  her  drowsy  head ; 

And,  for  the  sport  of  kings,  increase 
The  number  of  the  dead. 


But  first  I'll  chide  thy  cruel  theft ; 

Can  I  in  war  delight, 
Who,  being  of  my  heart  bereft, 

Can  have  uo  heart  to  light  ? 

Thou  know'st  the  sacred  laws  of  old 
Ordained  a  thief  should  jiay. 

To  quit  him  of  his  theft,  .sevenfold 
W^hat  he  had  stolen  away. 

Thy  }iayment  shall  but  double  be; 

Oh,  then,  with  speed  resign 
My  own  seduced  heart  to  me, 

Accompanied  with  thine. 


TO   THE   QUEEN. 

Fair  as  unshaded  light,  or  as  the  day 
In  its  first  birth,  when  all  the  year  was  May ; 
Sweet  as  the  altar's  smoke,  or  as  the  new 
Unfolded  bud,  swelled  by  the  early  dew ; 
Smooth  as  the  face  of  waters  first  appeared. 
Ere  tides  began  to  strive  or  winds  were  heard ; 
Kind  as  the  willing  saints,  aud  calmer  far 
Thau  in  their  sleeps  forgiven  hermits  are  ; — 
You  that  are  more  than  our  discreetcr  fear 
Dares  praise,  with  such  full  art,  what  make  you 

here  ? 
Here,  where  the  summer  is  so  little  seen, 
That  leaves,  her  cheapest  wealth,  scarce  reach  at 

green  ; 
You  come,  as  if  the  silver  planet  were 
Misled  awhile  from  her  much-injui'cd  sphere  ; 
Aud,  to  ease  the  travels  of  her  beams  to-night, 
In  this  small  lanthorn  would  contract  her  light. 


Sir  (J^i)omas  Broitinc. 

Browne  (100.5-1GS2)  is  known  chietly  for  his  prose 
writings.  His  *'Religio  Medici"  is  still  in  demand  at 
the  book-stores.  Of  his  poems  we  have  one  favorable 
specimen.  He  was  born  in  London,  became  a  practising 
physician  at  Norwich,  and  was  knighted  by  Charles  II. 
in  1671. 


THE   NIGHT  IS   COME. 

The  night  is  come  :    like  to  the  day. 
Depart  not  Thou,  great  God,  away  ! 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclip.se  the  lustre  of  Thy  light. 


88 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  JUIITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Keep  still  in  my  horizon  ;   for  to  nic 

The  6un  makes  not  tlic  «l;i,v.  Imt  Tiu'c. 

Thon  whose  nature  eaniiot  sleep, 

On  my  temples  sentry  keep ! 

Onanl  me  'gainst  those  svatchl'iil  foes, 

Whose  eyes  are  open  Aviiile  mine  close; 

Let  uo  dreams  my  head  infest. 

But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  lilest. 

"While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance  ; 

Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 

Awake  into  some  holy  thought ; 

And  with  as  active  vigor  run 

My  course  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 

Sleep  is  a  death  ;   oh  !  make  me  try, 

By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die  : 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 

Awake  again  at  last  with  Thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 

Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 

I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again  : 

Oh!   come  that  hour  Avheu  I  shall  never 

Sleep  again,  but  wake  forever. 


OmuuLi  lUallcr. 

Waller  a005-16S7)  floul■i:^lled  under  the  rule  of  Cliailcs  I. 
and  Charles  II.  His  mother  was  aunt  of  tlie  celebratod 
John  Hampden,  who  was  first  cousin  both  of  Ednuuid 
Waller  and  Oliver  Cromwell.  Rich  au^  well-born,  Wal- 
ler was  educated  at  Eton,  and  became  a  member  of  Par- 
liament at  eighteen.  His  political  life  was  eventful,  and 
not  wholly  to  his  credit.  He  sat  in  all  the  parliaments 
of  Charles  II.,  and  was  the  delight  of  the  House  :  even  at 
eighty  years  of  age  he  was  the  liveliest  and  wittiest  man 
within  its  walls.  His  verses  arc  smooth  and  polished, 
hut  superficial.  Overpraised  in  his  day,  his  fame  has,  not 
undeservedl_v,  declined.  He  was  left  heir  to  an  estate 
of  £;i5()0  in  his  infancy,  and  was  either  a  Roundhead  or 
a  Royalist,  as  the  time  served.  At  twenty-tive  he  mar- 
ried a  rich  heiress  of  London,  wlio  died  the  same  year. 
Easy  and  witty,  he  was  yet  cold  and  sclHsli. 


THE  MESSAGE   OF  THE   KOSE. 

Go,  lovely  Rose, 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me 

That  now  she  knows. 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  s<'ems  to  be. 


Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  nun  abide, 
Thou  nnist  have  nneonimended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  Beauty  from  the  light  retired  : 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  her-self  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blu.sh  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee : 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  arc  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 


OX  A    GIRDLE. 

Tliat  which  her  .slender  waist  confined 
Sliall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer ; 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Uid  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass,  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 


lUillmm  tjabington. 

Ilrtbington  (160.5-164.5)  was  a  Roman  Catholic.  He  was 
educated  at  St.  Omer's  and  Paris,  and  after  his  return  to 
Emrland  married  the  lady  who  is  the  "Castara"  of  his 
volume  of  poems.  He  had  no  stormy  passions  to  agitate 
Inm,  no  unruly  imai^'ination  to  control.  His  verses  arc 
often  of  a  placid,  tender,  elegant  description,  but  studded 
with  conceits. 


NOMINE  LABIA  MEA  APERIES. 

No  monument  of  me  remain, — 
My  memoiy  rust 
In  the  same  marlde  with  my  dust,- 
Ere  I  the  spreading  laurel  gain 
By  writing  wanton  or  profane! 


WILLIAM  HABiydTOX.—JOnX  MILTON. 


89 


Ye  glorious  womlcrs  of  tlio  skies ! 
Shine  still,  bright  stars, 
The  Almiglity's  mystic  characters ! 
IM  not  your  beauteous  lights  surprise 
To  illuuiinate  a  wouian's  eyes. 

Nor  to  perfume  her  veins  will  I 
lu  each  one  set 
The  purple  of  tlie  violet : 
The  untouched  tlowers  may  grow  and  dio 
Safe  from  my  fancy's  injury. 

Open  my  lips,  great  God  !   and  then 
I'll  soar  above 
The  humble  flight  of  carnal  love : 
Upward  to  thee  I'll  force  my  pen. 
And  trace  no  jiaths  of  vulgar  men. 

For  what  can  our  unbounded  souls 
Worthy  to  be 
Their  object  find,  excepting  thee  ? 
Where  can  I  fix  ?  since  time  controls 
Our  pride,  whose  motion  all  things  rolls. 

Should  I  myself  ingratiate 
To  a  prince's  smile. 
How  soon  may  death  my  hopes  beguile! 
And  should  I  farm  the  jiroudest  state, 
I'm  tenant  to  uncertain  fate. 

If  I  court  gold,  will  it  not  rust  ? 
And  if  my  love 
Toward  a  female  beauty  move. 
How  will  that  surfeit  of  our  lust 
Distaste  us  when  resolved  to  dust ! 

But  thou,  eternal  banquet !   where 
Forever  we 
May  feed  without  satiety ! 
Who  harmony  art  to  the  ear, — 
Who  art,  while  all  things  else  appear  ! 

While  up  to  thee  I  shoot  my  flame. 
Thou  dost  dispense 
A  holy  death,  that  murders  sense. 
And  makes  me  scorn  all  pomi)s  that  aim 
At  other  triumphs  than  thy  name. 

It  crowns  me  with  a  victory 
So  heavenly, — all 
That's  earth  from  me  away  doth  fall : 
And  I,  from  my  corruption  free. 
Grow  in  my  vows  even  part  of  thee. 


3  0 1)11  iUilton. 


Milton  (1C08-1C74)  was  the  younger  son  of  a  London 
scrivener  in  good  circumstances.  At  sixteen  he  entered 
.Christ's  College,  Canibridi;c  ;  taking  his  degree  of  M.A. 
in  1032,  about  which  time  he  wrote  "L'Allegro,"  "II 
Penseroso,"  "Comus,"  "Lycidas,"  and  other  of  his 
shorter  poems.  Afterward  he  travelled  in  Italy  for 
some  fifteen  months,  and  visited  blind  old  Giilih;o.  Re- 
turning to  England,  he  kept  school  for  awhile.  lie 
strongly'  advocated  the  Republican  cause,  and,  on  the 
death  of  Charles  I.,  was  appointed  Latin  Secretary  to  the 
Council  of  State.  At  the  Restoration  he  retired  into 
private  life;  and  it  was  then,  in  his  old  age,  when  he  had 
become  totally  blind,  that  he  wrote  his  immortal  poems, 
"Paradise  Lost"  and  "Paradise  Regained." 

Milton  was  married  three  times — first,  in  lfi43,  to  Mary 
Powell.  It  was  a  hasty  marriage,  and  an  unhappy  one. 
Six  years  after  her  death  he  was  united  to  Catherine 
Woodcock,  with  whom  he  lived  happily  for  a  year, 
Mhen,  to  his  great  grief,  she  died.  It  is  of  her  he  speaks 
in  one  of  his  sonnets  as  "his  late  espoused  saint."  In 
1660  he  married  Elizabeth  Minshull,who  proved  an  ex- 
cellent wife.  Milton's  English  sonnets,  seventeen  in 
number,  are  happily  described  by  Wordsworth  as  "soul- 
animating  strains,  alas  !  too  few."  Johnson,  however, 
could  not  see  their  grandeur,  and  explained  what  he 
considered  Milton's  "failure"  by  remarking  to  Hannah 
More,  "  Milton's  was  a  genius  that  could  hew  a  Colos- 
sus out  of  a  rock,  but  could  not  carve  heads  on  cherry- 
stones." In  bis  youth  Milton  was  remarkable  for  his 
beauty  of  countenance.  His  life  was  the  pattern  of  sim- 
plicity and  purity,  almost  to  austeritj'.  He  acted  from 
liis  youth  as  "under  his  great  Taskmaster's  eye." 

Milton's  two  juvenile  poems,  "L'Allegro"  and  "II 
Penseroso,"  hardly  deserve  the  reputation  they  liave 
long  held.  He  evidently  took  his  hints  for  them  partly 
from  a  forgotten  poem  prefixed  to  Burton's  "Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,"  and  partly  from  the  song,  hy  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  "Hence,  all  you  vain  delights!"  (which 
see).     The  poem  in  Burton's  book  has  these  lines  : 

"When  I  go  mnsiug  all  alone, 
Thinking  of  diverse  things  foreknown  ; 
When  I  build  castles  in  the  air, 
Void  of  sorrow,  void  of  fear, 
Pleasing  myself  with  phantasms  sweet, 
Methinks  the  time  riius  very  fleet. 

All  my  joys  to  this  are  folly ; 

Naught  so  sweet  as  Melancholy  !*' 

The  I'cmainder  of  the  poem  is  still  more  suggestive  of 
resemblance,  both  in  the  measure  and  tlie  general  tone. 
The  following  tribute  to  tlie  nobilit}'  of  Milton's  charac- 
ter is  paid  by  Macaulay:  "If  ever  despondency  and  as- 
perity could  be  excused  in  any  man,  it  might  have  been 
excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind  over- 
came every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor  gout,  nor 
age,  nor  penur}',  nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  political 
disappointments,  nor  abuse,  nor  proscription,  nor  neg- 
lect, had  power  to  disturb  his  sedate  and  majestic  pa- 
tience." Tiie  fame  of  this  eminent  poet  seems  to  have 
been  undisturbed  by  the  lapse  of  time. 


90 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  liRITISII  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


L'ALLEGKO.' 

Hence,  loatlied  Melancholy, 

Of  Ceiberns  and  blackest  Midnij^lit  born  ! 
In  Stygian  cavo  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid   .slia[)es,  and   shrieks,  and  eights 
unholy, 
Find  ont  some  nnconth  cell, 

Where    brooding   Darkness   spreads    his  jealous 
-vvings. 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There,  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess,  fair  antl  free, 
In  heaven  y-cleped  Enphrosyne," 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirtli  ! 
Whom  lovely  Venns  at  a  birtli, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crown6d  Bacchus  bore  ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring. 
Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing — 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying — 
There,  on  beds  of  violets  bine. 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  bnxoni,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, — 
Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; — 
Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Libcrtj'^; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  mo  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreprov(5d  pleasures  free  ;  — 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 


1  The  man  of  mirth. 

'  Enphrosyne  (Gr.),  Cheei'fiilncss:  one  of  the  Graces. 


Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine. 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine;' 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  ;  — 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Checrly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ;  — 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen. 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Kight  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  tlie  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
Aiul  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures. 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures: 
Russet  lawns  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  ofteu  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  iu  tufted  trees, 
Where,  perhaps,  some  beauty  lies. 
The  Cynosure  of  ueighboring  eyes. 
Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydou  and  Thyrsis,  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set, 
Of  herbs  ami  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  riiillis  dresses: 
Ami  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead 
To  the  tanned  hay-cock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
Tlio  u])land  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks'  sonnd 
To  many  a  youth  ami  many  a  maid 
Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade ; 


»  Wnrton  says:  "Sweetbrier  and  eghmtine  are  the  same 
plant;  by  the  'twisted  eglantine'  he  therefore  means  the 
lioneysnckle."  ^  A  sort  of  flddle. 


JOHN  MILTON. 


91 


And  yoiuig  aud  old  coiiio  fortli  to  play 

On  a  snusbine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; — 

Then  to  the  spicy  imt-browu  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  fairy  Jlab  the  junkets  eat ; 

She  Avas  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said. 

And  he  by  friars'  Ian  thorn  led  ; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  liend ! 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And,  crop-full,  out-of-doors  he  flings 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  to  sleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then. 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 
la  weeds  of  i)eace  high  trium[)lis  hold, — 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Eain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wifc  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  aiipear. 
In  safi"ron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jousou's  learnM  sock  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares. 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce  ; 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout' 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony, — 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  ffoldeu  slumber  on  a  bed 


'  A  fold  oi-  twist. 


Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  (luito  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL   FENSEROSO.' 

Hence,  vain,  deluding  joys. 

The  brood  of  folly,  without  father  bred! 

How  little  you  bestead. 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 

As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams. 

Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  aud  holj-^ ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  x)raise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  oftended 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  ; 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  long  of  yore. 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain): 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
Wiiile  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  aud  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress^  lawu 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  tliy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
Aud  looks  commdrcing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes : 


'  The  melfiiicholy  man. 

'  A  tliiii  traiispareut  texture. 


9S 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  IIRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad,  leaden,  downward  cast 

Thou   lix  them  on  the  earth  as  last; 

And  join  witii  tiiee  calm  I'eace  and  Qniet, 

Sparc  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Mnscs  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure; 

But  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  rhiiomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak  : 

Sweet  bird,  that'  shuun'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  chan tress,  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  eveu-soug ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  ■wandering  moon, 

Ividing  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide,  pathless  waj' ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  lleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  souiul 

Over, some  wide-watered  shore. 

Swinging  slow  Avith  sullen  roar  ; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 

Some  still,  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's'  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  : — 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

lie  seen  in  some  high,  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  IJear, 

AVith  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  nnspiiere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  rej^ions  hold 


•  Anciently  the  wnlchmnii,  who  cried  the  hours,  used  suudry 
beueilictious Wauton. 


Tlie  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  luider  ground, 
Wliosi!  ])ower  hath  a  true  consent 
With  i)lanet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  tlie  tale  of  Troy  divine. 
Or  Avhat  (though  rare)  of  later  ago 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Mnsteus  from  his  bower! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek  ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,* 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Cauace  to  wife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited  5Iorn  api)ear. 
Not  tricked  and  frounced,"  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 
But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud. 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 
With  minute^  drops  from  oft"  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  archdd  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  i)ine  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke. 
Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 


'  A  i-efereiice  to  the  "  Squire's  Tale,"  by  Chaucer. 
2  From  the  French //-o/w?r,  to  ciu-1,  nnd  refers  to  an  excessive 
dressing  of  the  hair. 
'  That  is,  drops  at  intervals,  by  minutes. 


JOHN  MILTON. 


93 


Tlioie,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook, 
Where  uo  profauer  eje  may  look. 
Hide  mo  from  day's  garish  eye, 
AVliile  tlic  boc  witli  honeyed  thigh, 
That  at  her  tiower}'  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  mnrmnring 
With  sneh  consort  as  they  keep 
Entice  the  de\Yy-feathercd  sleep ; 
And  let  some  strange,  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  ; 
Aiid  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath. 
Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  duo  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale. 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 
With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows,  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim,  religious  light : 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow  , 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  l)elow, 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 
As  maj'  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  7ny  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew. 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melaucholj-,  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


LYCIDAS. 

This  noble  monody  was  written  in  memory  of  a  clear  and 
learned  friend,  Mr.  Edward  King,  Fellow  of  Clirist's  College, 
and  first  appeared  in  a  Cambridge  collectiuu  of  verses  on  the 
subject,  1C3S. 

Yet  once  more,  oh  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude  ; 

And,  with  forced  fingers  rude. 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year : 

Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 


For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycida.s,  and  hath  not  left  l)is  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?   he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  nuist  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweej)  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse  : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn  ; 
And  as  he  passes  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-samo  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-fleld,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-lly  winds  her  sultry  born, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening,  bright. 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute. 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damcetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh  the  heavy  change,  now^  thou  art  gone. 
Now  thou  art  goue  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown. 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn  : 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killiug  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherds'  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when   the   remorseless 
deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  : 
Ay  me  !   I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 


94 


CYCL01\i:i)IA    OF  JilUTLSJl   JM)  AMEHHAS    rOKTRY 


The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enehanting  sou, 
Wlu)Ui  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
Wheu  by  the  rout  that  made,  tlie  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  llehrus,  to  tlje  Lesbiau  shore  ? 

Alas!    what  boots  it  witli  iueessaut  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slifihtcd.  siieplierd's  trade, 
And  strietly  meditate  tiie  tiiaukless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Noiera's  hairf 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise — 
That  last  intirmity  of  noble  mind — 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days  ; 
l?ut  tlie  fair  guerdon  wheu  we  hope  to  liud, 
Anil  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorrdd  shears. 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "IJut  not  the  praise," 
Pluebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears ; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 
Nor  in  the  glisteiuug  foil 

Set-oft*  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies; 
But  lives,  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  w  itness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  nnich  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 
O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  Hood, 
Smooth-sliding  Miucins,  crowned  witli  vocal  reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood; 
Ihit  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listeus  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 
He  a.sked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ; 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  oft"  each  beakc-d  i)rom(nitory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed ; 
Tlie  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Pauoiie  wilii  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  tliat  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
liuilt  in  tlie  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  tliiue. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sii'e,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  ligiires  dim,  aud  on  tiie  e<lge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  llowcr  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah,  who  hath  reft  ((luoth  he)  my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  came,  aud  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  nutals  twain 
(Tlie  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain); 


Ho  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  : 
"How   well   could  I  have   spared  for    thee,  young 

swain, 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  aud  intrude,  aud  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Thau  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths!   that  scarce  themselves  know  how 

to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdmau's  art  belongs ! 
What  recks  it  them  ?     Wliat  need  they  ?    They  arc 

sped  ; 
And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  aud  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw  : 
Tiie  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But,  swolii  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Kot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
Beside  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  aud  nothing  said  : 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stayds  ready  to  smite  once,  aud  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus!   the  dread  voice  is  past 
Tliat  shrunk  thy  streams.     Keturu,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Tlieir  bells  and  llowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  aud  wanton  winds,  aud  gushing  brooks. 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks. 
Tluow  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers. 
Aud  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink  and  the  pansy  freaked  witli  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

Tlie  mnsk-rose  aud  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  llowcr  tliat  sad  embroidery  wears: 
Bid  Amarantlius  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  dalladiilies  till  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureate  lierse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  our  frail  tlionghts  dally  with  false  surmise; 
Ay  me!   wiiiist  tliee  the  shores  aud  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  hones  are  hurled. 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Wiiere  thou,  perhaiis,  under  the  whelming  tide, 
Visit'st  the  bottuni  of  the  monstrous  wcn-ld ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Wliere  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 


JOHN  MILTOX. 


95 


Looks  toward  Naiuancos  aud  Bayoua's  hold  ; 
Look  liouieward,  augel,  now,  and  iiiclt  with  ruth  : 
Aud,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  yontli. 

Weep  no  more,  wofiil  shepherds,  weep  no  more ; 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Slink  though  ho  be  beneath  the  watery  lloor : 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the 

waves, 
Where,  other  groves  aud  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  ho  laves, 
And  hears  the  nnexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kiugdoms  meek  of  joy  aud  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above 
In  solemn  troops  aud  sweet  societies, 
Tiiat  sing,  aud,  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
Aud  Avipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  uo  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore. 
In  thy  large  recompense,  aud  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  aud 
rills. 
While  still  the  Moru  went  out  with  sandals  gray; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
Aud  now  the  suu  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  Avas  dropt  into  the  western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue  ; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  aud  pastures  new. 


THE  MESSENGER'S  ACCOUNT  OF  SAMSON. 

From  "  S.iiisoy  Agonistes." 

Occasions  drew  me  early  to  this  city; 
And  as  the  gates  I  entered  with  sunrise. 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  proclaimed 
Through  each  high  street :  little  I  had  despatched 
When  all  abroad  was  rumored  that  this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth  to  show  the  people 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats  aud  games : 
I  sorrowed  at  his  captive  state,  but  minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 
The  building  was  a  spacious  theatre, 
Half-rouud,  on  two  main  pillars  vaulted  high, 
With  seats,  where  all  the  lords  and  each  degree 
Of  sort  might  sit  in  order  to  behold : 


The  other  side  was  open,  where  the  thl'oug 

On  banks  aud  scaflolds  under  sky  might  staud  ; 

I  among  these  aloof  obscurely  stood. 

The  feast  aud  noon  grew  high,  and  sacrifice 

Had  filled  their  hearts  with  mirth,  high  cheer,  aud 

wine, 
When  to  their  sports  they  turned.     Immediately 
Was  Samson  as  a  public  servant  brought, 
In  their  state  livery  clad :   before  him  pipes 
And  timbrels ;   on  each  side  went  armed  guards, 
Eoth  horse  and  foot :   before  him  and  behind. 
Archers  and  slingers,  cataphracts  and  spears. 
At  sight  of  him  the  people  with  a  shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamoring  their  god  with  praise, 
Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy  their  thrall. 
He,  patient  but  undaunted,  where  they  led  him. 
Came    to    the    place ;    and    what   was    set   before 

him, 
Which  without  help  of  eye  might  be  assayed. 
To  heave,  pull,  draw,  or  break,  he  still  xjerformed 
All  with  incredible,  stupendous  force. 
None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 
At  leugtb,  for  intermission'  sake,  they  led  him 
Between  the  pillars ;   he  his  guide  rec[uested 
(For  so  from  such  as  nearer  stood  we  heard). 
As  over-tired,  to  let  him  lean  awhile 
With  both  his  arms  on  those  two  massy  pillars 
That  to  the  arched  roof  gave  main  support. 
He,  unsuspicious,  led  him  ;   which  wheu  Samson 
Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  awhile  inclined, 
Aud  eyes  fast  fixed,  he  stood  as  one  who  prayed. 
Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind  revolved. 
At  last,  with  head  erect,  thus  cried  aloud:  — 
Hitherto,  lords,  what  your  commands  imposed 
I  have  performed,  as  reason  was,  obeying, 
Not  without  Avonder  or  delight  beheld  : 
Now  of  my  owu  accord  such  other  trial 
I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength,  yet  greater. 
As  with  amaze  shall  strike  all  who  behold. 
This  uttered,  straining  all  his  nerves,  he  bowed  : 
As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent. 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  j)il]ars 
AVith  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 
He  tugged,  he  shook,  till  down  they  came,  and  drew 
The  whole  roof  after  them,  with  burst  of  thunder. 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath. 
Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counsellors,  or  priests. 
Their  choice  nobility  aud  flower,  not  only 
Of  this,  but  each  Philistian  city  round. 
Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this  feast. 
Samson,  with  these  immixed,  iuevitably 
Pulled  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself; 
The  vulgar  only  'scaped,  Avho  stood  without. 


96 


CYCLOPJiDlA    OF  JllUTlSH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


SCENE  FROM  "COMUS." 

CoinuH.  C':iii  any  mortal  mixturo  of  eailli's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine,  cnchaiitiiij^  ravishment? 
Sure,  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
Aud  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
,To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 
How  sweetly  did  they  tloat  upon  \\w  wiiij^s 
Of  silence  lhr(>nj;h  tlie  empty- vaulted  nigiit, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven-down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled  !     I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Syrens  three, 
Amidst  th<!  llowery-kirtled  Naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs ; 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  :    Scylla  wept, 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdia  murmured  soft  applause; 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  itself: 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  iu)w.     I'll  speak  to  her. 
And  she  shall  be  my  queen.     Hail,  foreign  wonder! 
Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed, 
Uidess  the  goddess  that,  in  rural  shrine, 
Dwell'st  here  with  Tan  or  Sylvan ;  by  blessed  song 
Forbidding  every  bleak,  unkindly  fog 
To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 

Lady.  Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise 
That  IS  addressed  to  unattending  ears: 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  severed  company. 
Compelled  mo  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo, 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Com.  What  chance,  good  Lady,  hath  bereft  yon 
thus? 

iMd.  Dim  darkness  and  this  leafy  labyrinth. 

Com.  Could  that  divide  you  from  ucar-usheriug 
guides  ? 

Lad.  Tiiey  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 

Com.  Bj'  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why  ? 

Lad.  To    seek    i'   the    valley   some    cool   friendly 
spring. 

Com.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded.  Lady? 

Lad.  They  were  but  twain,  and  purposed  quick 
return. 

Com.  Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented  them. 

Lad.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit! 

Com.  Imports  their  loss  beside  the  present  need  ? 

iMd.  No  less  than  if  I  should  my  brother.s  lo.se. 

Com.  Were    they    of    manly    prime,  or    youthful 
bloom  f 


Lad.  As  Binootli  as  Hebe's  their  unrazored  lips. 

Com.  Two  such  I  saw  what  time  the  labored  ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came. 
And  llic  .swiukcd  licdgcr  at  his  snpj»er  sat. 
1  saw  tiitiii  under  a  green  mantling  vine 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
riucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots. 
Their  ])ort  was  more  than  human  as  they  stood : 
I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element. 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds.    I  was  awe-struck. 
And,  as  I  passed,  I  worshipped :  if  those  you  seek, 
It  were  a  journey  like  the  jiath  to  heaven 
To  help  you  lind  them. 

Lad.  Gentle  villager, 

Wliat  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  that  place  ? 

Com.  Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby  point. 

lAid.  To  find  out  that,  good  shepherd,  I  suppose. 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  starlight. 
Would  overtask  the  best  land-i)ilot's  art 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised  feet. 

Com.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  greeu. 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood. 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood  ; 
And  if  your  stray  attendance  be  yet  lodged, 
Or  shroud  within  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallet  rouse ;    if  otherwise, 
I  can  conduct  you.  Lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  farther  quest. 

Lad.  Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word, 

Aiul  trust  thy  honest  otFered  courtesy, 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  shed 
With  smoky  rafters  than  in  tapestry  halls 
In  courts  of  i)rinces,  where  it  first  was  named, 
And  yet  is  most  pretended  :   in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it. — 
Eye  me,  blessed  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength.— Shepherd,  lead  on ! 


SATAN'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH. 

FnoM  "Pahadise  Lost,"  Book  II. 

The  other  shape. 
If  shape  it  might  be  called  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb  ; 
Or  substance  might  be  called  that  shadow  seemed, 


JOHN  MILTON. 


97 


For  each  seeraetl  either;   black  it  stood  as  night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell. 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart ;   what  seemed  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides;   hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  nudannted  fiend  what  this  might  bo  admired — 
Admired,  not  feared ;    God  and  his  Sou  except. 
Created  thing'  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunned  ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : 

"  Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape, 
That  darest,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates  ?     Through  them  I  mean  to  pass. 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of  thee : 
Ketire,  or  taste  thy  folly,  aud  learn  by  proof, 
Hell-born,  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  heaven." 

To  whom  the  goblin,  full  of  wrath,  replied : 
"Art  thou  that  traitor-augel,  art  thou  he, 
AVho  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  heaven's  sons 
Conjured  against  the  Highest ;  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemned 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  aud  pain  ? 
Aud  reckou'st  thou  thyself  with  spirits  of  heaven, 
Hell-doomed,  aud  breath'st  defiance  here  and  scorn. 
Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 
Thy  king  aud  lord  ?     Back  to  thy  punishment. 
False  fugitive,  aud  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  aud  pangs  uufelt  before." 

So  spake  the  grisly  Terror,  and  in  shape. 
So  speaking  aud  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.     On  the  other  side. 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood, 
Iluterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus"  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  jiestilence  aud  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim  ;   their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;   and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other  as  when  two  black  clouds, 
W^ith  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattliug  ou 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front. 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  eucounter  in  mid-air : 


1  "Created  thing."  This  species  of  grammatical,  or,  rathci', 
logical,  error  occurs  more  than  once  in  Milton. 

^  Or,  Serpentarius,  the  serpent-bearer,  a  couspicuous  constel- 
lation in  the  northern  hemisphere. 


So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown  ;  so  matched  they  stood. 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe  :'   and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achieved  whereof  all  hell  had  rung. 
Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell-gate,  aud  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Eiseu,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  between. 


ADAil  AND   EVE'S  MORNING  HYMN. 

From  "Paradise  Lost,"  Book  V. 

Tliesc  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty !   thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  woudrous  fair :   thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 
Unspeakable!   who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens, 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
lu  these  thy  lowest  works ;   yet  these  declare 
Tby  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  Avho  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light. 
Angels!  for  ye  behold  him,  aud  with  songs 
Aud  choral  symphonies  day  without  night 
Circle  his  throne,  rejoicing  :   ye,  in  heaven  ; 
On  earth,  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end ! 
Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawu, 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 
With  thy  bright  circlet !  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul. 
Acknowledge  him  thy  greater;   sound  his  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climl)'st, 
Aud  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  aud  when  thou 

fall'st. 
Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st, 
With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb,  that  flies ; 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 
lu  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 
His  praise  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 
Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 
Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  qtiateruion  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix 
Aud  nourish  all  things :  let  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  jiraise. 
Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky,  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, — 
lu  houor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise  ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  nucolored  sky, 

1  The  Messiah. 


L'YVLOI'.KIHA    or   lUHT/sH    .l.\n    AMEIIICAX  rOETllY. 


Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 

KisiiifX  or  lallinj;.  still  ailvanco  his  praise. 

His  iiraisc,  yo  winds,  tliat  from  four  quarters  Mow, 

Breathe  soft  or  loiul ;  and  wavi-  yonr  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  tlow, 

Melodious  uinrniurs,  warbling,  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls:   ye  birds. 

That,  singing,  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  yonr  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep, 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 

To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade. 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord !   bo  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good  ;   and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  anght  of  evil,  or  concealed, 

Disper-se  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark! 


ONE  FIRST  MATTER  ALL. 

I-noM  "  Paradise  Lost,"  15ook  V. 

To  whom  the  wiugM  Hicrarch  replied  : 
O  Adam,  one  Almighty  is,  from  Avhom 
All  things  proceed,  and  up  to  him  return, 
If  not  depraved  from  good  ;   created  all 
Such  to  perfection,  one  first  matter  all, 
Endued  with  various  forms,  various  degrees 
Of  substance,  and,  in  things  that  live,  of  life; 
But  more  retined,  more  spirituous,  and  pure, 
As  nearer  to  him  placed,  or  uearer  tending 
Each  in  their  several  active  spheres  assigned. 
Till  body  up  to  spirit  work,  in  bounds 
Proportioned  to  each  kind.     So  from  the  root 
Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk;   from  thence  the 

leaves 
More  aery;    last  the  bright  coiisuiniuiite  tloucr 
Spirits  odorous  breathes:   flowers  and  their  fiiiit, 
Man's  nourishment,  by  gradinil  scale  sublinuil. 
To  vital  spirits  aspire,  to  animal, 
Tti  intellectual;   give  both  life  and  sense, 
Fancy  and  understanding :    whence  the  soul 
Reason  receives,  and  reason  is  her  being, 
Discursive  or  intuitive  :   discourse 
Is  oftest  yours ;   the  latter  most  is  (uirs, 
Differing  but  in  degree,  of  kind  the  same. 
Wonder  not,  then,  what  Ciod  for  you  saw  good 
If  I  refuse  not,  but  convert,  as  you, 
To  proper  substance.      Time  may  come  when  men 
With  angels  may  participate,  and  tind 
No  iucouvenient  diet,  nor  too  light  fare  ; 


And  from  these  corporeal  nutriments,  perhaps, 
Your  bodies  may  at  last  turn  all  to  spirit, 
Improved  by  tract  of  time,  and,  winged,  ascend 
Ethereal,  a.s  we  ;    or  may,  at  choice. 
Here  or  in  heavenly  Paradises  dwell; 
If  yo  bo  found  obedient,  and  retain 
Unalterably  lirm  his  love  entire 
Whose  pnigeny  you  are.     Meanwhile  enjoy 
Your  fill  wiiat  happiness  this  happy  state 
Can  comprehend,  incapable  of  more. 


WHAT  IS   GLORY? 

Christ's  Reply  to  the  Tempter,  "Paradise  Hegained,"  Book  III. 

To  whom  our  Saviour  calmly  thus  replied : 
Thou  neither  dost  persuade  me  to  seek  wealth 
For  empire's  sake,  nor  empire  to  aflect 
For  glory's  sake,  by  all  thy  argument. 
For  what  is  glory  but  the  blaze  of  fame, 
The  people's  praise,  if  always  praise  unmixed  ? 
And  what  the  people  but  a  herd  confused, 
A  miscellaneous  rabble,  who  extol 
Things  vulgar,  and,  well  weighed,  scarce  worlh  tin- 
praise  ? 
They  praise  and  they  admire  they  know  not  what. 
And  know  not  whom,  but  as  one  leads  the  other: 
And  what  delight  to  be  by  such  extolled, 
To  live  upon  their  tongues,  and  be  their  talk. 
Of  whom  to  bo  dispraised  were  no  small  praise  — 
His  lot  who  dares  be  singularly  good? 
The  intelligent  among  them,  ami  the  wise. 
Are  few,  and  glory  scarce  of  few  is  raised. 

They  err  who  count  it  glorious  to  subdue 

By  conquest  far  and  wide,  to  overrun 

Large  countries,  and  in  field  great  battles  win, 

(Jicat  cities  by  assault.     What  do  these  worthies 

But  rob  and  spoil,  burn,  slaughter,  and  enslave 

Peaceable  nations,  neighboring  or  remote. 

Made  captive,  yet  deserving  freedom  more 

Than  those  their  conquerors,  who  leave  behind 

Xotliiug  but  ruin  wheresoe'er  they  rove, 

And  all  the  nourishing  works  of  peace  destroy. 

Then  swell  with  pride,  and  must  be  titled  gods. 

Great  benefactors  of  mankind,  deliverers. 

Worshipped  with  temple,  priest,  and  sacrifice? 

One  is  the  son  of  Jove,  of  JIars  the  other. 

Till  comiueror  Death  discover  them  scarce  men. 

Rolling  in  brutish  vices,  and  deformed. 

Violent  or  shameful  death  their  due  reward. 

But  if  there  be  in  glory  aught  of  good, 

It  may  by  means  far  different  be  attained, 


JOHN  MILTON. 


99 


Without  ambitiou,  war,  or  violence — 
By  deeds  of  peace,  by  wisdom  eminent, 
By  patience,  temperance.     I  mention  still 
Him  whom  thy  wrongs,  with  saintly  patience  borne, 
.Made  famous  in  a  laud  and  times  obscure  : 
Wlio  names  not  now  with  honor  patient  Job? 
Poor  Socrates  (who  next  more  memorable  ?), 
By  what  he  taught  and  suffered  for  so  doing, 
For  truth's  sake  suffering  death  unjust,  lives  now 
Ecpial  in  fame  to  proudest  conquerors. 
Yet  if  for  fame  and  glory  aught  be  done. 
Aught  suffered  ;   if  yonng  Africane  for  fame 
His  wasted  country  freed  from  Punic  rage, 
The  deed  becomes  impraised — the  man,  at  least — 
And  loses,  though  but  verbal,  his  reward. 
.Shall  I  seek  glorj-,  then,  as  vain  men  seek. 
Oft  not  deserved?     I  seek  not  mine,  but  His 
Who  sent  me,  and  thereby  witness  whence  I  am. 


AN  EPITAPH  OX  THE  ADMIRABLE  DKAIMATIC 
POET,  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

What  needs  my  tShakspeare  for  his  honored  bones 

The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones  ? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 

Louder  a  star-j^  pointing  pyramid  ? 

Dear  son  of  Memory,  great  heir  of  Fame, 

What    need'st    thou    such    weak    witness    of   th\^ 

name  ? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  live-long  monument ; 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavoring  art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  aud  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  imj)ression  took, — 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving. 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving. 
And  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


ON   HIS   BEING   ARRIVED    TO    THE    AGE    OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  mj'  three-and-twentieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  Avith  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  show'th. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near. 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 


Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which   Time   leads   me,  and   the    will   of 

Heaven  ; 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  iu  my  great  Taskmaster's  eye. 


TO  THE   LORD-GENERAL   CROMWELL. 

WRITTEN  ABOUT   MAY,  1652. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud. 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 
And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 
Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued  ; 
W^hile  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.      Yet  much   re- 
mains 
To  conquer  still ;   Peace  hath  her  victories, 
No  less  renowned  than  War :   new  foes  arise, 
Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their  maw. 


TO  SIR  HENRY  VANE  THE  YOUNGER. 

Vane,  young  iu  years,  but  in  sage  counsel  old, 

Than  whom  a  better  senator  ne'er  held 

The  helm  of  Rome,  when  gowns,  not  arms,  repelled 

The  fierce  Epirot  and  the  African  bold : 

Whether  to  settle  peace,  or  to  unfold 

The  drift  of  hollow  states  hard  to  be  spelled  ; 

Then  to  advise  how  War  may,  best  upheld, 

Move  by  her  two  main  nerves,  iron  and  gold, 

In  all  her  equipage  ;   besides  to  know 

Both  spiritual  power  and  civil — what  each  means, 

What  severs  each  —  thou  hast  learned,  which  few 

have  done : 
The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee  we  owe 
Therefore  on  thy  firm  hand  Religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  her  eldest  son. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  iu  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

Aud  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 


100 


CYCLOPEDIA    or  JilUTlSH   AM)  AMEUICAX  VOETRY. 


Lodged    with   me   useless,  though    my   soul   more 

bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  i)resent 
My  true  account,  list  lie,  n'tiirning,  chide; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-hihor,  light  tlciiicd?" 
I  fondly  ask:  but  Patience,  to  jnevent 
That  murmur,  soon  rejdies:    "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gilts;    who  best 
Bear    his    mild   yoke,   they    serve    liini    best;    liis 

state 
Is  kingly;    thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest: 
They  also  serve  who  oidy  stand  and  wait." 


TO   MR.  LAWKENCE. 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 

Now  that  the  fields  are  dank  and  Avays  are  mire, 

Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  firo 

Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  wou 

From  the  hard  season  gaining  ?     Time  w  ill  run 

On  smoother  till  Favonius  reiuspire 

The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 

The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sowed  nor  spun. 

Wliat  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 

Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 

To  hear  the  lute  well  touched,  or  artful  voice 

Warbk'  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 

He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 

To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 


TO   CYKIAC   SKIXXEH. 

Cyriac.  tliis    three -years-day    these    eyes,  though 
clear, 
To  outward  view,  of  lilcmish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sij^ht  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argni>  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  hate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right    onward.       What     supports    me,  dost    thou 
ask? 
The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  ovcr- 

l-licd 
In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which'  all  Euro])o  rings  from  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  throui:;h  the  w(>rld's 

vain  mask 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 


ON  THE  RELIGIOUS  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  CATH- 
ERINE THOMSON,  MY  CHRISTIAN  FRIEND, 
DECEASED  DECEMBER  IGxii,  1040. 

When  Faith  and  Love,  which  parted  from  thee  nevci-. 
Had  rii>ened  thy  just  soul  to  dwell  with  God, 
Meekly  thou  didst  resign  this  earthly  load 
Of  death,  called  life,  which  us  from  life  doth  sever. 
Thy  works,  and  alms,  and  .all  thy  good  endeavor 
Stayed  not  behind,  nor  in  the  grave  were  trod  ; 
But,  as  Faith  pointed  with  her  gcdden  rod. 
Followed  thee  up  to  joy  and  bliss  forever. 
Love  led  them  on,  and  Faith,  who  knew  them  best, 
Thy  handmaids,  clad  them  o'er  with  purple  beams 
And  azuie  wings,  that  up  they  flew  so  dre.st, 
And  spake  the  truth  of  thee  ou  glorious  themes 
Before  the  Judge,  who  thenceforth  bid  tliee  rest. 
And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal  streams. 


SONG:    ON   MAY  :M0RN1NG. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowsHi)  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire! 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  tliy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  soug, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


FROM  THE  SriRIT'S  EPILOGUE  IN  "COMUS. 

To  the  ocean  iu)w  I  fly. 

And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 

Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 

There  I  suck  the  liijuid  air. 

All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree: 

Along  the  crisp(5d  shades  aiul  bowers 

Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring : 

The  Giaces  and  the  rosy-bosonu'd  Hours 

Tliither  all  their  bounties  bring; 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 

And  west-winds,  with  musky  wing, 

About  the  eedaru  alleys  fling 

Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 


RICHARD    CRASH  AW. 


101 


But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend. 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  "would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;   she  alone  is  free  ; 
She  can  teach  yon  how  to  climb 
Hij;her  than  the  sphery  chime  ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


Hicl)arii  (Urasljaiu. 

Crashaw  (about  1610-1650)  was  educated  at  Cambridge, 
and  took  holy  orders.  In  France  he  became  a  Roman 
Catholic.  His  religious  poetry  and  his  translations  from 
Latin  and  Italian  are  of  a  liigh  order,  though  marred  by 
the  affectations  fashionable  in  his  day.  In  the  same 
year  that  be  graduated  he  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
chiefly  religious,  in  Latin.  They  contain  one  memorable 
line.  Referring  to  Christ's  minicle  of  turning  water  into 
wine,  he  wrote : 

"Nympha  pudica  Deum  vidit,  et  erubuit." 
(The  modest  water  saw  its  God,  aud  blushed.) 


IN  PRAISE  OF  LESSIUS'S'  EULE  OF  HEALTH. 

^  *  #  *  jf  # 

That  which  makes  ns  have  no  need 
Of  physic,  that's  physic  indeed. 

Hark,  hither,  reader !   wonld'st  thou  see 
Nature  her  own  physician  be  ? 
Would'st  see  a  man  all  his  own  Avcalth, 
His  own  physic,  his  own  health  ? 
A  man  whose  sober  soul  can  tell 
How  to  wear  her  garments  "well — 
Her  garments,  that  upon  her  sit. 
As  garments  should  do,  close  aud  fit ; 
A  well-clothed  soul,  that's  not  oppressed. 
Nor  choked  with,  what  she  should  be  dressed ; 
A  soul  sheathed  in  a  crystal  shrine. 
Through  which  all  her  bright  features  shine; 
As  when  a  piece  of  wanton  lawn, 
A  thin  aerial  veil,  is  drawn 
O'er  Beauty's  face,  seeming  to  hide. 
More  sweetly  shows  the  blushing  bride  ; 

'  Leouard  Lessins  was  not  a  physician,  but  a  famous  Jesuit. 
He  was  born  near  Antwerp  in  l.'i.54,  taught  philosophy  aud  tho- 
olof^y  at  Louvain,  aud  died  in  1623.  Among  his  works  was  one 
on  the  True  Rule  of  Health,  in  which  he  recommends  hygienic 
remedies,  aud  disapproves  of  drugs. 


A  soul  whose  intellectual  beams 

No  mists  do  mask,  no  lazy  steams  ? 

A  happy  soul,  that  all  the  way 

To  heaven  hath  a  summer's  day  ? 

Would'st  see  a  man  whoso  well-warmed  blood 

Bathes  him  in  a  genuine  flood  ?  • 

A  man  whose  tundd  humors  be 

A  seat  of  rarest  harmony  ? 

Would'st  see  blithe  looks,  fresh  cheeks  beguile 

Age  ?     Would'st  see  December  smile  ? 

Would'st  see  a  nest  of  roses  grow 

In  a  bed  of  reverend  snow  ? 

Warm  thoughts,  free  spirits,  flattering 

Winter's  self  into  a  spring  ? 

In  sura,  would'st  see  a  man  that  can 

Live  to  be  old,  and  still  a  man  ? 

Whose  latest  and  most  leaden  hours 

Fall  with  soft  wings,  stuck  with  soft  flowers ; 

And,  when  life's  sweet  fable  ends. 

Soul  and  body  part  like  friends : — 

No  quarrels,  murmurs,  no  delay ; 

A  kiss,  a  sigh,  and  so  away  ? 

This  rare  one,  reader,  would'st  thou  see  ? 

Hark,  hither !   and — thyself  be  he  ! 


FROM 


"WISHES  TO  HIS  SUPPOSED  MIS- 
TRESS." 


Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  she. 

That  shall  command  my  heart  aud  me : 

Where'er  she  lie. 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye, 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny  : 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth : 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine : 

Meet  you  her,  my  Welshes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

Aud  be  ye  called  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty. 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudj'  tire  or  glistering  shoe-tie ; — 


lOV. '. 


.".l^T(^L.dp'jE'DIA    OF  lilllTISlI   ASD   AMERICAN  TOETRY. 


Soinetliiug  nioro  tbaii 
Tufl'iitii  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rauipant  ieathrr,  or  riili  fan  : 

More  than  tlic  s|n)il 

Of  .s^iiip,  or  silkworm's  toil, 

Or  a  bought  blusli,  or  a  srt  sinilo  : 

A  face  that's  host 

By  its  own  Vn'auty  ilrossotl, 

Ami  can  alouc  command  tbo  rest : 

A  face  made  up 
Out  of  no  other  shop 

Tlian  Avbat  Nature's  Avhitc  band  sets  ope  : 
*  t^  *■  ^  *  * 

A  cheek  where  grows 
More  than  a  morning  rose, 
Which  to  no  box  bis  being  owes. 

Eyes  that  displace 

The  neighbor  diamond,  and  outface 

That  sunshine  by  their  oNvn  sweet  grace. 

Tresses  that  wear 

Jewels,  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  arc. 

Days  that  need  borrow 

No  i)art  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-speut  night  of  sorrow  : 

Days  that,  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night ; 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end. 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend  ! 

Sidueian'  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  bead  with  llowers: 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers, 

'Hove  all — nothing  Avitliin  that  lowers: 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright. 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 


I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  i)oor 

Of  wishes ;   and  I  wish — no  more. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  uiy  vows; 

Iler,  whose  just  bays 

My  future  hopes  can  raise 

A  trophy  to  her  present  praise ; 

JTer,  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see  : 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  she. 

'Tis  she,  and  here, 

Lo,  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  AVish's  cloudy  character. 

]\Iay  she  enjoy  it, 

AVI  lose  merit  dare  apply  it. 

But  modesty  dares  still  deny  it. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  Fancies,  fly  before  ye, 

Be  ye  my  fictions,  but — her  story. 


•  Either  in  nlliision  to  the  conversiitions  iu  the  "Arcadia, " 
or  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney  himself,  as  a  model  of  geulleuess  in 
si)iiit  and  demeanor. 


TWO  AA'KNT  I'P  TO  THE   TEMPLE   TO   PRAY. 

Two  went  to  pray  ?     Oh,  rather  say. 
One  weut  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray. 

One  stands  up  close,  and  treads  on  high, 
AVhere  the  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye. 

One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod, 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 


iUarquis  of  iUoutrosc. 

James  Grahani,  Marquis  of  Montrose  (Ifil2-1G.50),  de- 
scended from  an  ancient  Scotch  family,  was  a  famous 
royalist  under  Charles  I.  He  won  a  scries  of  brilliant 
victories  as  connnander  of  the  royal  forces.  Undei-  a 
coumiission  from  Charles  II.,  then  in  exile,  lie  landed  iu 


MAUQFIS   OF  MOXTROSE.—SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING.— SIR  JOHN  BENE  AM. 


103 


Scotland,  but  his  little  invading  army  was  routed,  and 
he  was  seized,  convej-ed  to  Edinburgh,  and  tlierc  hung 
and  quartered,  May  21st,  1(550,  after  tiie  barbarous  fash- 
ion of  the  times.  Of  tlie  following  spirited  poem  there 
are  several  corrupt  versions. 


I'LL  NEVER  LOVE  THEE  MORE. 

My  tlear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy  : 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtnous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone  ; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
Who  dares  not  pnt  it  to  the  touch 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  will  reign  and  govern  still, 

And  always  give  the  law, 
And  have  each  subject  at  my  will. 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe  : 
But  'gain-st  my  batteries  if  I  find 

Thou  storm,  or  vex  me  sore, 
As  if  thou  set  me  as  a  blind, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

And  in  the  empire  of  thy  heart. 

Where  I  should  solely  be, 
If  others  do  pretend  a  part, 

Or  dare  to  share  with  me, — 
Or  committees  if  thou  erect. 

Or  go  on  such  a  score, 
I'll  smiling  mock  at  thy  neglect. 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  no  faithless  action  stain 

Thy  love  and  constant  word, 
I'll  make  thee  famous  by  my  pen. 

And  glorious  by  my  sword : 
I'll  servo  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

As  ne'er  was  known  before  ; 
I'll  deck  and  crown  thy  head  with  bays. 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 


Sir  iJoljii  5iul\ling. 


Suckling  (ICOO-KUl)  was  born  at  Witham,  in  Middle- 
sex. His  father  was  Secretary  of  State  to  James  I.  Tlie 
young  poet  went  abroad,  and  served  under  Gustavus 
Adolphus  of  Sweden.  Returning  to  England,  he  at- 
tempted with  others  to  deliver  Strafford  from  the  Tow- 
er; for  this  he  was  ordered  to  appear  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  whereupon  he  set  out  for  France. 
While  stopping  at  an  inn,  he  was  robbed  by  a  servant, 
who,  to  prevent  pursuit,  stuck  the  blade  of  a  penknife 
inside  his  master's  boot,  and  when  Suckling,  in  haste, 
tried  to  draw  it  on,  he  received  a  wound,  of  wliich  he 
died. 


WHY   SO   PALE   AND   WAN? 

WTiy  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her. 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  cau't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame,  this  will  not  move. 

This  cannot  take  her ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love. 

Nothing  can  make  her ; 

The  devil  take  her! 


Sir  3o\)\\  Penljam. 

Denhara  (1615-1668),  son  of  the  Chief- baron  of  Ex- 
chequer in  Ireland,  was  born  at  Dublin.  He  was  made 
Governor  of  Farnham  Castle  by  Charles  I.,  who  told 
him,  on  seeing  one  of  his  poems,  "that  when  men  are 
young,  and  have  little  else  to  do,  they  may  vent  the  over- 
flowings of  their  fancy  in  that  way;  but  when  they  are 
thouglit  fit  for  more  serious  employments,  if  they  still 
persisted  in  that  course,  it  looked  as  if  they  minded  not 
the  way  to  any  better."  The  poet  stood  corrected,  and 
his  Muse  was  dumb  for  a  time.  His  marriage  was  an 
unhappj-  one,  and  his  closing  years  were  darkened  by  in- 
sanity, from  which,  however,  he  recovered.  His  princi- 
pal poem  is  "Cooper's  Hill,"  which  was  highly  praised 
for  a  few  generations,  but  would  hardly  have  escaped 
oblivion  if  produced  in  tiiese  days ;  but  Dryden  said  of 
it:  "For  the  majest}'  of  the  style  it  is,  and  ever  will  be, 
the  exact  standard  of  good  writing;"  and  Pope  extolled 
it.  We  quote  the  well-known  passage  descriptive  of 
the  Thames  :  it  is  far  above  anything  else  in  the  poem. 


104 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  lUUTISlI  ASI>  AMERICAN  POETnT. 


DESCUIPTIOX  OF  THE   THAMES. 

l"HOM    "  CoorEU's     lIlLL." 

My  eye,  descemlin;;  iVoin  the  liill,  surveys 

Where  Tlianu-s  ani()n;f  tlie  waiitDii  valleys  strays: 

Tlianios,  tlie  most  loved  of  all  the  Occau's  sous 

By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs ; 

Hasting  to  pay  liis  tribute  to  the  sea, 

Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity. 

Thon<;h  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance  hold, 

Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold; 

His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  t'  explore, 

Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 

O'er  which  he  kindlj'  spreads  his  spacious  wiug. 

And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring; 

Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  foiul  a  stay, 

Like  mothers  which  their  infants  overlay; 

Nor  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave, 

Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he  gave. 

No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 

The  mower's  hopes,  uor  mock  the  ploughman's  toil ; 

But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  Hows ; 

First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  docs. 

Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined. 

But  free  and  connuou  as  the  sea  or  wind, — 

When  he,  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores, 

Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 

Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  tours 

Brings  homo  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies  ours; 

Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it  wants. 

Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities,  plants. 

So  that  to  MS  no  thing,  no  iilace,  is  strange, 

While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  Exchange. 

Oh,  could  I  tlow  like  thee !   and  make  thy  stream 

My  great  exami>le,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 

Though   deep,  yet   clear;    though    gentle,  yet   not 

dull ; 
Strong,  without  rage;  without  o'erflowing,  full ! 


Samuel  Uutlcr. 

The  son  of  a  Worcestershire  farmer,  Samuel  Butler 
(1613-1680)  is  not  known  to  have  had  a  miiversity  edu- 
cation. Having  lost  his  wife's  fortune  through  bad  in- 
vestments, he  became  an  author,  and  published  in  1663 
the  first  part  of  liis  "Hudiliras,"  a  satire  launched  at  tlic 
Puritan  party.  It  is  indcl)ted  for  much  of  its  celebrity 
to  public  sympathy  witli  its  partisan  hits.  It  had  a  large 
success,  and  has  been  praised  as  "  the  best  burlesque 
poem  in  the  English  language" — which  is  not  saying 
much  for  it.  It  now  has  few  readers.  But  it  contains 
several  epigrammatic  expressions  which  have  become 
proverbial,  and  it  is  rich  in  wit  and  wisdom.     Butler 


died  obscurely  in  his  sixty-eighth  year,  liaving  suffered 
deeply  from  that  hope  deferred  wliicli  maketli  tlie  lieart 
biek. 


THE  LEAKNIXG  OF  HUDIBKAS. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  .skilled  in  analytic. 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side: 
On  either  which  he  could  dispute. 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute. 
He'il  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument, — a  man's  no  horse ; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ; 
A  calf  an  alderman  ;   a  goose  .a  justice  ; 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation. 
And  jiay  with  ratiocination  : 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 

For  rhetoric — he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth  but  out  there  flew  a  trope. 
And  when  he  happened  to  break  oft" 
1'  the  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
He'd  hard  words  ready  to  show  why. 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by  ; 
Else,  when  ■witli  greatest  art  he  spoke, 
You'd  think  he  talked  like  other  folk ; 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 

But,  when  he  pleased  to  show't,  his  speech, 
In  loftiness  of  sound  Avas  rich  ; 
A  Babylonish  dialect, 
Which  leariK^d  pedants  ninch  aflect. 
It  was  a  party-colored  dress 
Of  patched  and  piebald  languages. 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Gi'eek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin. 
It  had  an  odd  i)roniiscuous  tone. 
As  if  he'd  talked  three  parts  in  one. 
Which  made  some  think  when  he  did  gabble 
They'd  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 
Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 
A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 


FKOM  "MISCELLANEOUS  THOUGHTS." 

Far  greater  numbers  1iave  been  lost  by  hopes 
Thau  all  the  magazines  of  daggers,  ropes. 
And  other  ammunitions  of  despair, 
Were  ever  able  to  despatch  by  fear. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR.— nENBY  MORE. 


lo: 


lu  Koine  no  temple  was  so  low 
As  that  of  Honor,  built  to  show 
How  humble  honor  ought  to  be, 
Though  there  'twas  all  authority. 

Some  people's  fortunes,  like  a  weft  or  stx'ay, 
Are  onlj'  gained  bj'  losing  of  their  way. 

The  truest  characters  of  ignorance 

Are  vanity  and  pride  and  arrogance, 

As  blind  men  use  to  bear  their  noses  higher 

Than  those  that  have  their  eyes  and  sight  entire. 

All  smatterers  are  more  brisk  and  pert 
Thau  those  that  understand  au  art ; 
As  little  sparkles  shine  more  bright 
Than  glowiug  coals  that  give  them  light. 

Lovo  is  too  great  a  happiness 

For  wretched  mortals  to  possess ; 

For  could  it  hold  inviolate 

Against  those  cruelties  of  Fate 

Which  all  felicities  below 

By  rigid  laws  are  subject  to, 

It  would  become  a  bliss  too  high 

For  perishing  mortality, 

Translate  to  earth  the  joys  above  ; 

For  nothing  goes  to  heaven  but  love. 


Known  chiefly  as  a  theologian,  Taylor  (lfll.3-1667)  was 
also  in  the  highest  sense  a  poet,  as  his  devotional  writ- 
ings, though  in  prose,  abundantly  show.  He  was  a  na- 
tive of  Cambridge,  and  having  taken  his  degree  at  Caius 
College,  was  admitted  to  holy  orders  when  he  was  little 
more  than  twenty.  His  wife  was  said  to  have  been  a 
natural  daugliter  of  Charles  I.  Taylor  attached  himself 
to  the  royal  cause,  and  after  encountering  manj^  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune,  incident  to  civil  wars,  was  made  a  bish- 
op by  Charles  H.  in  1661.  He  seems  to  have  been  thor- 
oughly estimable  as  a  man,  and  faithful  in  the  discharge 
of  his  clerical  duties. 


THY   KINGDOM   COME. 

Lord  !   come  away  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 
Thy  road  is  ready ;   and  thy  paths,  made  straight, 

With  longing  expectation  wait 
The  consecration  of  thy  beauteous  feet! 
Ride  on  triumphantly !     Behold,  we  lay 
Our  lusts  and  proud  wills  in  thy  way ! 


Hosanua!     Welcome  to  our  hearts!     Lord,  here 
Thou  hast  a  temple  too  ;    and  lull  as  dear 
As  that  of  Sion,  and  as  full  oi'  sin  : 
Nothing  but  thieves  and  robbers  dwell  therein  : 
Enter,  and  chase  them  forth,  and  cleanse  the  lloor! 
Cruelly  them,  that  they  may  never  more 
Profane  that  holy  place 

Where  thou  hast  chose  to  set  thy  face ! 

And  then,  if  our  stiff  tongues  shall  bo 
Mute  in  the  praises  of  thy  Deitj', 

The  stones  out  of  the  temple  wall 
Shall  ciy  aloud,  and  call 
Hosauna!  and  thy  glorious  footsteps  greet!    Amen! 


Cjcnrj)  illorc. 


Henry  More  (1614-1687),  who  published  in  1643  a  "  Pla- 
tonical  Song  of  the  Soul,"  in  four  books,  was  six  years 
younger  than  Milton.  He  lived  a  hermit -life  at  Cam- 
bridge, was  a  great  admirer  of  Plato,  a  correspondent  of 
Descartes,  and  a  friend  of  Cudworth.  He  wrote  various 
prose  works,  and  in  his  "Immortality  of  the  Soul" 
showed  that  he  was  a  full  believer  in  apparitions  and 
various  psychical  phenomena.  He  fully  sympathized 
with  Glanvil  in  his  belief  that  there  was  a  substantial 
basis  of  spiritual  agency  in  witchcraft ;  and  he  believed 
that  he  himself  had  had  superhuman  communications. 
He  seems  to  have  adopted  the  Platonic  notion  of  the 
soul's  pre-existence. 

THE   PEE-EXISTENCY  OF  THE   SOUL. 
Rise,  then,  Aristo's  son,  assist  my  Muse! 
Let  that  high  sprite  which  did  enrich  thy  brains 
With  choice  conceits,  some  worthy  thoughts  infuse 
Worthy  thy  title  and  the  reader's  j)ains. 
And  thou,  O  Lyciau  sage  !   whose  Tpen  contains 
Treasures  of  heavenly  light  with  gentle  lire, 
Give  leave  awhile  to  warm  me  at  thy  flames, 
That  I  may  also  kindle  sweet  desire 
In  holy  minds  that  unto  highest  things  aspire. 

For  I  would  sing  tiie  pre-existcncy 

Of  human  souls,  and  live  once  o'er  again, 

By  recollection  and  quick  memory, 

All  that  is  past  since  iirst  we  all  began  ; 

But  all  too  shallow  be  my  wits  to  scan 

So  deep  a  i)oiiit,  and  mind  too  dull  to  clear 

So  dark  a  matter.     But  thou,  more  than  man, 

Aread,  thou  sacred  soul  of  Plotin  dear; 

Tell  me  what  mortals  are — tell  what  of  old  they 


Show  fitly  how  the  pre-existent  soul 
Enacts,  and  enters  bodies  here  below, 


106 


CYCLOP J:1JI A    OF  HRlTlSll  ASD   AMERICAN  POIITRY. 


Aud  theu,  entire  unhurt,  can  leave  this  nionl, 
And  tlicnee  her  airy  vehicle  can  draw, 
In  which  by  sense  and  motion  they  may  linow 
Better  than  wo  what  tilings  transacted  be 
Upon  the  earth,  and,  when  they  list,  may  show 
Themselves  to  friend  or  foe — their  phantasie 
Moulding  their  airy  orb  to  gross  consistency. 

Wherefore  the  soul,  possessed  of  matter  meet, 
If  she  hath  power  to  operate  thereon, 
Can  eath  transform  tliis  Aehicle  to  sight, 
Dight  with  due  color  lignration  ; 
Can  speak,  can  walk,  and  then  dispear  anon. 
Spreading  herself  in  the  dispersed  air; 
Theu,  if  she  please,  recall  again  what's  gone  : 
Those  the  unconth  mysteries  of  fancy  are, 
Than   thunder  far   more  strong,  more   (juick   than 
lijlhtuiuff  far. 


FROM   "THE   PHILOSOPHER'S   DEVOTIOX. 

Sing  aloud  !   His  praise  rehearse 
"Who  hath  made  the  universe. 

God  is  good,  is  wise,  is  strong — 
Witness  all  the  creature-throng ! 
Is  confessed  by  every  tongue — 
All  return  from  whence  they  sprung. 
As  the  thankful  rivers  pay 
What  they  borrowed  of  the  sea. 

Now  myself  I  do  resign  : 
Take  me  whole,  I  all  am  thine. 

Save  me,  God,  from  self-desire. 
Death's  dark  pit,  hell's  raging  tire. 
Envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  ire  ! 
Let  not  lust  my  soul  bemire! 

Quit  from  these,  thy  jiraise  I'll  sing. 
Loudly  sweep  the  trembling  string. 
Bear  a  part,  O  wisdom's  sons, 
Freed  from  vain  religions  I 

#  *  7f  #  ^  « 

Rise  at  once — let's  sacrifice  ! 
Odors  sweet  perfume  the  skies ! 
See  how  heavenly  lightning  fires 
Hearts  inflamed  with  high  aspires: 
All  the  substance  of  our  souls 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  rolls! 
Leave  we  nothing  to  our-selves 
Save  a  voice — what  need  wo  else  ? — 
Or  a  hand  to  wear  and  tire 
On  the  thankful  lute  or  lyre. 

Sing  aloud!   His  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  tlic  universe! 


UicljarLi  Baiter. 


Born  at  Rowdon,  in  81irupshirc,  Baxter  (1615-l(i01),  af- 
ter some  desultory  work  at  school,  and  a  course  of  pri- 
vate theological  study,  passed  into  the  ministry  of  the 
Cliureh  of  England.  But  when  the  Act  of  Uniformity 
was  passed  in  10G:3,  he  left  that  Church  and  spent  several 
years  in  active  literary  work.  His  "Saitits'  Everlasting 
Rest"  and  his  "Call  to  the  Unconverted"  had  vast  suc- 
cess. His  jjublished  writings  (1830)  till  twenty- three 
volumes.  He  believed  in  intercommunication  with  the 
spiril-world,  and  relates  what  he  regarded  as  well  au- 
thenticated instances  of  supcrscnsual  power.  He  suf- 
fered much  for  his  non-conformist  principles,  and  was 
brouglit  (1G84)  before  the  notorious  Jeffreys  on  a  fiivo- 
lous  charge  of  seditious  utterances  in  his  Notes  on  tin' 
New  Testament.  The  brutal  judge,  on  Baxter's  at- 
tempting to  speak,  roared  out:  "Richard,  Richard,  dost 
tliou  think  we  will  let  thee  poison  the  court?  Richard, 
thou  art  an  old  fellow,  an  old  knave ;  thou  hast  written 
books  enough  to  load  a  cart.  Hadst  thou  been  whipt  out 
of  thy  writing  trade  forty  years  ago,  it  had  been  happy." 

A  poem  of  108  lines, by  Baxter,  entitled  "The  Valedic- 
tion," appears  in  several  collections :  but  it  is  inferior 
to  the  hymn  we  publish  ;  and  of  which  eight  only  of  the 
eleven  four-line  stanzas  are  here  given. 


THY  WILL   BE   DONE. 

Now  it  belongs  not  to  my  care 

Whether  I  die  or  live ; 
To  love  and  serve  Thee  is  my  share, 

And  this  Thy  grace  must  give. 

If  death  shall  bruise  the  springing  seed 

Before  it  come  to  fruit, 
The  will  with  Thee  goes  for  the  deed, 

Thy  life  was  in  the  root. 

;r  >  *  r'  *  * 

Would  I  long  bear  my  heavy  load, 

And  keep  luy  sorrows  long? 
Would  I  long  sin  against  my  God, 

And  his  dear  mercy  wrong  ? 

How  much  is  sinful  tlesh  my  foe, 

That  doth  my  soul  pervert 
To  linger  here  in  sin  aud  woe, 

And  steals  from  God  my  heart! 

Christ  leads  me  through  no  darker  rooms 

Than  he  went  through  before; 
He  that  unto  God's  kingdom  comes 

Must  enter  by  this  door. 

Come,  Lord,  when  grace  hath  made  me  nu'ct 
Thy  blessed  face  to  see ; 


HENRY   VAVGHAN. 


107 


For  if  thy  work  on  earth  be  sweet, 
What  will  thy  glory  be? 

Thou  I  shall  end  my  sad  coiui)laiiits, 

And  Aveary  siuful  days, 
Aud  join  with  the  triumphant  saints 

That  sing  Jehovah's  praise. 

My  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small ; 

The  eye  of  faith  is  dim  ; 
But  it's  enough  that  Christ  knows  all, 

And  I  shall  be  with  Him. 


i)n\x\\  llauciljan. 


A  native  of  Wales,  Vaughan  (1C14-1695)  studied  at 
Oxford,  lirst  became  a  lawyer,  tlieu  a  physician  ;  but  in 
neither  profession  was  he  successful  in  earuing  a  com- 
petency. Poverty  seems  to  have  dogged  his  steps.  In 
the  latter  part  of  Ids  life  he  became  devout.  Amidst  tlie 
obscurities  of  liis  verse  there  are  beauties  that  bespeak 
the  genuine  poet.  Campbell,  who  had  little  partiality 
for  pious  poets,  compares  these  beauties  to  "wild  flow- 
ers on  a  barren  heath."  In  his  own  "Rainbow,"  he 
has,  perhaps,  unwittingly  borrowed  a  "wild  flower"  or 
two  from  poor  Vaughau. 


THE   RETREAT. 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shiued  in  my  angel  infancy! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense. 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  travel  back 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  iilain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 


From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm-trees. 
But  all!   my  soul  Avith  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ; 
And,  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


THE   RAINBOW. 

Still  young  and  fine!  but  what  is  still  in  view 
We  slight  as  old  aud  soiled,  though  fresh  and  new. 
How  bright  wert  thon  when  Shem's  admiring  eye 
Thy  burnished,  flaming  arch  did  first  descry ! 
When  Terah,  Nalior,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers,  in  one  knot 
Did  with  inteutive  looks  watch  every  hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower! 
When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white   aud 

fair. 
Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air ; 
Rain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and  pours 
Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  milk  on  grass  aud  flowers. 
Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine !  the  sure  tie 
Of  thy  Lord's  hand,  the  object  of  his  eye! 
When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 
Distant  aud  low,  1  can  in  thine  see  him 
Who  looks  upon  thee  from  his  glorious  throne, 
And  minds  the  covenant  'twixt  all  and  One. 


THEY  ARE  ALL   GOXE  ! 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light! 

Aud  I  alone  sit  lingering  here! 
Their  verj'  memory  is  fair  and  bright. 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove. 

Or  tho.se  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, — 

My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  aud  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope!    and  high  humility! 
High  as  the  heavens  above ! 


108 


CTCLOr^DIA    OF  lililTISH  AM)   AMERICAN  I'OKTliV. 


These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them 

UK" 

To  kiiidlti  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  hoautooiis  death;   tlio  jewel  of  the  just! 

Shiniiij;  nowhere  but  in  the  dark; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He  that  hath   f(tiind  some  lled;;ed  1)ird's-nest  may 
know 

At  thst  sijiht  if  the  bird  bo  llown  ; 
But  what  lair  dell  or  <?rovo  ho  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  liiiu  unknown. 

And  yet  as  angels  in  some  brij;liter  dn-anis 
Call  to  the  soul  Avhen  man  doth  sleep, 

So   some  strange   thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 
themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  iuto  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  llames  must  needs  burn  there; 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room. 
She'll  shiue  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee! 
Resuuie  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty! 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass, — 

Or  else  remoAe  me  hence  unto  that  hill, 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


THE   REQUEST. 

Thou  who  didst  deny  to  me 
This  world's  adored  felicity, 
And  every  big  imperious  lust. 
Which  fools  admire  in  sinful  dust; 
With  those  fine  subtle  twists  that  tie 
Their  bundles  of  foul  gallantry;  — 
Keep  still  my  weak  eyes  from  the  shine 
Of  those  gay  things  which  are  not  Thine! 
And  shut  my  cars  against  the  noise 
Of  wicked,  though  applauded,  joys! 
For  Thou  in  any  land  hast  store 
Of  shades  and  coverts  for  Thy  jtoor; 
Where  from  the  busy  dust  and  heat, 
As  well  as  storms,  they  may  retreat. 


A  rock,  a  bush  are  downy  beds, 

\\lii  11  Thou  art  there,  crowning  their  heads 

Willi  secret  blessings,  or  a  tire 

Made  of  the  Comforter's  live  fire. 

And,  when  Thy  goodness,  in  the  dress 

Of  anger,  will  not  seem  to  bless, 

Yet  dost  thou  give  them  that  rich  raiu 

Which  as  it  drops  clears  all  again. 

O  what  kind  visits  daily  pass 
'Twixt  Thy  great  self  and  such  poor  grass! 
With  what  sweet  looks  doth  Thy  love  shiue 
On  these  low  violets  of  Thine, 
While  the  tall  tulip  is  accurst. 
And  crowns  imperial  die  with  thirst! 
O  give  me  still  those  secret  meals. 
Those  rare  repasts  which  Thy  love  deals ! 
Give  me  that  joy  which  none  can  grieve, 
And  which  in  all  griefs  doth  relieve. 
This  is  the  iiortiou  thy  child  begs; 
Not  that  of  rust,  and  rags,  and  dregs. 


LIKE  AS  A  NURSE. 

Even  as  a  nurse,  whose  child's  imperfect  pace 
Can  hardly  lead  his  foot  from  place  to  place, 
Leaves  her  fond  kissing,  sets  him  dowu  to  go, 
Nor  does  uphold  him  for  a  step  or  two; 
But  when  she  finds  that  he  begins  to  fall. 
She  holds  him  up  and  kisses  him  Avithal : 
So  God  from  man  sometimes  withdraws  his  hand 
Awhile  to  teach  bis  infant  faith  to  stand: 
But  when  he  sees  his  feeble  strength  begiu 
To  fail,  he  gently  takes  him  up  again. 


IVuljariJ  Conclacc. 


Lovelace  (lCl.S-1058),  born  in  a  kiiightlj'  mansion,  was 
educated  at  Oxford.  Of  remarkable  physical  beauty,  he 
was  the  most  unhappy  of  the  Cavalier  i)octs.  For  his 
gallant  struggles  in  the  royal  cause  he  suffered  imprison- 
ment, during  which  he  published  his  "Odes  and  Songs." 
He  spent  his  fortune  in  the  service  of  the  King  and  in 
aid  of  poorer  friends.  The  Lucasta  {Faix  casta,  pure  light  i 
of  his  verse  was  Lady  Saclieverell,  whom  he  loved,  but 
who  mairied  another,  after  false  reports  that  Lovehur 
had  been  killed  at  Dunkirk.  Under  Cromwell  he  was 
set  free,  but  lived  in  extreme  poverty,  and  died  of  coii- 
sumi)tion,  in  great  distress,  in  an  alley  in  Shoe  Lane. 
Mueh  of  his  poetry  is  of  little  value,  and  disligurcd  with 
the  obscurities  and  afl'eetations  which  were  the  fashion 
of  the  day.  Two  at  least  of  his  poems  are  likely  1n 
last  as  long  as  the  English  language.  They  breathe  llu' 
knightly  spirit  of  a  true  nobility. 


inCHARD  LOVELACE.— ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


109 


TO   ALTHEA  (FROM   PRISON). 

Wheu  Love  ■with  nnconfiudd  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Altbea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
Wlien  I  lie  tangled  in  her  liair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
Tlie  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  snch  liberty. 

When  flowing  cnps  rnn  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Tbanies, 
Onr  careless  heads  with  roses  bonnd. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  iu  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  slug 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
Wheu  I  shall  voice  alond  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be. 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  inuoceut  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free. 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


TO  LUCASTA  (ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS). 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind. 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you  too  shall  adore  ; 


I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more. 


In  the  pcrioil  of  his  reputation,  Cowley  (1018-1667) 
precedes  Milton  ;  lie  died  in  the  yeiu-  of  the  publication 
of  "  Paradise  Lost."  He  was  the  posthumous  son  of  a 
London  stationer ;  entered  Cambridge  University,  and 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  published  a  volume  of  poer"B,  show- 
ing marvellous  precocity.  During  the  Civil  War  he  was 
ejected  from  Cambridge,  and  went  to  Oxford.  Iu  1646 
he  went  with  the  Queen  to  Paris,  and  was  active  in  man- 
aging the  cipher  correspondence  between  King  Charles 
and  his  wife.  In  1647  appeared  Cowley's  love  poems, 
under  the  title  of  "The  Mistress."  They  are  pure 
works  of  imagination.  He  never  married;  and  it  is  said 
that  although  he  was  once,  and  only  once,  in  love,  he 
was  too  shy  to  tell  his  passion.  He  had  "the  modesty 
of  a  man  of  genius  and  the  humility  of  a  Christian."  Iu 
his  style  he  belongs  to  the  metaijhysical  school,  of  which 
Donne  was  the  founder :  its  chief  characteristic  being 
the  affectation  of  remote  and  uncommon  imagery  and 
obscure  conceits,  often  drawn  from  scientific  sources, 
and  attenuated  to  exhaustion.  His  praise  of  Brutus  in 
one  of  his  odes  lost  him  the  favor  of  Charles  II.  His 
"Davideis".  is  an  unfinished  epic  in  four  books,  writ- 
ten while  he  was  at  Cambridge.  He  died  in  his  forty- 
ninth  year,  and  was  interred  with  great  pomp  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  between  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  No  poet 
of  his  day  was  more  popular  than  Cowley,  though  he 
is  now  but  little  read. 


MY   PICTURE. 

Here,  take  my  likeness  with  you,  whilst  'tis  so ; 

For  wheu  from  hence  you  go. 

The  next  sun's  rising  ■will  behold 

Me  pale,  and  lean,  and  old. 

The  man  who  did  this  picture  draw 

W^ill  swear  next  day  my  face  he  never  saw. 

I  really  believe,  within  a  while. 

If  you  upon  this  shadow  smile. 

Your  presence  will  such  vigor  give 

(Your  presence  w'hich  makes  all  things  live!) 

And  absence  so  much  alter  me, 

This  will  the  substance,  I  the  shadow  be. 

When  from  your  well-wrought  cabinet  you  take  it, 

And  your  bright  looks  awake  it, 

Ah,  be  not  frighted  if  you  see 

The  new-souled  picture  gaze  on  thee. 

And  hear  it  breathe  a  sigh  or  two  ; 

For  those  are  the  first  tbiuffs  that  it  will  do. 


110 


CTCLOrJEDJA    OF  JtlllTISIl  AM)  AMKlilCAX  rUETRY. 


My  rival-imago  will  be  tlieu  thought  bleat, 

And  laugh  at  lue  as  dispossest ; 

But  thou,  who  (if  1  know  tlioe  right) 

I'th'  substance  dost  not   niiuh  delight, 

Wilt  rather  send  again  lor  me, 

Who  then  shall  but  my  picture's  picture  be. 


TENTANDA   EST   VIA. 

What  shall  I  do  to  be  forever  known, 

And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own  ? 
I  shall,  like  beasts  or  common  people,  die, 

Unless  you  write  my  elegy  ; 
Whilst  others  great,  by  being  born,  are  grown  ; 

Their  mothers'  labor,  uot  their  own. 
In  this  scale  gold,  in  th'  other  fame  does  lie. 

The  weight  of  that  mounts  this  so  high. 
These  men  are  Fortune's  jewels,  moulded  bright ; 

Brought  forth  with  their  own  fire  and  light : 
If  I,  her  vulgar  stone,  for  either  look. 

Out  of  myself  it  must  be  strook. 
Yet  I  must  on.     What  sound  is't  strikes  mine  ear? 

Sure  I  Fame's  trumpet  hear ; 
It  sounds  like  the  last  trumpet ;   for  it  .can 

Raise  up  the  buried  man. 
Unpast  Alps  stop  me;   but  I'll  cut  them  all, 

Aud  march,  the  Muses'  Hannibal. 
Hence,  all  the  flattering  vanities  that  lay 

Nets  of  roses  in  the  way  ! 
Hence,  the  desire  of  honors  or  estate, 

And  all  that  is  not  above  Fate! 
Hence,  Love  himself,  that  tyrant  of  my  d;iys, 

Which  intercepts  my  coming  praise. 
Come,  my  best  friends,  my  books,  and  le;id  me  on  ; 

'Tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Welcome,  great  Stagyrite  !'  and  teach  mc  now 

All  I  was  born  to  know  ; 
Thy  scholar's  victories  thou  dost  far  outdo  ; 

Ho  conquered  th'  earth,  the  whole  world  you. 
Welcome,  learn'd  Cicero  I   whose  blest  tongue  and 
wit 

Preserves  Rome's  greatness  yet : 
Thou  art  the  first  of  orators ;   only  he 

Who  best  can  praise  thee  next  must  be. 
Welcome  the  Mantuan  swan,  Virgil  the  wise ! 

Whose  verse  walks  highest,  but  not  fiies; 
Who  brought  green  Poesy  to  her  perfect  age. 

And  made  that  art  which  was  a  rage. 


'  Aristotle  was  born  nt  Stagyr.i,  in  Macedonia,  near  the 
month  of  the  Strynion.  lie  was  the  instructor  of  Alexander 
the  Great. 


Tell  me,  ye  mighty  Three!  what  shall  I  do 

To  be  like  one  of  you  f 
]{iit  you  have  climbed  the  mountain's  top,  there  sit 

On  the  calm  flourishing  head  of  it. 
And,  whilst  with  wearied  stei>s  we  upwards  go, 

.See  us,  and  clouds,  below. 


A   HAPPY   LIFE. 

I'ARArilllASE    IKOM    MARTIAL,  BoOK    X. 

Since,  dearest  friend,  'tis  your  desire  to  see 
A  true  receipt  of  happiness  from  mc. 
These  are  the  chief  ingredients,  if  not  all : 
'J'iike  au  estate  neither  too  great  uor  small, 
Which  qiKntttim  siiffivit  the  doctors  call ; 
L('t  tliis  estate  from  parents'  care  descend. 
The  getting  it  too  iimch  of  life  does  spend. 
Take  such  a  ground,  whose  gratitude  may  be 
A  fair  encouragement  for  industry ; 
Let  constant  fires  the  winter's  fury  tame. 
And  let  thy  kitchen's  be  a  vestal  flame  : 
Thee  to  the  town  let  never  suit  at  law. 
And  rarely,  very  rarely,  business  draw  ; 
Tiiy  active  mind  in  e([iial  teiuj)er  keep. 
In  undisturbed  peace,  yet  not  in  sleep : 
Let  exercise  a  vigorous  health  maintain, 
Without  which  all  the  composition's  vain. 
In  the  same  weight  prudence  and  innocence  take, 
Atia  of  each  does  the  just  mixture  make. 
But  a  few  friendships  wear,  and  let  them  be 
By  nature  and  by  fortune  fit  for  thee; 
Instead  of  art  aud  luxury  in  food. 
Let  mirth  and  freedom  make  thy  table  good. 
If  any  cares  into  thy  daytime  creep. 
At  night,  without  wine's  opium,  let  them  sleep  ; 
Let  rest,  wliieli  Nature  does  to  darkness  wed. 
And  not  lust,  recommend  to  thee  thy  bed. 
Be  satisfied,  and  pleased  with  what  thou  art, 
Act  cheerfully  and  well  th'  allotted  part, 
Enjoj-  tlie  present  hour,  be  thankful  for  the  past, 
And  neiliier  fear,  nor  wish,  the  approaches  of  the 
last. 


MAPvK   THAT   SWIFT   ARROW. 

Mark  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  cuts  the  air, 

How  it  outruns  thy  following  eye! 

Use  all  persuasions  now,  and  try 
If  thou  canst  call  it  back  or  stay  it  there. 

That  way  it  went ;  but  thou  shalt  find 

No  track  is  left  behind. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY.— ANDREW  MARVELL. 


Ill 


Fool !  'tis  thy  life,  and  the  fond  archer  thoii ; 

Of  all  the  time  thou  'st  shot  away, 

I'll  bid  theo  fetch  but  yesterday, 
And  it  shall  be  too  hard  a  task  to  do. 

Besides  repeutauce,  what  canst  tind 

That  it  hath  left  behind  ? 

Our  life  is  carried  with  too  stron<i-  a  tide; 

A  doubtfnl  cloud  our  snbstance  bears. 

And  is  the  horse  of  all  onr  years : 
Each  day  doth  on  a  winged  whirlwind  ride. 

We  and  our  glass  run  ont,  and  must 

Both  render  up  our  dust. 

But  his  past  life  who  without  grief  can  see, 
Who  never  thinks  his  end  too  near. 
But  says  to  Fame,  thou  art  mine  Iieir, — 

That  man  extends  life's  natural  brevity 

To  outlive  Nestor  in  a  day. 


OX  THE   DEATH   OF   CEASHAW. 

Poet  and  Saint !   to  thee  alone  are  given 
The  two  most  sacred  names  of  earth  and  heaven; 
Tlia  hard  and  rarest  union  which  can  be, 
Next  that  of  Godhead  with  humanity. 
Long  did  the  Muses,  banished  slaves,  abide, 
And  built  vain  pyramids  to  mortal  pride  ; 
Like    Moses   thou    (tho'   si)ells    and   charms    with- 
stand) 
Hast    brought    them    nobly   home,  back    to    their 

Holy  Land. 
Ah,  wretched  we!   i^oets  of  earth  I  but  thou 
Wert  living  the  same  poet  wliich  thou'rt  now. 
Whilst  angels  sing  to  thee  their  airs  divine. 
And  joy  in  an  applause  so  great  as  thine, 
Equal  society  with  them  to  liold. 
Thou  ueed'st  not  make  new  songs,  but  say  the  old : 
And  they  (kind  spirits!)  shall  all  rejoice  to  see 
How  little  less  than  they  exalted  man  may  be. 


FEOM    "THE   WISH." 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have. 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone  ; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known  ; 

Rumor  can  ope  the  grave. 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice,  of  friends. 


Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light. 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Thau  palace ;   and  should  fitting  bo 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's  ;  and  jdeasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space  ; 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 
These  unbought  sports,  this  hai)py  state, 
I  would  uot  fear,  uor  wish,  my  fate  ; 

But  boldly  say,  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them  ;   I  have  lived  to-day. 


^ubrciu  illarricU. 

The  friend  of  Milton,  and  his  assistant  in  the  Latin 
Secretaryship,  Marvell  (1G20-1G7S)  was  born  in  Lincohi- 
shire,  and  educated  at  Cambridge.  His  education  was 
superior.  He  wrote  both  poetry  and  prose,  and  was 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Hull.  A  man  of  inflexible  in- 
tegrity, he  was  a  strenuous  foe  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion,  and  as  a  political  pamphleteer  took  a  high  rank. 
Repeatedly  threatened  witli  assassination,  he  died  sud- 
denly— from  the  efiects  of  poison,  it  \Yas  believed.  There 
is  a  vein  of  elegance  and  pathos  in  his  poems,  and  tliey 
reveal  the  genuine,  liigh -hearted  thinker.  His  Latin 
poems  are  his  best.  The  familiar  poem,  "The  Spacious 
Firmament  on  High,"  is  confidently  attributed  by  many 
to  Marvell.  That  he  was  equal  to  it  is  evident;  but  the 
proofs  are  insufHeient  to  authorize  us  to  take  from  Ad- 
dison what  has  so  long  been  ascribed  to  him.  The  sim- 
plicity and  directness  of  the  style  are  Addisonian  rather 
than  Marvellian.  The  piece  first  appeared  anonymously 
in  the  Spectator,  edited  b\'  Addison.  The  Spectator  was 
begun  in  1711,  aud  Marvell  died  in  1678.  If  the  piece 
was  from  his  pen,  what  good  reason  was  there,  after  his 
death,  for  withholding  his  name  ?  It  was  in  no  spirit  of 
boasting  that,  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  correspondents, 
Marvell  wrote : 

"Disce,  piier,  virtutem  ex  me,  vcnimqiie  laborera  ; 
Fortuuam  ex  aliis." 


SONG   OF  THE  EMIGRANTS   IN   BERMUDA.' 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  uuespied. 


'  Emifrrants  supposerl  to  lie  driven  to  expatriate  themselves 
bv  the  iroverument  of  Charles  I. 


112 


CYCLOl'JlhlA    OF  BRITISH  AM)   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song: 
"What  should  we  do  but  sing  his  ])raiso 
Tliat  led  lis  through  tlic  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
Aiul  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
Where  he  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
Tliat  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Ho  lauds  lis  on  a  grassy  stage 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelate's  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  caro 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  iu  a  green  night, 
And  does  iu  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Oriuus  shows. 
He  makes  the  tigs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melous  at  our  feet, 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  Lebanon,  he  stores  the  land. 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shoi-e. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
Tlie  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast, 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
Oh,  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt 
'Til  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which,  then,  perhaps,  rebouuding,  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexiqne  Bay." 

Thus  sung  they,  iu  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note. 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  tliey  kept  the  time. 


COURAGE,  MY  SOUL! 

A  DIALOGUi:   BETWEEN  THE   HESOLVED   SOL'L   AND 
CliEATED   rLKASL'lJE. 

Courage,  my  soul !  now  learn  to  wield 
The  weight  of  thine  immortal  shield  ; 
Close  on  thy  head  thy  helmet  bright ; 
Balance  thy  sword  against  the  tight; 
See  where  an  army,  strong  aa  fair, 
With  silken  banners  spread  the  air ! 
Now,  if  thou  bc'st  that  thing  divine, 
\\\  tliis  day's  combat  let   it  shine, 


And  show  that  nature  wants  an  art 
T(j  ccuupUT  one  resolved  heart. 

ricaaurc.  Welcome,  the  creation's  guest, 

1,(11(1  of  earth,  and  heaven's  heir! 
Jjay  aside  that  warlike  crest. 
And  of  nature's  banquet  share, 
Where  the  souls  of  fruits  and  flowers 
Stand  prepared  to  heighten  yours. 

Soul.         I  Slip  above,  and  cannot  stay 
To  liait  so  long  upon  the  way. 

ricasnre.  On  these  downy  pillows  lie, 

Whose  soft  plumes  will  thither  fly  ; 
On  these  roses,  strewed  so  plain 
licst  one  leaf  thy  side  should  strain. 

Soul.         My  gentler  rest  is  on  a  thought, 
Conscious  of  doing  what  1  ought. 

ricasiirc.  If  thou  be'st  with  perfumes  pleased 
Such  as  oft  the  gods  rppeased, 
Tiiou  in  fragrant  clouds  shalt  show 
Like  another  god  below. 

Soitl.         A  soul  that  knows  not  to  presume 
Is  Heaven's  and  its  own  perfume. 

Pleasure.  Everything  does  seem  to  vie 

Which  should  first  attract  thine  eye ; 
But  since  none  deserves  that  grace, 
In  this  crystal  view  thy  face. 

Soul.         When  the  Creator's  skill  is  prized, 
The  rest  is  all  but  earth  disguised. 

Pleasure.  Hark  how  music  then  prepares 

For  thy  stay  these  charming  airs. 
Which  the  posting  winds  recall. 
And  suspend  the  river's  fall. 

Soul.         Had  I  but  any  time  to  lose. 

On  this  I  would  it  all  dispose. 

Cease,  tempter !     None  can  chain  a  niiiK 

Whom  this  sweet  cordage  cauuot  bind. 


Earth  cauuot  show  so  bravo  a  sight, 
As  when  a  single  soul  docs  fence 
The  battery  of  alluring  Sense, 
And  Heaven  views  it  with  delight. 
Then  persevere !   for  still  new  charges  sound  : 
And  if  thou  overcom'st  thou  shalt  bo  crowned 

Pleasure.  All  that's  costly  fair  and  sweet 
Which  scatteringly  doth  shine, 
Shall  within  one  beauty  meet. 
And  she  be  only  thine. 
Soul.         If  things  of  sight  such  heavens  be, 

\Vhat  heavens  are  those  we  cauuot  see ! 
Pleasure.  Wheresoe'er  thy  foot  shall  go 
The  minted  gold  shall  lie. 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


113 


Soul. 


Till  thou  purchase  all  below, 

And  want  now  worlds  to  buy. 
■\Vore't  not  for  price  whoM  value  gold  ? 
Aud  that's  worth  naught  that  can  be  sold. 
Pleasure.  Wilt  thou  all  the  glory  have 

That  war  or  peace  commend  ? 
Half  the  world  shall  be  thj^  slave, 

The  other  half  thy  friend. 
Soul.         What  friends,  if  to  myself  nntrne  ? 
What  slaves,  unless  I  captive  you  ? 
Pleasure.  Thou  shalt  know  each  hidden  cause 

Aud  see  the  future  time. 
Try  what  depth  the  centre  draws. 

And  then  to  heaven  climb. 
Xone  thither  mounts  by  the  degree 
Of  knowledge,  but  humility. 

CHORUS. 

Triumph,  triumph,  victorious  soul  I 
The  world  has  not  one  pleasure  more  : 

The  rest  doth  lie  beyond  the  pole. 
And  is  thiue  everlasting  store. 


Soul. 


A  DROP   OF   DEW. 

Translated  from  the  Latin  of  Marvell. 

See  how  the  orient  dew. 

Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 

Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new, 
For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born), 

Eound  in  itself  iucloses ; 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 

How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight. 
Scarce  touching  where  it  lies  ; 
But,  gazing  back  upon  the  skies. 

Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 
Like  its  own  tear, 

Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere. 
Kestlcss  it  rolls  and  unsecure. 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain. 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back  again. 
So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 

Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be  seen, 
Rememberiug  still  its  former  height, 

Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blossoms  green  ; 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does,  in  its  pure  aud  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
8 


In  how  coy  a  figure  wound. 
Every  way  it  turns  away  ; 

So  the  world  excliiding  round, 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day; 

Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above; 

Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  aiul  easy  hence  to  go ; 

How  girt  aud  ready  to  ascend; 
Moving  but  ou  a  point  below. 

It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distil. 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed  aud  chill; 
Congealed  on  earth  ;   but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  almighty  suu. 


THOUGHTS   IX  A  GARDEN.' 

How  vaiuly  men  themselves  amaze. 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays; 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  single  herb,  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
lu  busy  companies  of  men  : 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Onlj^  among  the  plants  will  grow  : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorons  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cniel  as  their  flame. 

Cut  in  tliese  trees  their  mistress'  name. 

Little,  alas !   they  know  or  heed, 

How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 

Fair  trees !   where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 


■  This  poem  is  printed  as  a  translation  in  Marvell's  works; 
but  the  original  Latin  is  obviously  his  own.  Here  is  a  speci- 
men of  it : 

"Alma  Quies,  teneo  to!  et  tc  gormana  Quietis 
Simplicitas !  vos  ergo  din  per  teinpla,  ])er  urbes 
Qusesivi,  regum  perque  alta  palatia  n-u.-^tra : 
8ed  vos  hortorum  per  opaca  silentia,  longe 
Celaruut  plantse  virides,  et  coucolor  umbra." 


114 


cycij)j'j:i)j.i  OF  nniTisii  axd  americax  roETUY. 


When  wo  bavo  run  our  passion's  licat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  irtreat : 
The  gods  who  mortal  beaitly  cliase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  tlitir  niei; : 
Apollo  hunted  Daplme  so 
Only  that  she  mi^ht   laurel  j^row  : 
And  Pan  did  after  .Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  hut  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrons  life  is  this  I  lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 
The  luseions  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  <lo  crush  their  wine  ; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  ilowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness: 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  bonglis  does  glide: 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate ; 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  bo  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one. 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew, 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  frngrant  zodiac  rnn  : 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Bo  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers! 


(lljomaG   Stanlcij. 


Stanley  (KWjVIOTS)  editccl  ^Escliylus,  wrote  a  crcdita- 
l)le  "History  of  Philosophy,"  and,  in  1051,  publislied  a 
voliunc  of  verwe.  He  was;  educated  at  Oxford,  and  spent 
part  of  Ills  youth  in  travelling.  His  poems,  though  de- 
formed by  the  conceits  fashionable  at  the  time,  give 
signs  of  a  rich  and  genuine  poetical  vein. 


THE  DEPOSITION. 

Though  when  I  loved  thee  thou  wert  fair 

Thou  art  no  longer  so  ; 
Those  glories,  all  the  i)ride  they  wear, 

Unto  opinion  owe : 
Beauties,  like  stars,  in  borrowed  lustre  shine, 
And  'twas  my  love  that  gave  thee  thine. 

The  flames  that  dwelt  within  thine  eye 

Do  now  with  mine  expire  ; 
Thy  brightest  graces  fade  and  die 

At  onco  with  my  desire. 
Love's  fires  thus  mutual  influence  return  ; 
Thine  cease  to  shine  when  mine  to  burn. 

Then,  proud  Celinda,  hope  no  more 

To  be  implored  or  wooed ; 
Since  by  thy  scorn  thou  dost  restore 

The  wealth  my  love  bestowed ; 
And  thy  despised  disdain  too  late  shall  lind 
That  none  are  fair  but  who  are  kind. 


Cljarlcs  Cotton. 


The  friend  of  good  old  Izaak  Walton,  Cotton  (1630- 
1G87)  was  a  cheerful,  witty,  and  accomplished  man,  but 
improvident  in  worldly  matters.  Ilis  father,  Sir  George, 
left  him  the  encumbered  estate  of  Ashbourne,  in  Derby- 
sldrc,  near  the  river  Dove.  Cotton  was  thenceforth  al- 
ways in  money  ditficulties,  and  died  insolvent.  To  get 
money,  he  translated  several  works  from  the  French  and 
Italian,  and  among  them  Montaigne's  Essays.  He  made 
a  discreditable  travesty  of  Virgil,  remarkable  only  for  its 
obscenit}'.     But  some  of  his  verses  show  a  genuine  vein. 


XO  ILLS  BUT  WHAT  WE  ^SIAKE. 

"  CONTENTATION  :    DIRECTED   TO    MT    DEAR    FaTIIEU    AND   MOsl 

woKTUY  Fhiesd,  JIr.  Izaae  Walton." 

There  are  no  ills  but  what  wo  make 
J^y  giving  shapes  and  names  to  things  ; 

Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 
That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 


JOHN  DRY  DEN. 


115 


O  fruitful  grief,  the  world's  disease ! 

Aud  vainer  man,  to  make  it  so. 
Who  gives  his  miseries  iucrease, 

By  cultivatiug  his  own  woe! 

We  call  that  sickness  which  is  health, 

That  persecution  which  is  grace, 
That  poverty  which  is  true  wealth, 

Aud  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 
Alas!   our  time  is  hero  so  short, 

That  in  what  state  soe'er  'tis  spent, 
Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import, 

Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  ifc  pleasant  too, 

If  we  will  take  our  measures  right, 
Aud  not  what  Heaven  has  done  undo 

By  an  unruly  appetite. 
The  world  is  full  of  beaten  roads. 

But  yet  so  slippery  withal. 
That  Avhere  one  walks  secure  'tis  odds 

A  hundred  and  a  hundred  falh 

Untrodden  paths  are  then  the  best. 

Where  the  frequented  ai'e  unsure  ; 
And  he  comes  soonest  to  his  rest 

AVhose  journey  has  beeu  most  secure. 
It  is  content  alone  that  makes 

Our  pilgrimage  a  pleasure  here ; 
And  who  buys  sorrow  cheapest  takes 

Au  ill  conuuodity  too  dear. 


iJolju  Prnlicn. 


One  of  the  most  celebrated  of  English  poets,  Dryden 
(1C31-1700)  was  born  in  Northamptonshire,  of  Puritan 
parents.  He  received  his  school  education  at  Westmin- 
ster, under  Dr.  Busby,  of  birchen  memory ;  his  college 
education,  at  Cambiidge.  When  Cromwell  died,  he  wrote 
laudatory  stanzas  to  bis  memory;  but  this  did  not  pre- 
vent his  greeting  Cliarles  II.,  at  bis  restoration,  with  a 
salutatory  poem,  entitled  "Astr?ea  Redux."  Dryden's 
veerings  in  religion,  politics,  criticism,  and  taste  exhibit 
a  mind  under  the  dominion  of  impulse.  His  marriage, 
which  took  place  in  166.5,  was  not  a  happy  one,  though 
he  seems  to  have  been  warmly  susceptible  of  domestic 
affection.  In  1668  he  succeeded  Sir  William  Davenant 
as  poet -laureate.  For  many  years  he  had  supported 
himself  by  writing  for  the  stage.  He  wrote  some  twen- 
ty-eight plays.  His  tragedies  are  stilted  and  ineffective; 
while  his  comedies  are  execrably  impure  and  licentious, 
and  not  to  be  palliated  even  by  the  laxity  of  that  cor- 
rupt and  shameless  age.  He  lacked  some  of  the  great- 
est elements  of  poetic  genius,  and  in  moral  earnestness 
was  sadly  deficient.     His  "Annus  Mirabilis"  is  a  poem 


on  the  great  fire.  His  "Absalom  and  Acbitophel"  is  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  powerful^  of  modern  satires. 
His  "Religio  Laici"  exhibits  the  poet  convulsed  with 
religious  doubts. 

After  the  death  of  Charles  11.  Drjdcn  became  a  Roman 
Catholic,  had  his  children  brought  up  in  that  faith,  and 
lived  and  died  in  it.  Macaulay  calls  him  au  "illustrious 
renegade."  Scott  takes  a  less  uncharitable  view  of  his 
motives.  When  William  and  Mary  ascended  the  throne 
Dryden  lost  his  laureateship,  and  thenceforth  became  a 
bookseller's  back.  For  translating  Virgil  into  English 
verse  he  received  £1200;  for  his  "Fables,"  about  £2.50. 
After  a  life  of  literary  toil,  productive  of  many  splendid 
works,  but  dishonored  by  some  which  it  were  well  for 
his  memory  if  they  could  be  annihilated,  Dryden  let  (all 
his  pen.  He  died  at  sixty-eight,  and  bis  body  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  In  terms  of  extreme  exaggera- 
tion, Johnson  says  of  him  that  "he  found  the  English 
language  brick,  and  left  it  marble." 

Dryden  was  sixty-six  years  old  when  he  wrote  his 
"Alexander's  Feast,"  one  of  the  finest  lyrics  in  all  lit- 
erature. "I  am  glad,"  he  wrote  to  bis  publisher,  "to 
hear  from  all  hands  that  my  Ode  is  esteemed  the  best 
of  all  my  poetry  by  all  the  town.  I  thought  so  myself 
when  I  writ  it;  but  being  old,  I  mistrusted  my  own 
judgment."  Let  it  be  added  iu  Dryden's  behalf  that  he 
bad  the  grace  to  submit  with  meekness  to  Collier's  se- 
vere criticism  of  the  moral  defects  of  bis  plays.  Un- 
doubtedly, the  recollection  of  them  caused  bim  many 
bitter  regrets.  His  prose  style  is  excellent.  "In  bis 
satire,"  says  Scott,  "bis  arrow  is  always  drawn  to  the 
head,  and  flies  directly  aud  mercilessly  to  his  object." 


ALEXANDEE'S   FEAST. 

AN   ODE   IX  HONOR   OF    ST.  CECILIA'S  D.\Y. 

St.  Cecilia,  a  Romau  lady  boru  about  a.b.  295,  and  bred  iu  the 
Christian  faith,  was  married  to  a  Pagan  nobleman,  Valeriauns. 
She  told  her  husbarid  that  she  was  visited  nightly  by  au  angel, 
whom  he  was  allowed  to  see  after  his  own  conversion.  They 
both  suffered  martyrdom.  The  angel  by  whom  Cecilia  was 
visited  is  referred  to  iu  the  closing  Hues  of  Dryden's  "Ode," 
coupled  with  a  tradition  that  he  had  been  drawn  down  to  her 
tVoin  heaveu  by  her  melodies.  In  the  earliest  traditions  of 
Cecilia  there  is  no  mention  of  skill  iu  music.  The  great  Italian 
painters  lised  her  position  as  its  patron  saint  by  representing 
her  always  with  symbols  of  harmony — a  harp  or  organ-pipes. 
Then  came  the  suggestion  adopted  in  Dryden's  "Ode,"tliat. 
the  organ  was  invented  by  St.  Cecilia.  The  practice  of  holding 
Musical  Festivals  on  Cecilia's  Day  (the  '22d  of  November)  be- 
gan to  prevail  in  England  at  the  close  of  the  ITth  century. 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  sou ; 
Aloft  iu  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

Ou  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  arouiul ; 
Tiieir  brows  with  ro.ses  and  with  myrtles  hound, 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned): 


116 


CYVLOl'.KDIA    OF   IUHTJSH   AM)   JML'IUCJX  POETRY. 


The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sato,  liko  a  Ijlooiuing  Eastern  luidc. 
In  flower  of  youth  and  bcanty's  jiridf. 

Happy,  happy,  li^ippy  piiir! 

N<nie  1)iit  tlic  brave. 

None  but   tlic  brave, 

None  Imt   the  brave;  deserves  tlic  fair. 


Happy,  happy,  hapity  pair! 

None  bnt  the  brave, 

None  bnt  the  brave. 

None  bnt  the  brave  deserves  the  fail 


Timothens,  placed  on  hij;li 
Amid  tlie  tuneful  quire, 
Witli  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
TIio  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  lieaveuly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above. 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love. 
A  dragon's  fierj'  form  belied  the  god, 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  I'ode, 
When  lie  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 
And  while  ho  sought  her  snowy  breast : 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of 

the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  tiu*  lofty  sound; 
"A  present  deity!"  they  shout  aroulid : 
"A  present  deity!"  the  A-aulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
Tlie  monarch  hears ; 
Assumes  the  god, 
Atl'ects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  sliake  the  s])lieros. 

cuoias. 

With  ravished  ears 
'llie  monarch  hears ; 
Assumes  the  god. 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


The   praise    of  Bacchus   then    the   sweet  Musician 
sung. 
Of  IJaeehus  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
The  Jolly  god  in   triumpli  comes; 
Sound  tiie  tnimjiets  ;    bi-at  the  drums! 


Fhished  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face. 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  :  he  comes,  he  comes! 
IJacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinkiiig  joys  did  tirst  ordain: 
r>;i((liiis'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Kicli  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


liacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 

IJich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  : 
And  thrice   he    routed   all  his   foes,  and  thrice   he 
slew  the  slain. 
The  Master  saw  the  madness  rise  ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 
Ho  chose  a  mournful  muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good. 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need. 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed. 
On  tlie  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
Witli  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Ivcvolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 

And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


Tiie  mighty  blaster  smiled  to  see 
Tliat  love  was  in  the  next  degree 


JOHX  DRYDEX. 


117 


'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  iu  Lydiau  measures, 
Soon  Le  sootbed  bis  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  be  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  -oorth  thy  winning. 
Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  api>lause  ; 
So  Love  was  crowned  :    but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


Xow  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
•'Revenge!   revenge!"   Timotheus  cries : 
See  the  Furies  arise  ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 

P         Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  band: 
Those    are    Grecian    ghosts    that    in    battle    were 
slain, 

And  nnburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 


Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high! 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods! 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 


And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way. 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

vn. 

Thus  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow. 
While  organs  yet  were  mute ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute. 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
luA'entress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 
Slie  drew  an  angel  down. 

GRAXn  CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

luventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


VEXI   CREATOR. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come,  visit  every  pious  mind  ; 
Come,  pour  thy  joys  on  humankind; 


118 


CTCLorJEDiA  or  junTisif  jyj>  A.Mi:i:i(AS  roKTitv 


From  siu  aud  sorrow  set  us  free, 
Aud  make  tliy  temples  woitliy  tlice. 

O  source  of  uncreated  lij;Iit, 
Tlie  Father's  promised  Paraelete ! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire. 
Our  hearts  Avith  lieavenly  love  inspire; 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  Ining, 
To  sanctify  us  wliile  wo  sioi;. 

rieuteons  of  grace,  descend  Cnmi  high, 
Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy! 
Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand. 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command: 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 
Who  dost  the  gifts  of  tongues  dispense, 
And  crown'st  thy  gifts  with  eloipience  ! 

licline  and  purge  our  earthly  parts ; 
But,  oh  inllame  and  fire  our  hearts! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Suhmit  the  senses  to  the  soul; 
Aud  when  rehellious  they  are  grown. 
Then  lay  thine  hand,  aud  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe. 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  hestow  ; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray. 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  Avay. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive; 
And  practise  all  that  we  helieve  : 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  Ity  thee. 

Immortal  honor,  endless  fame, 
Atteud  the  Almighty  Father's  name  ! 
The  Saviour  Son  he  glorified. 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died! 
And  eiiual  adoration  he, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee  I 


SIIAFTESBUEY  DELINEATED  AS  ACHITO- 
PHEL. 

From  "Absalom  and  Aciiitopiiel." 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first — 
A  name  to  all  succeediug  ages  curst : 
For  close  designs  and  crook<5d  counsels  fit, 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  tnrhnlent  of  wit  ; 
Restless,  unfixed  in  princiides  and  place  ; 
In  power  unpleascd,  impatient  of  disgrace; 
A  fiery  soul  which,  working  out  its  way. 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay, 
And  o'er  informed  its  tenement  of  clay: 
A  daring  ])ilot  in  extremity, 

Pleased  with  the  danger,  when   the  waves  went 
high. 


He  sought  the  storms ;   hut,  for  a  calm  unfit. 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied. 
And  thin  ]»artitions  ilo  tlieir  bounds  divide: 
Else,  why  should  he,  witii  wealth  and  honors  blest. 
Refuse  his  age  tiie  needfnl  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please, 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease  ? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won 
To  that  nnfeathered,  two-legged  thing,  a  son! 


BUCKINGHAM  DELINEATED  AS  ZIMRI. 

From  "Absalom  and  AriiiTopnEL." 

S(mie  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land: 

In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand, 

A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be 

Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome; 

Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 

Was  everytliing  by  starts,  and  nothing  long; 

But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 

Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  butVoon  ; 

Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking. 

Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 

Blest  madman !   who  could  every  hour  employ 

With  something  new  to  Avish  or  to  enjoy. 

Railing  and  praising  Avere  his  usual  themes, 

And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes ; 

So  OA'er-A'iolent  or  over-eivil, 

That  GA'cry  man  Avith  him  Avas  god  or  devil. 

In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art, — 

Nothing  Avent  unrewarded  but  desert; 

Beggared  by  fools  whom  still  he  found  too  late, 

lie  had  his  jest,  and  thej'  had  his  estate. 

He  laughed  himself  from  court,  then  sought  relief 

By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief; 

For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 

On  Absalom  and  Avise  Achitophel : — 

Thus,  Avicked  but  in  Avill,  of  means  bereft. 

He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  Avas  left. 


ENJOY   THE   PRESENT. 

VAllAnlRASE    FROM    HORACE,  COOK    I.,  ODE   XXIX. 

Enjoy  the  present  smiling  hour, 
And  put  it  out  of  Fortune's  poAver : 
The  tide  of  business,  like  the  running  stream. 
Is  sometimes  high,  and  sometimes  Ioav, 

And  alAvays  in  extreme. 
Now  Avith  a  noiseless,  gentle  course 


JOHN  BRYDEN.— KATHARINE  PHILLIPS. 


uy 


It  keeps  witliiii  tha  iniildle  bed; 
Anoii  it  lifts  aloft  the  bead, 
And  bears  dowu  all  before  it  with  impetuous  force; 
Aud  trunks  of  trees  coiue  rolling  down  ; 
Sheep  aud  their  folds  together  drown  ; 
Both  bouse  and  homestead  iuto  seas  are  borne ; 
Aud  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations  torn  : 
Aud  woods,  made  tbiu  with  winds,  their  scattered 
honors  uiourn. 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 

He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own  ; 

He  who,  secure  within,  can  say, 
To-morrow,  do  thy  worst,  for  1  have  lived  to-day ! 

Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine  ; 
The  joys  I  have  possessed,  iu  spite  of  fiite,  are  mine! 

Not  heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power ; 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  aud  I  have  had  my 
hour. 

Fortune,  that  with  malicious  joy 

Docs  man,  her  slave,  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 

Is  seldom  pleased  to  bless  : 
Still  various,  and  inconstant  still. 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife. 

And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 
I  can  enjoy  her  while  she's  kind ; 
But  when  she  dances  iu  the  wind, 

And  shakes  the  wings,  aud  will  not  stay, 

I  i)utf  the  prostitute  away  I 
The  little  or  the  much  she  gave  is  quietly  resigned  : 

Content  with  poverty,  my  soul  I  arm ; 

And  virtue,  though  in  rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

"What  is't  to  me. 
Who  never  sail  in  her  unfaithful  sea. 

If  storms  arise,  and  clouds  grow  black. 
If  the  mast  split  and  threaten  wreck  ? 
Then  let  the  greedy  merchant  fear 

For  his  ill-gotten  gain, 
And  pray  to  gods  that  will  not  hear. 
While  the  debating  winds  and  billows  bear 

His  wealth  iuto  the  main. 
For  me,  secure  from  Fortune's  blows. 
Secure  of  what  I  cannot  lose. 
In  my  small  pinnace  I  can  sail, 

Contemning  all  the  blustering  roar; 
And,  running  with  a  merry  gale. 
With  friendly  stars  my  safety  seek 
Within  some  little  winding  creek, 

And  see  the  storm  ashore. 


Kutljarinc  J3ljillips. 


Daughter  of  Mr.  John  Fowler,  a  London  merchant, 
Katharine  Pliillips  (lGol-lGG4)  showed  genuine  poetical 
taste  aud  ability.  She  was  a  friend  of  Jeremy  Taylor, 
who  addressed  to  her  a  "Discourse  on  Friendship." 
She  wrote  under  the  name  of  Oriuda,  was  praised  by 
Roscommon  and  Cowley,  aud  had  the  friendship  of  many 
of  the  eminent  authors  of  her  day.  Slie  traushited  two 
of  the  tragedies  of  Corneille,  and  left  a  volume  of  letters, 
which  was  publislied  after  her  death.  Her  poems  were 
very  popular  iu  her  lifetime,  but  their  fame  has  been 
evauscent. 


TO  MRS.  M.  A.,  AT  PARTING. 

I  have  examined,  and  do  find. 

Of  all  that  fiivor  me, 
There's  none  I  grieve  to  leave  behind 

But  only,  only  thee  ! 
To  part  Avith  thee  I  needs  must  die, 
Could  parting  separate  for  aye. 

Our  changed  and  mingled  souls  are  grown 

To  such  acquaintance  now. 
That  if  each  would  resume  her  own, 

(Alas!   we  know  not  how!) 
W^e  have  each  other  so  engrossed 
That  each  is  in  the  union  lost. 
****** 
By  my  own  temper  I  shall  guess 

At  thy  felicity, 
And  only  like  my  happiness 

Because  it  pleaseth  thee  : 
Our  hearts  at  any  time  will  tell 
If  thou  or  I  bo  sick  or  well. 

Thy  lieger  soul  in  me  shall  lie, 

Aud  all  my  thoughts  reveal ; 
Then  back  again  with  mine  shall  fly, 

And  thence  to  me  shall  steal, — 
Thus  still  to  one  another  tend  : 
Such  is  the  sacred  tie  of  friend! 


ON  CONTROVERSIES  IN  RELIGION. 

Religion  which  true  policy  befriends, 
Designed  by  God  to  serve  man's  holiest  ends. 
Is  by  the  old  Deceiver's  subtle  play 
Made  the  chief  party  in  its  own  decay. 
And  meets  that  eagle's  destiny  whose  breast 
Felt  the  same  shaft  which  his  own  feathers  drest. 


I 


120 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


CL'avl  of  Uoscommon. 

Wcntworlli  Dillon,  Eail  of  Uoscoimiion  (10:54-1085), 
■was  the  ncplicw  of  the  fjreat  Earl  of  Strairord,  iiftcr 
whose  fall  on  the  scafTold  he  was  sent  to  Caen  to  pursue 
his  studies.  While  there  he  sueeceded  to  the  title  of 
Roscommon.  Aubrey  tells  a  story  that  the  youth  had  a 
presentiment  of  his  father's  death,  and  exclaimed,  "My 
father  is  dead!"  one  day  while  he  was  eut,Mged  with 
some  boys  at  play,  at  least  a  fortnij^ht  before  the  intelli- 
geuce  arrived  from  Ireland.  Roscommon's  chief  work  is 
called  "An  Essay  on  Translated  Verse;"  lie  also  trans- 
lated Horace's  "Art  of  Poetry,"  and  wrote  minor  poems. 
Just  before  he  died  he  uttered  two  lines  of  his  own  para- 
phrase of  Thomas  de  Celano's  "  Dies  Ira; :" 

"Sry  God,  my  Father,  aud  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  iu  my  eud  I" 

His  mortal  remains  were  interred  with  great  pomp  in 
Westminster  Abbej-.  To  his  honor  let  it  be  said  that  he 
well  deserved  this  tribute  from  Pope: 

"Unhappy  Dryilen  !    In  all  Charles's  d:iys, 
Roscommon  ouly  boasts  unspotted  lays." 

Living  iu  the  foul  times  of  the  second  Charles,  he  re- 
fused to  soil  his  pages  with  the  ribaUhy  and  grossness 
which  the  popular  taste  seemed  then  to  demand.  He 
wrote  this  couplet : 

"Immodest  words  admit  of  no  defence, 
For  want  of  decency  is  want  of  sense." 

Benjamin  Franklin,  in  no  hypercritical  spirit,  suggested 
not  a  bad  amendment  of  the  couplet,  thus : 

"Immodest  words  admit  but  this  defence: 
That  want  of  decency  is  want  of  sense." 


POETIC  INSPIRATION. 

I  pity,  from  my  soul,  unhappy  men 
Compelled  by  want  to  prostitute  tlicir  pen  ; 
Who  must,  like  lawyers,  cither  starve  or  plead. 
And  follow,  right  or  wrong,  where  guineas  lead. 

No  poet  any  pa.ssion  can  excite 

But  what  tbey  feel  transport  tlnni  when  (liey  write. 

Have  you  been  led  fbrougli  the  Cmna-un  cave, 

And  heard  tli'  impatient  maid  divinely  rave? 

I  hear  her  now;  I  see  lier  rolling  eyes; 

And,  panting,  "Lo,  the  god,  the  god  !"  she  erics  : 

With  words  not  hers,  and  more  than  hnman  sound, 

She    makes   th'  obedient    ghosts    peep,  trembling, 

through  the  ground. 
Put  though  we  must  obey  when  Heaven  commands, 
And  man  in  vain  the  sacred  call  withstands. 
Beware  what  spirit  rages  in  your  breast ; 
For  ten  inspired  ten  thousand  arc  possest. 


TI1H8  make  the  proper  use  of  each  extreme, 
And  write  with  fury,  but  correct  with  phlegm. 
As  when  the  cheerful  hours  too  freely  pass. 
And  sparkling  wine  smiles  in  the  tempting  gla.ss, 
Your  juilse  advises,  and  begins  to  beat 
Through  every  swelling  vein  a  loud  retreat : 
So  when  a  Muse  propitiously  invites, 
Improve  her  favors,  and  indulge  her  flights  ; 
Put  when  yon  find  that  vigorous  heat  abate, 
Leave  off,  and  for  another  snnnnons  wait. 
Before  the  radiant  sun  a  glimmering  lamp, 
Adult'rate  metals  to  the  sterling  stamp. 
Appear  not  meaner  than  mere  human  lines 
Compared  with  tho.se  whoso  inspiration  shines : 
Tiie.se  nervous,  bold  ;   those  languid  and  remiss ; 
Tiiere  cold  salutes,  but  here  a  lover's  kiss. 
Thus  have  1  seen  a  rapid,  headlong  tide 
With  foaming  waves  the  passive  Saone  divide, 
Who.se  lazy  waters  without  motion  lay. 
While  he  with  eager  force  urged  his  impetuous  way. 


itljomas  lun. 


Ken  (lCo7-1711)  was  educated  at  Oxford,  became  chap- 
lain to  Charles  II.,  and  was  one  of  the  seven  bishops  sent 
to  the  Tower  for  resisting  the  tyranny  of  James  II.  A 
meeker  and  a  braver  man  than  Ken  never  lived.  His 
hymns  are  still  deservedly  esteemed.  He  published  an 
epic  poem  entitled  "Edmund,"  and  was  the  author  of 
several  approved  devotional  works. 


I  KO.M   THE   "EVENING  HYMN." 

All  prai.se  to  thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light ! 
Keep  me,  oh  keep  me.  King  of  kings, 
Peneath  thy  own  almighty  wings! 

When  in  the  night  I  sleepless  lie. 

My  soul  with  heavenly  thoughts  supply; 

Let  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 

No  powers  of  darkness  me  molest. 

Dull  sleep !   of  sense  me  to  deprive  ! 
I  am  but  half  my  time  alive  ; 
Thy  faithful  lovers.  Lord,  are  grieved 
To  lie  so  long  of  thee  bereaved. 

Put  though  sleep  o'er  my  frailty  reigns, 
Let  it  not  hold  1110  long  iu  chains  ; 
And  now  and  then  let  loose  \\\y  heart. 
Till  it  a  llallelnjub  dart. 


THOMAS  orn'JY. 


121 


The  faster  sleep  the  senses  binds, 
The  more  nnfettcrcd  are  onr  minds. 
Oh,  may  my  sonl,  from  matter  free. 
Thy  loveliness  nnelouded  see ! 

Oh,  may  my  Gnardian,'  while  I  sleep, 
Close  to  my  bed  his  vigils  keep  ; 
His  love  angelical  instil, 
Stop  all  the  avenncs  of  ill. 

May  he  celestial  joys  I'ehearse, 
And  thonght  to  thonght  witli  me  converse ; 
Or,  in  my  stead,  all  the  niglit  long. 
Sing  to  my  God  a  grateful  song. 

Praise  God,  from  ■whom  all  blessings  flow  ; 
Praise  him  all  creatures  hero  below  ; 
Praise  him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost! 


(illjomas  ©tmai). 


The  son  of  a  clergyman,  Otway  (1651-1685)  was  born 
in  Sussex.  Leavhig  Oxford  without  a*  degree,  he  ap- 
peared on  tlie  stage  in  1672  as  an  actor,  but  failed.  He 
tlien  got  a  commission  in  the  army  in  Flanders,  but  was 
cashiered.  He  wrote  for  the  stage,  and  several  of  his 
pieces  were  quite  successful ;  but  he  was  continually  in 
tlie  direst  poverty,  and  he  is  alleged  by  some  to  liave 
died  of  voraciously  eating  a  piece  of  bread  after  a  long- 
compulsory  fast.  His  fame  rests  chiefly  on  his  "Ven- 
ice Preserved,"  in  which  there  are  passages  of  great  dra- 
matic power.  He  wrote  some  miscellaneous  poems,  but 
their  merit  is  vei-y  humble. 


FROM   "VENICE   PRESERVED." 

Act  IV.,  ScE.NE  II. 

Pierre.  What  whining  monk  art  thou  ?  what  holy 
cheat. 
That  wonldst  encroach  upon  my  credulous  ears, 
And  cant'st  thus  vilely?     Hence!  I  know  thee  not! 
Jaff.  Not  know  me,  Pierre  ! 
I'lerre.  No,  know  thee  not !     What  art  thou  ? 
Jiiff.  Jafticr,  thy   friend,  thy   once   loved,  valued 
friend ! 
Tho'  now  deservedly  scorned  and  used  most  hardly. 
Pierre.  Thou  Jaffier !  thou  my  once  loved,  valued 
friend ! 
By  heavens,  thou   liest !      The  man   so   called  my 
friend 

'  That  is,  my  Guardian  Angel. 


Was  generous,  honest,  faithful,  just,  and  valiant; 
Noble  in  nund,  and  in  his  person  lovely; 
Dear  to  my  eyes,  and  tender  to  my  heart : 
But  thou,  a  wretched,  base,  false,  worthles.s  coward, 
I'oor  even  in  soul,  and  loathsonu)  in  thy  aspect! 
-All  eyes  must  shun  thee,  and  all  hearts  detest  thee. 
Prithee,  avoid,  no  longer  cling  tlins  round  me. 
Like  .something  baneful,  that  my  nature's  chilled  at. 

Joff.  I  have  not  wronged  thee  ;   bj^ , these  tears, 
I  have  not. 

Pierre.  Hast  thou  not  wronged  me  ?     Dar'st  thou 
call  thyself  Jaffier, 
That  once  loved,  valued  friend  of  mine. 
And  swear  thou  hast  not  Avronged  me '?      Whence 

these  chains  ? 
Whence   the    vile   death   which   I   nuiy   meet  this 

moment  ? 
Whence  this  dishonor  but  from  thee,  thou  false  one? 

Jaff.  All's   true  ;    yet   grant   one   thing,  and   I've 
done  asking. 

Pierre.  What's  that? 

Jaff.  To  take  thy  life  on  such  conditions 
The  council  have  proposed  :    thou  and  thy  friends 
May  yet  live  long,  and  to  be  better  treated. 

Pierre.  Life!  ask  my  life !  confess!  record  myself 
A  villain  for  the  privilege  to  breathe, 
And  carry  up  and  down  this  cni'sed  city 
A  discontented  and  repining  si)irit, 
Burdensome  to  itself,  a  few  years  longer; 
To  lose  it,  maybe,  at  last,  in  a  lewd  quarrel 
For  some  new  friend,  treacherous  and  false  as  thou 

art ! 
No,  this  vile  Avorld  and  I  have  long  been  jangling. 
And  cannot  part  on  better  terms  than  now. 
When  only  men  like  thee  are  fit  to  live  in't. 

Jaff.  By  all  that's  just— 

Pierre.  Swear  by  some  other  power. 
For  thou  hast  broke  that  sacred  oath  already. 

Jaff.  Then  by  that  hell  I  merit,  I'll  not  leave  thee 
Till  to  thyself  at  least  thou'rt  reconciled. 
However  thy  resentments  deal  with  me. 

Pierre.  Not  leave  me  ! 

Joff.  No;  thou  shalt  not  force  me  from  thee. 
Use  me  reproachfully  and  like  a  slave  ; 
Tread  on  me,  buffet  me,  heap  wrongs  on  wrongs 
On  my  poor  head  :    I'll  bear  it  all  with  patience  ; 
Shall  weary  out  thy  most  unlVicndly  cruelty; 
Lie  at  thy  feet,  and  kiss  them,  tliongh  they  spurn 

me  ; 
Till,  wounded  by  my  sufferings,  thou  relent. 
And  rahse  me  to  thy  arms  with  dear  forgiveness. 

Pierre.  Art  thou  not — 

Jaff.  What? 


122 


CTCLOrJEDIA    OF  Jlh'lTISII  A  SI)   AMERICAN  VOETUY 


Pierre.  A  traitor  f 

Jaff.  Yos. 

rUrrv.  A  villain  ? 

Jaff.  Oiautcd. 

I'ierre.  A  coward,  a  most  scamlalous  coward  ; 
Spiritless,  void  t»f  honor;   one  who  has  sold 
Thy  evcrlastiiiji  lame  lor  shamelesn  life? 

Jaff.  All,  all,  and  more,  mnch   more ;    my  fanlts 
are  numberless. 

Pierre.  And  wouldst  thou  have  mo  live  ou  terms 
like  thine  ? 
Base  as  thou'rt  false — 

Jaff.  No.     'Tis  to  me  that's  granted  ; 
The  safety  of  thy  life  was  all  I  aimed  at, 
In  recompense  for  faith  and  trust  so  broken. 

Pierre.  I  scorn  it  more  because  preserved  by  thee ; 
And,  as  when  tirst  my  foolish  heart  took  pity 
Ou  thy  misfortune,  sought  thee  in  thy  miseries, 
Relieved  thy  wants,  and  raised  thee  from  the  state 
Of  Avretcheducss  in   which  thy  fate   had  plunged 

thoo, 
To  rauk  thee  in  my  list  of  noble  friends. 
All  I  received,  in  surety  for  thy  truth, 
Were  unregarded  oaths,  and  this,  this  dagger, 
Given   with   a   worthless   pledge   thou    since   hast 

stolen  ; 
So  I  restore  it  back  to  thee  again, 
Swearing  by  all  those  powers  which  thou  hast  vio- 
lated 
Never,  from  this  cursed  hour,  to  hold  communion. 
Friendship,  or  interest  with  thee,  though  our  years 
Were  to  exceed  those  limited  the  world. 
Take  it — farewell — for  now  I  owe  thee  nothing. 

Jaff.  Say  thou  wilt  live,  then. 

Pierre.  For  my  life,  dispose  it 
Just  as  thou  Avilt ;  because  'tis  what  I'm  tired  with. 

Jaff.  O  Pierre! 

Pierre.  No  more. 

Jaff.  My  eyes  won't  lose  the  siglit  of  thee. 
But  languish  after  thine,  and  acll(^  with  gazing. 

Pierre.  Leave  me: — naj-,  then,  thus  1  throw  thee 
from  me  ; 
And  curses  great  as  is  thy  falsehood  catch  thee ! 


became  rector  of  Bemcrton,  near  StiHsbury.  Ilallain  pro- 
nounces him  "a  writer  of  line  genius,  and  of  u  noble  ele- 
vation of  moral  eeutiments." 


^olju  ^"orric. 


A  learned  metapbysician  and  divine,  Norris  (1657-1711) 
was  a  Platonist,  and  synii)atliizL'd  witli  the  views  of  Hen- 
ry More.  He  i)ul)lislied  a  "  Philosoi)hical  Discourse  con- 
cerning the  Natural  Immortality  of  the  Soid;"  an  "Es- 
say toward  the  Theory  of  the  Ideal  or  Unintelligible 
World;"  "Miscellanies,  consisting  of  Poems,  Essays, 
Discourses,  and  Letters;"  and  other  i)rodiictions.     lie 


THE  ASPIRATION. 

How  long,  great  God,  low  long  must  I 

Innnured  in  this  dark  prison  lie. 
Where  at  the  gates  and  avenues  of  sense 
My  soul  must  watch  to  have  intelligence; 
Where  bnt  faint  gleams  of  thee  salute  my  sight, 
Like  doubtful  moonshine  in  a  cloudy  night  ? 

When  shall  I  leave  this  magic  sphere, 

And  bo  all  mind,  all  eye,  all  ear  ? 

How  cold  this  clime !   and  yet  my  sense 
Perceives  even  here  thy  inllueuce. 
Even  hero  thy  strong  magnetic  charms  I  feel, 
And  pant  and  tremble  like  the  amorous  steel, — 
To  lower  good  and  beauties  less  divine 
Sometimes  my  erroneous  needle  does  decline ; 
But  yet  (so  strong  the  sympathy) 
It  turns,  and  points  again  to  thee. 

I  long  to  see  this  excellence, 

Which  at  such  distance  strikes  my  sense. 
My  imi)atient  soul  struggles  to  disengage 
Her  wings  from  the  confinement  of  her  cage. 
Wouldst  thou,  great  Love,  this  prisoner  once  set  free, 
How  Avould  she  hasten  to  be  linked  with  thee ! 

She'd  for  no  angel's  conduct  stay, 

But  lly,  and  love  on  all  the  way. 


SUPERSTITION. 

I  care  not  though  it  be 

By  tho  preciser  sort  thought  popery; 

Wo  poets  can  a  license  show 

For  everything  we  do  : 
Hear,  then,  my  little  saint,  I'll  pray  to  thee. 

If  now  thy  ha])py  mind 

Amid  its  various  joys  can  leisure  find 

To  attend  to  anything  so  low 

As  what  I  say  or  do. 
Regard,  and  bo  what  thou  wast  ever — kind. 

Let  not  tho  blessed  above 

Engross  thee  quite,  but  sometimes  hither  rove. 

Fain  would  I  thy  sweet  imago  sec, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee; 
Nor  is  it  cnriositv,  but  love. 


MATTHEW  rniOR. 


123 


Ah  !    what  delight  'twoiihl  be 

Woiildst  thou  sometimes  by  stealth  convei'se  with 
me  ! 

How  sIiouUl  I  thine  sweet  commune  prize, 

And  other  joys  despise  ! 
Come,  theu  ;   I  ne'er  was  j^et  denied  by  thee. 

I  would  not  long  detain 

Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in  pain  ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e'er  know 

Of  thy  escape  below  : 
Before  thon'rt  missed  thou  shouldst  return  again. 

Snre,  heaven  must  needs  thy  love 
As  well  as  other  qualities  improve  ; 

Come,  then,  and  recreate  my  sight 

With  rays  of  thy  pure  light : 
"Twill  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps  above. 

Puit  if  fate's  so  severe 

As  to  contine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere 

(And  by  thy  absence  I  shall  know 

"Whether  thy  state  be  so). 
Live  bappy,  but  be  mindful  of  me  there. 


illattljciu  {Jvicr, 


Of  obscure  parentage,  Prior  (1664-1721)  owed  his  ad- 
vancement in  life  to  the  friendship  of  the  Earl  of  Dorset, 
through  which  he  rose  to  be  ambassador  to  the  Court  of 
Versailles.  His  best-known  poems  are  his  light  lyrical 
pieces  of  the  artiticial  school.  Thackeray  says,  with  some 
exaggeration,  that  they  "are  among  the  easiest,  the 
richest,  the  most  charmingly  humorous  in  the  English 
language;"  but  Prior's  poetical  fame,  considerable  m 
his  day,  has  waned,  and  not  undeservedly.  His  longest 
work  is  the  serious  poem  of  "Solomon,"  highly  com- 
mended by  Wesley  and  Hannah  More,  but  now  having 
few  readers.  His  "Henry  and  Emma,"  called  by  Cow- 
per  "an  enchanting  piece,"  is  a  paraphrase  of  "The 
Nut-brown  Maide,"  and  a  formidable  specimen  of  "  verse 
bewigged"  to  suit  the  false  taste  of  the  clay.  Compared 
with  the  original  it  is  like  tinsel  to  rich  gold  in  the  ore. 
Like  many  men  of  letters  of  his  day,  Prior  never  vent- 
ured on  matrimony. 


I 


A  SIMILE. 

Dear  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  pop 
Thy  head  into  a  tinman's  shop  ? 
There,  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  see 
('Tis  but  by  way  of  simile) 
A  squirrel  spend  his  little  rage, 
In  jumping  round  a  rolling  cage; 


The  cage,  as  either  side  turned  up. 
Striking  a  ring  of  bells  at  top  ? — 

Moved  in  the  orb,  pleased  with  the  chimes, 
The  foolish  creature  thinks  he  climbs: 
But,  here  or  there,  turn  wood  or  wire, 
He  never  gets  two  inches  higher. 

So  fixres  it  with  those  merry  blades, 
That  frisk  it  under  Pindus'  shades. 
In  nol)le  song  and  loftj'  odes, 
Thej'  tread  on  stars,  and  talk  with  gods ; 
Still  dancing  in  au  airy  round, 
Still  pleased  with  their  own  verses'  sound ; 
Brought  back,  how  fast  soe'er  they  go, 
Always  aspii'iug,  always  low. 


TO  A  CHILD  OF  Ql'ALITY  FIVE  YEARS  OLD 
(1704),  THE   AUTHOR  THEN  FORTY. 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  baud 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters. 

Were  summoned  by  her  high  command 
To  show  their  i>assions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took. 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  iires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell ; 
Dear  five-years-old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms'  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear, — 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads 
In  papers  round  her  baby's  haii", — 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame ; 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappj'  poet. 

Then,  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends, 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear. 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 

For,  as  our  dift'erent  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained  (would  Fate  but  mend  it!) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


124 


CYCLOPJiDlA    (IF  IUHTISII  AM)  JMKHICAX  rOETRY. 


3onatl)an   5uiift. 


Swift's  is  one  of  tlic  jrroat  names  in  English  lilcni- 
tiire  (1007-1745).  A  Dublin  man  by  birtli,  his  parents 
and  his  ancestors  were  Eiiirlish.  He  was  cclncatcd  al 
Kilkenny  School  and  Trinity  Collci^e,  but  did  not  dis- 
tinguish himself  as  a  student.  For  some  years  he  lived 
with  Sir  William  Temple,  with  whom  his  mother  was 
slightly  connected.  Here  he  ate  the  bitter  bread  of  de- 
pendence, and  became  restive  and  soured.  Having  grad- 
uated as  ^[.A.  at  Oxford,  he  entered  into  holy  orders, 
and  became  prebend  of  Kilroot,  in  Ireland,  at  .4*100  a 
year.  Returning  to  the  house  of  Sir  William  Tem]ile, 
he  became  involved  in  the  mj'slerious  love-atVair  with 
Hester  Johnson,  daughter  of  Sir  William's  house-keeper 
(and  believed  to  be  his  child),  better  known  by  Swift's 
pet  name  of  Slella.  Having  become  Vicar  of  Laracor, 
Swift  settled  there,  but  with  the  feelings  of  an  exile. 
Miss  Johnson  resided  in  the  neighborhood,  and  in  the 
parsonage  during  his  absence.  He  is  said  to  have  ful- 
lilled  his  clerical  office  in  an  exemplary  manner. 

From  1700  till  about  1710  Swift  acted  with  the  AVliig 
party.  Dissatisfied  with  some  of  their  measures,  he  then 
became  an  active  Tory,  and  exercised  prodigious  influ- 
ence as  a  political  pamphleteer.  From  his  new  patrons 
lie  received  the  deanery  of  St.  Patrick's,  in  Dublin.  The 
coarseness  of  his  "Tale  of  a  Tub"  had  cut  him  otf  from 
a  bishopric.  "Swift  now,  much  against  his  will,"  says 
Johnson,  "commenced  Irishman  for  life."  lie  soon  be- 
came an  immense  favorite  with  the  Irish  people.  Few 
men  have  ever  exercised  over  them  so  formidable  a  per- 
sonal influence.  In  1?3G  he  visited  England  for  the  pub- 
lication of  his  "Travels  of  Gulliver."  Here  he  had  en- 
joyed the  society  of  Pope  (who  was  twenty  years  his 
junior).  Gay,  Addison,  Arbuthnot,  and  Bolingbroke.  He 
returned  to  Ireland  to  lay  the  mortal  remains  of  Stella 
in  the  grave  :  she  is  believed  to  have  been  his  real  though 
unacknowledged  wife.  Excuse  for  his  conduct  is  found 
in  his  anticipations  of  the  insanity  which  clouded  his 
last  days.  After  two  years  passed  in  lethargic  and  hope- 
less idiocy,  he  died  in  1745.  His  death  was  mourned  by 
an  enthusiastic  people  as  a  national  loss.  His  fortune 
was  bequeathed  to  found  a  lunatic  asylum  in  Dublin. 

Swift's  fame  rests  on  his  clear  and  powerful  prose. 
He  is  a  satirical  versifier,  but  r.ot  in  the  proper  accepta- 
tion of  the  term  a  poet.  Dryden,  whose  aunt  was  tlie 
sister  of  Swift's  grandfather,  said  to  him,  "Cousin  Swift, 
you  will  never  be  a  poet."  And  the  prophecy  proved 
true,  though  Swift  resented  it  by  a  rancorous  criticism 
on  his  illustrious  relative.  Swift's  verses,  however, 
made  their  mark  in  his  day,  and  they  arc  still  interesting 
for  the  intellectual  vigor,  pungency,  and  wit  by  which 
tlicj-  arc  distinguished. 


FROM   "THE   DEATH   OF   DR.  SWIFT."' 

As  Rocbcfoucaiilt  his  iiiiixiiiis  drew 
From  uatnre,  I  believe  tlicni  true : 


'  This  piiiEcnlai-  pnein  was  prompted  by  the  fi)nowing  maxim 
of  KDchermcMiilt:  "  I);iiis  I'lulversilu  de  iios  nicilleiirs  amis, 
nous  tronvoiis  tonjours  qiielqiie  chose  que  lie  nous  di'plait  pns." 


Tlioy  argno  no  corrupted  mintl 
III  liiiii :  tho  fault  is  in  niaiikiud. 

Tiiis  HKixini  iiioie  than  all  the  rest 
Is  thought  too  base  for  lininan  breast : 
"In  all  disti-es.ses  of  our  fiieuds, 
\Vv  first  consult  our  private  ends; 
While!  nature,  kindly  bent  to  ease  u.s, 
I'oints  out  some  circumstance  to  please  us." 

If  this  perhaps  your  patience  move, 
Let  reason  and  experience  prove. 

We  all  behold  with  euvious  eyes 
Our  e(iiials  raised  above  our  size : 
Who  would  not  at  a  crowded  show 
Stand  high  himself,  keep  others  low  ? 
I  love  my  friend  as  well  as  you  : 
IJtit  why  should  lie  obstruct  my  view? 
Then  let  me  liave  the  higher  post; 
Suppo.se  it  but  an  inch  at  most. 
If  in  a  liattle  you  should  find 
One,  whom  you  love  of  all  mankind. 
Had  some  heroic  action  done, 
A  champion  Ivilled,  or  trophy  won  ; 
Rather  than  thus  bo  overtopt, 
Would  you  not  wish  his  laurels  cropt? 
Dear  honest  Ned  is  in  the  gout. 
Lies  racked  with  paiu,  and  you  without : 
How  patiently  you  hear  him  groan ! 
How  gh^d  the  case  is  not  your  own  ! 

What  iioet  would  not  grieve  to  see 
His  brother  write  as  well  as  he  ? 
But,  rather  than  they  should  excel, 
Would  wish  his  rivals  all  in  hell? 
Her  end,  when  emulation  misses, 
Siie  turns  to  envy,  stings,  and  hisses: 
The  strongest  friendship  yields  to  pride, 
I'nless  the  odds  be  on  our  side; 
Vain  liumaii-kiiid!   fantastic  race! 
Tliy  various  follies  who  can  trace  ? 
Self-love,  ambit  ion,  envy,  pride, 
Tlieir  empire  in  our  heart  divide. 
Give  others  riches,  power,  and  station, 
'Tis  all  to  me  an  usurpation! 
I  have  no  title  to  aspire. 
Yet,  when  you  sink,  I  seem  the  higher. 
In  Pope  I  cannot  read  a  Hue, 
But  with  a  sigh  I  wish  it  mine: — 
When  ho  can  in  one  couplet  fix 
More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  si.v, 
It  gives  mo  such  a  jealous  fit, 
I  cry,  "Pox  take  him  and  his  wit!" 
I  grieve  to  be  outdone  by  Gaj* 
In  my  own  humorous,  biting  way. 
Arbuthnot  is  no  more  my  frieud, 
Who  dares  to  irony  pretend, 


JOXA  THA  N  S  WJFT. 


125 


Which  I  was  born  to  introduce, 

Kelined  at  first,  and  showed  its  use. 

St.  John,  as  well  as  Pultenoy,  knows 

That  I  had  some  repute  for  prose  ; 

And,  till  they  drove  me  out  of  date, 

Could  maul  a  minister  of  state. 

If  they  have  mortified  my  pride. 

And  made  me  throw  my  pen  aside, — 

If  with  such  talents  Heaven  hath  blessed  'em, 

Have  I  not  reason  to  detest  'em  ? 

To  all  my  foes,  dear  Fortune,  scud 
Thy  gifts  ;   but  uever  to  my  friend  ; 
I  tamely  can  endure  the  first ; 
But  this  with  envy  makes  me  burst. 

Thus  much  may  serve  by  way  of  proem  ; 
Proceed  we  therefore  with  our  jjoem. 

The  time  is  not  remote  when  I 
Must  by  the  course  of  nature  die  ; 
When,  I  foresee,  my  special  friends 
Will  try  to  find  their  private  ends  : 
And,  though  'tis  hardly  understood 
Which  way  my  death  can  do  them  good. 
Yet  thus,  methinks,  I  hear  them  speak : 
"  See  how  the  Deau  begins  to  break  I 
Poor  gentleman,  he  droops  apace ! 
You  plainly  find  it  in  his  face. 
That  old  vertigo  in  his  head 
Will  never  leave  him  till  he's  dead. 
Besides,  his  memory  decays  : 
He  recollects  not  what  he  says  ; 
He  cannot  call  his  friends  to  mind: 
Forgets  the  place  where  last  he  dined  ; 
Plies  you  with  stories  o'er  and  o'er; 
He  told  them  fiftj'^  times  before. 
How  does  he  fancy  we  can  sit 
To  hear  his  out-of-fashion  wit  ? 
But  he  take's  up  with  younger  folks, 
Who  for  his  wine  will  bear  his  Jokes. 
Faith  !   he  must  make  his  stories  shorter. 
Or  change  his  comrades  once  a  quarter ; 
In  half  the  time  he  talks  them  round. 
There  must  another  set  be  found. 

"  For  poetry  he's  past  his  prime  ; 
He  takes  an  hour  to  find  a  rhyme  : 
His  tire  is  out,  his  wit  decayed. 
His  fiincj-  sunk,  his  Muse  a  jade. 
I'd  have  him  throAv  away  his  pen  ; 
But  there's  no  talkiug  to  some  men  !" 

And  then  their  tenderness  appears 
By  adding  largely  to  my  years: 
"  He's  older  than  he  would  be  reckoned. 
And  well  remembers  Charles  the  Second. 
He  hardly  drinks  a  pint  of  wine: 
And  that,  I  doubt,  is  no  good  sign. 


His  stomach,  too,  begins  to  fail ; 

I.ast  year  Ave  thought  him  strong  and  hale  ; 

]5ut  now  he's  quite  another  thing : 

I  wish  he  may  hold  out  till  spring!" 

They  hug  themselves,  and  reason  thus  : 
*•  It  is  not  yet  so  bad  with  us !" 

In  such  a  case  they  talk  in  tropes, 
And  by  their  fears  express  their  hopes. 
Some  great  misfortune  to  portend, 
No  enemy  can  match  a  friend. 
With  all  the  kindness  they  profess, 
The  merit  of  a  lucky  guess 
(When  daily  how-d'ye's  come  of  course; 
And  servants  auswer,  "  Worse  and  worse !") 
Would  please  them  better  than  to  tell 
That,  "  God  be  praised,  the  Dean  is  well." 
Then  he  who  prophesied  the  best. 
Approves  his  foresight  to  the  rest : 
"  You  know  I  always  feared  the  worst, 
And  often  told  you  so  at  first." 
He'd  rather  choose  that  I  should  die 
Than  his  predictions  prove  a  lie. 
Not  one  foretells  I  shall  recover ; 
But  all  agree  to  give  me  over. 

Yet  should  some  neighbor  feel  a  pain 
Just  in  the  parts  where  I  complain, — 
How  many  a  message  would  he  send ! 
What  hearty  i)rayers  that  I  should  mend ! 
Inquire  what  regimen  I  kept ; 
What  gave  me  ease,  and  how  I  slept  ? 
And  more  lament,  Avhen  I  was  dead, 
Than  all  the  snivellers  round  my  bed. 

My  good  companions,  never  fear ; 
For,  though  you  may  mistake  a  year, 
Though  your  prognostics  run  too  fast, 
Tliev  must  bo  verified  at  last! 


STELLA'S   BIRTHDAY,  1720. 

All  travellers  at  fii'st  incline 

Where'er  they  see  the  fairest  sign  ; 

Will  call  again,  and  recommend 

The  Angel  Inn  to  every  friend. 

What  though  the  iiainting  grows  decayed. 

The  house  will  never  lose  its  trade  ; 

Nay,  though  the  treacherous  tapster  Thomas 

Hangs  a  new  Angel  two  doors  from  us. 

As  tine  as  daubers'  hands  can  make  it, 

In  hopes  that  strangers  maj^  mistake  it, 

We  think  it  both  a  shame  and  sin 

To  quit  the  true  old  Angel  Inn. 


126 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Now  this  is  Stolhi's  case  in  fact, 
An  angel's  face  a  little  cracked 
(Coiikl  poets  or  could  painters  lix 
How  angels  look  at  thirty-six) : 
This  drew  us  in  at  first  to  find 
In  such  a  form  an  angel's  mind ; 
And  every  virtne  now  supplies 
The  fainting  rays  of  Stella's  eyes. 
See  at  her  levee  crowding  swains, 
Whom  Stella  freely  entertains 
With  lireeding,  liunHU',  wit,  and  sense, 
And  i)uts  tlicm  to  but  small  expense; 
Their  mind  so  ])lontit"ully  tills, 
And  makes  such  reasonable  bills. 
So  little  gets  for  what  she  gives. 
We  really  Avonder  how  she  lives  ; 
And.  had  her  stock  been  less,  no  doubt 
She  nnist  have  long  ago  run  out. 

Then  who  Can  think  we'll  quit  tlie  place. 
When  Doll  hangs  out  a  newer  face  ? 
Or  stop  and  light  at  Chloe's  head. 
With  scraps  and  leavings  to  be  fed  ? 

Then,  Chloe,  still  go  on  to  prate 
Of  thirty-six  and  thirty-eight ; 
Pursue  your  trade  of  scandal-picking. 
Your  hints  that  Stella  is  no  chicken ; 
Your  innuendoes,  when  you  tell  ns 
That  Stella  loves  to  talk  with  fellows; 
And  let  me  warn  you  to  believe 
A  truth,  for  which  your  soul  should  grieve  ; 
That,  should  you  live  to  see  the  day 
When  Stella's  locks  must  all  be  gray, 
When  age  must  print  a  furrowed  trace 
On  every  feature  of  her  face ; 
Though  you,  and  all  your  senseless  tribe, 
Could  art,  or  time,  or  nature  bribe, 
To  make  you  look  like  Beauty's  Queen, 
And  hold  forever  at  fifteen  ; 
No  bloom  of  youth  can  ever  blind 
The  cracks  and  wrinkles  of  your  mind: 
All  men  of  sense  will  pass  your  door. 
And  crowd  to  Stella's  at  fourscore. 


torals"  as  the  tinest  in  the  language.  Philips  won  some 
little  success  as  a  dramatic  writer;  but  as  he  advanced 
ill  life  he  seems  to  have  forsaken  the  Muses :  he  became 
a  Menilier  of  Parliament,  and  died  at  the  ripe  age  of  scv- 
eiily-eiglit;  surpassing,  in  longevity  at  least,  most  con- 
leniporai-y  pouts. 


Ambrose  }JI)ilips. 


The  word  namby-pamhy  was  introduced  into  tlic  lan- 
guage through  its  having  been  first  ai)plicd  to  Ambrose 
Pliilips  (1071-1749)  by  Harry  Carey,  author  of  "Sally  in 
our  Alley,"  etc.  Pope  snatclied  at  tlic  nickname  as 
suited  to  Philips's  "eminence  in  the  infantile  style  ;"  so 
little  did  he  appreciate  the  i^irnplieity  and  grace  of  such 
lines  as  those  "To  Miss  Georuiana  Carteret."  But  Pope 
had  been  annoyed  by  TickcU's  praise  of  Philips's  "Pas- 


A  FKAGMENT  OF  SAPPHO. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast ; 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  to.ssed, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  Avas  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed  ;   the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  ; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung, 
My  ears  Avith  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dcAvy  damps  my  limbs  wei-e  chilled. 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled  ; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play, 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 


TO  MISS  GEORGIANA  CARTERET. 

Little  charm  of  placid  mien. 
Miniature  of  Beauty's  Queen, 
Numbering  years,  a  scanty  nine, 
Stealing  hearts  without  design. 
Young  inveigler,  fond  in  Aviles, 
Prone  to  mirth,  profuse  iu  smiles. 
Yet  a  novice  in  disdain, 
Pleasure  giving  without  pain, 
Still  caressing,  still  caressed, 
Thou  and  all  thy  loA-ers  blessed,  . 
Never  teased,  and  never  teasing, 
Oh  forever  pleased  and  pleasing ! 
Hither,  British  Muse  of  mine, 
Hither,  all  the  Grecian  Nine, 
With  the  lovely  Graces  Tlircc, 
And  your  promised  nursling  see ! 
Figure  on  her  waxen  mind 
Images  of  life  refined  ; 
Make  it  as  a  garden  gay, 
Every  bud  of  thought  display, 
Till,  improving  year  by  year, 
The  Avhole  culture  shall  appear, 


COLLET  CIBBER.— JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


127 


Voice,  and  speech,  and  action,  rising, 
All  to  human  sense  surprising. 

Is  the  silken  web  so  thiu 
As  the  texture  of  her  skiu  ? 
Can  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Such  unsullied  hue  disclose? 
Are  the  violets  so  blue 
As  her  veius  exposed  to  view  ? 
Do  the  stars  in  wintry  sky 
Twinkle  brighter  than  her  eye  ? 
Has  the  morning  lark  a  throat 
Sounding  sweeter  than  her  note  ? 
Whoe'er  knew  the  like  before  thee  ? — 
They  Avho  knew  the  nymph  that  bore  thee ! 


(Ilollcij  Cibbcr. 

Though  remembered  as  a  poet  by  only  one  simple  lit- 
tle piece,  Gibber  (1G71-1757)  was  made  poet-laureate  iu 
1730.  He  bad  considerable  success  both  as  an  actor  and 
a  writer  of  plays,  and  was  severely  satirized  by  Pope  in 
"The  Dunciad."  Gibber's  "Apology  for  bis  Life"  is 
one  of  the  most  entertaining  autobiographies  in  the  lan- 
ffuaere. 


iJoscpl)  ^bliison. 


\ 


THE   BLIND   BOY. 

Oh,  say,  what  is  that  thing  called  light. 

Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  ? 
What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight  ? 

Oh,  tell  your  poor  blind  boy  ! 

You  talk  of  wondrons  things  you  see ; 

You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 
I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he. 

Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make. 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
Y'ou  mourn  my  hapless  woe ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  : 
Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 


Addison  (l()73-171i)),  one  of  tlie  most  beloved  charac- 
ters in  Englisli  literature,  was  tlie  son  of  a  clergyman, 
and  was  born  in  Wiltsliire.  His  success  at  the  Universi- 
'ty  of  Oxford,  tbc  friendships  he  had  formed,  his  genial 
disposition  and  general  culture,  brouglit  him  early  into 
the  sphere  of  fortunate  patronage.  In  reward  for  some 
complimentary  verses  on  King  William,  be  got,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-three,  a  pension  of  £300  a  year.  This  enabled 
him  to  travel.  His  epistle  from  Italy  to  Lord  Halifax 
belongs  to  the  artificial  school.  The  publication  of  the 
Tatler,  and  its  successors,  the  Spectator  and  tlie  Guardi- 
an, bi'ought  out  Addison  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  of 
English  prose  writers.  He  and  Steele  contributed  the 
greater  portion  of  the  papers.  In  1713,  Addison  pro- 
duced his  tragedy  of  "Gato,"  and  added  largely  thereby 
to  his  literary  reputation.  In  171G,  he  married  the  Gount- 
ess  Dowager  of  Warwick.  It  was  not  a  happy  union. 
In  1717,  he  was  made  Secretary  of  State;  but  he  broke 
down  as  a  public  speaker,  and  the  next  year  retired  on 
a  pension  of  £1500  a  year.  He  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy 
it.  The  room  in  wliich  he  died  at  Holland  House  has  a 
large  bay-window  overlooking  the  Park  in  the  direction 
of  Netting  Hill.  He  died  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  leav- 
ing an  only  child,  a  daughter,  by  the  eouutess.  Born 
in  1718,  this  daughter  died  in  1797. 

The  biographer  of  Andrew  Marvell  has  made  it  appear 
probable  that  the  well-known  lines,  "  The  Spacious  Fir- 
mament on  High,"  also  "The  Lord  my  pasture  shall 
prepare,"  were  by  Marvell.  In  the  notice  of  that  poet 
will  be  found  the  reasons  for  crediting  them  to  Addison. 
The  internal  evidences  are  decidedly  in  favor  of  his  au- 
thorship. They  were  both  inserted  in  the  Spectator,  with- 
out the  name  of  the  author,  and  have  accordingly  always 
passed  as  Addison'G. 


HYMN. 


When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys. 
Transported  with  the  view  I'm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

Oh,  how  shall  words  with  equal  Avarmth 

The  gratitude  declare, 
That  glows  within  mj^  ravished  heart! 

But  thou  canst  read  it  there. 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustained, 
And  all  my  wants  redressed, 

When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay. 
And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries, 

Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 

To  form  tliemselves  in  prayer. 


128 


CYCLOI'JCDJA    OF  JiniTISJI  AM)   AMERICAN  rOETIlY. 


Uiimiuibered  comforts  to  my  soul 

Thy  teuder  cure  bestowed  ; 
Before  my  infant  lieart  eoiiceived 

From  wlience  these  eoiiiforls  Mowed. 

AVhen  in  tlic  slippery  ])atlis  ofydnth, 

With  heedless  steps  I  ran, 
Thine  arm.  unseen,  conveyed  me  safe, 

And  led  me  up  to  man. 

Tlu()nj:;li  hidden  danj^ers,  toils,  and  death, 

It  gently  cleared  my  way, 
And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 

More  to  be  feared  tliau  they. 

"When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  thou 
With  liealth  reiiewcHl  my  face ; 

And  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  suuk. 
Revived  uiy  soul  with  grace. 

Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 
Hath  made  my  cup  run  o'er  ; 

And  iu  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 
Hath  doubled  all  my  store. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 

My  daily  thanks  employ  ; 
Nor  is  the  least  a  clieerful  heart. 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joj'. 

Through  every  period  of  my  life 

Thy  goodness  I'll  pursue  ; 
And  after  death,  iu  distant  worlds, 

The  glorious  theme  renew. 

When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 

Divide  thy  works  no  more. 
My  ever-grateful  heart,  O  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

Througli  all  eternitj',  to  theo 

A  joyful  song  I'll  raise ; 
For,  oh,  eternity's  too  short 

To  utter  all  thy  praise ! 


ODE  FROM  THE  NINETEENTH  PSALM. 

The  spacious  lirmament  r)n  hinli. 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame. 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 


The  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
Tlic  \v()i  k  of  an  almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  till'  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And,  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  storj"^  of  her  birth  ; 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn 
Coutirm  the  tidings  as  they  rcdl, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  ])olc. 

"What  though,  in  soleniu  silence,  all 
]Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice. 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


TARArHRASE  ON   TSALM   XXIII. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare. 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply. 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye ; 
My  noonday  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountains  pant, 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads. 
My  weary  wandering  steps  ho  leads. 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  laiulscape  How. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  lieart  shall  fear  no  ill. 
For  thou,  O  God,  art  ^vith  me  still : 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid. 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Thongh  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way. 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  ray  pains  beguile  ; 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile. 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned. 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  arouiul. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.— ISAAC   WATTS,  D.D. 


121) 


CATO'S    SOLILOQUY   OX   THE    IMMORTALITY 
OF  THE   SOUL. 

It  must  be  so— I'lato,  thou  reasou'st  well ; 
Else  -wheuce  this  ploasiug  liope,  this  foud  desire, 
This  longing  after  iniuiortality  ? 
Or  -\vheuee  tliis  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 
Of  falling  into  naught?     AVhy  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  ou  herself  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 
— 'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us, 
'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 
And  intimates  Eternity  to  man. 
Eternity  ! — thou  pleasing — dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being — 
Through  "what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we 

liass ! 
The  wide,  th'  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me; 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold : — If  there's  a  Power  above  us 
(And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works),  he  must  delight  in  Virtue  : 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy  : 
But — when? — or  where  ? — This  world  Avas  made  for 

Caesar. 
Lin  weary  of  conjectures  : — This  must  end  them. 

\_L(tiiiiio  his  hand  on  Jiis  sword. 
Thus  I  am  doubly  armed ;   my  death  and  life. 
My  bane  and  antidote  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end. 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secured  iu  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  iu  immortal  youth, 
I'nhurt  amid  the  wars  of  elements. 
The  wrecks  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 


ODE. 


How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence ! 
Eterual  wisdom  is  their  guide. 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms,  and  lauds  remote. 

Supported  by  thy  care. 
Through  burning  climes  I  passed  unhurt. 

And  breathed  iu  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil, 
Made  every  region  please  ; 


The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed, 
And  sutoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  oh  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How,  with  atfrighted  eyes. 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face, 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 
When  Avaves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  gulfs 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  O  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free, 
"Whilst  in  the  confideuce  of  prayer, 

My  faith  took  hold  on  thee. 

For,  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  ou  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear. 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea,  that  roared  at  thy  command. 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death. 

Thy  goodness  I'll  adore, 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past. 

And  humbly  ho^ie  for  moi'e. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv'st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


Isaac  lUatts,  P.P. 

This  eminent  writer  (IGT-t-lT-tS)  was  born  at  South- 
ampton. His  parents  were  Protestant  dissenters,  wlio 
hud  suffered  severely  for  their  faith  during  the  arbitrary 
times  of  Cliarles  II.  Watts  read  Latin  at  five  years  of 
age.  He  was  well  instructed,  and  became  an  Indepen- 
dent minister;  but  Aveak  health  prevented  his  devoting 
himself  actively  to  his  profession.  The  last  thirty-six 
years  of  his  long  life  were  spent  in  the  house  of  his 
friend,  Sir  Tliomtis  Abney.  Watts  Avrote  *'  Divine  Songs, 
Attempted  in  Easy  Langunge  for  the  Use  of  Cliildren  ;" 
but  in  liis  later  years  he  is  said  to  have  abandoned  the 
extreme  Calvinistic  vicw^  expressed  in  those  once-popu- 
lar productions,  and  to  have  tcaned  almost  to  Universal- 
ism.    His  "  Logic,"  and  Ins  worlc  ou  "  The  Improvement 


130 


cYCLoj'j:niA  OF  junTJsii  and  ameiihax  j'ojcmr. 


of  tlie  Miiul,"  show  that  he  could  write  English  prose 
witli  cluarness  and  lorce.  He  was  the  autlior  of  some 
liiiht  hundred  hj'nins,  most  of  tiiem  of  little  account  in 
a  literary  resi)ect,  thouj;li  in  some  he  manifests  <;euuine 
jioctic  feclin.ij:.  Many  of  them  still  retain  their  high 
idacc  amonix  devotional  elfn^ions.  The  character  of 
Watts  was  amiable  and  beautiful  to  the  last.  His  poem 
of  "True  Riches"  is  alone  sullicient  to  justify  his  claim 
to  be  ranked  among  true  poets. 


TRUE  RICHES. 

I  am  not  concerned  to  know 
Wliat  to-morrow  fate  will  do; 
'Tis  enou.!j;li  tiiiit   1  can  say 
I've  posscis.si'd  myself  to-day: 
Then,  if,  haply,  niidni;;]it  death 
Seize  my  flesh,  and  stop  my  breath. 
Yet  to-morrow  I  sliall  bo 
Heir  of  the  best  part  of  jnc. 

Glittering  stones  and  golden  things, 
Wealth  aud  honors,  that  have  wings, 
Ever  fluttering  to  be  gone, 
I  could  never  call  my  own. 
Riches  that  the  world  bestows, 
!^he  can  take  and  I  can  lose  ; 
But  the  treasures  that  are  mine 
Lie  afar  beyond  her  line. 
When  I  view  my  spacious  soul. 
And  survey  myself  a  whole. 
And  enjoy  myself  alone, 
I'm  a  kingdom  of  my  own. 

I've  a  mighty  part  within 
That  the  world  hath  never  seen. 
Rich  as  Eden's  happy  ground. 
And  with  choicer  plenty  crowned. 
Here  on  all  tlie  shining  boughs 
Knowledge  fair  an<l  useless'  grows  ; 
On  the  same  young  llowery  tree 
All  the  .'^easons  you   may  see  : 
Notions  ill  the  bloom  of  light 
Just  disclosing  to  the  sight; 
Here  are  thoughts  of  larger  growth 
Ripening  into  solid  truth  ; 
Fruits  refined  of  mible  taste, — 
Seraphs  feed  on  such  repast. 
Here,  in  green  and  shady  grove, 
Streams  of  pleasure  mix  with  love; 
There,  beneath  the  smiling  skies, 
Hills  of  contemplation  rise; 
Now  npon  some  shining  top 
Angels  light,  and  call  me  up : 

'  Ai)i)arenlly  implying  7wt  to  be  used  in  this  icorld. 


I  rejoice  to  rai.se  my  feet ; 

Both  rejoice  when  there  we  meet. 

Tiiere  are  endless  beauties  more 
Earth  hath  no  resemblance  for; 
Nothing  like  them  round  the  pole; 
Nothing  can  describe  the  soul: 
'Tis  a  region  half  unknown. 
That  has  tieasiires  of  its  own, 
More  remote  from  public  view 
Than  the  bowels  of  Peru  ; 
15roa(ler  'tis  and  brighter  far 
Tlian  tlu^  golden  Indies  arc: 
Ships  that  trace  the  watery  stage 
Cannot  coast  it  in  an  age  ; 
Harts  or  liorses,  strong  and  fleet, 
Had  they  wings  to  help  their  feet. 
Could  iu)t  run  it  half-way  o'er 
In  ten  thousand  days  and  nmre. 

Yet  the  silly  wandering  mind, 
Loath  to  be  too  much  confined, 
Roves  and  takes  her  daily  tours, 
Coasting  round  the  narrow  shores — 
Narrow  shores  of  flesh  and  sense. 
Picking  shells  aud  pebbles  thence: 
Or  she  sits  at  Fancy's  door. 
Calling  shapes  and  shadows  lo  her; 
Foreign  visits  still  receiving, 
And  to  herself  a  stranger  living. 
Never,  never  would  she  buy 
Indian  dust  or  Tyrian  dye. 
Never  trade  abroad  for  more, 
If  she  saw  her  native  shore; 
li  her  inward  worth  were  known, 
She  might  ever  live  alone. 


EARTH   AND  HEAVEN. 

Hast  thou  not  seen,  impatient  boy? 

Hast  thou  not  read  the  solenni  truth, 
That  gray  experience  writes  for  giddy  youth 
On  every  mortal  joy, — 
Pleasure  must  be  dashed  with  pain  ? 
And  yet  with  heedless  haste 
The  thirsty  boy  repeats  the  taste. 
Nor  hearkens  to  de.sjtair,  but  tries  the  bowl  again. 
The  rills  of  pleasure  never  run  sincere  : 
Earth  has  no  unpolluted  spring: 
From  the  cursed  soil  some  dangerous  taint  they  bear; 
So  roses  grow  on  thorns,  and  honey  wears  a  sting. 

In   vain   we  seek  a  hea\en   below  the  sky; 
The  world  has  false  but  flattering  charms; 


ISAAC    WATTS,  D.D.—JOUN  PHILIPS. 


i:n 


Its  distant  Joys  show  bij;;  in  our  esteem, 
But  lessen  still  as  tliey  draw  near  the  eye: 

111  our  embrace  the  ^  isions  die  ; 

And  when  wo  grasp  the  airy  forms, 
AVo  lose  the  pleasing  dream. 

Earth,  Avith  her  scenes  of  gay  delight, 

Is  but  a  landscape  rudely  drawn. 

With  glaring  colors  and  fixlse  light : 

Distance  commends  it  to  the  sight, 
For  fools  to  gaze  upon  ; 

But  bring  the  nauseous  daubing  nigh, 
Coarse  and  confused  the  hideous  ligures  lie, 
Dissolve  the  pleasure,  and  otiend  the  eye. 

Look    np,    my     soul,    pant     tow'rds     the    eternal 
hills ; 
Those  heavens  are  fairer  than  they  seem  : 
Tliere    pleasures    all    sincere    glide    on   in    crystal 
rills ; 
There  not  a  dreg  of  guilt  deiiles, 
Nor  grief  disturbs  the  stream  : 
That  Canaan  knows  no  noxious  thing, 
Xo  curs<^d  soil,  no  tainted  spring, 
Nor  roses  grow  on  thorns,  nor  honey  bears  a  sting. 


FROJI  ALL   THAT   DWELL. 
> 

From  all  that  dwell  beneath  the  skies 

Let  the  Creator's  praise  arise  ; 
Let  the  Redeemer's  name  be  sung 
Through  everj'  land,  by  every  tongue ! 

Eternal  are  thj'  mercies.  Lord  ; 

Eternal  truth  attends  thy  word  ; 

Thy  praise  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 


.JOY  TO   THE   W^ORLD. 

.Joy  to  the  world !   the  Lord  is  come ! 

Let  earth  receive  her  King! 
Let  every  heart  prepare  him  room, 

And  Heaven  and  Nature  sing. 

Joy  to  the  earth  !   the  Saviour  reigns ! 

Let  men  their  songs  employ! 
While  tields  and  woods,  rocks,  hills,  and  plains, 

Repeat  the  sounding  joy. 


No  more  let  sins  and  sorrows  grow. 
Nor  thorns  infest  tlie  ground  : 

He  comes  to  make  his  blessings  How 
Far  as  tlie  curse  is  found. 

He  rules  the  world  witii  trutli  and  grace, 
And  makes  the  nations  jirove 

The  glories  of  his  righteousness 
And  Avondcrs  of  his  love. 


iJolju  Pljilipi 


Son  of  an  archbishop,  John  Philips  (1076-1708)  was 
born  in  Oxfordshire,  and  educated  at  Oxford.  He  had 
early  studied,  and  attempted  to  imitate,  tlic  style  of  Mil- 
ton. Tliis  led  to  the  production,  in  1703,  of  the  bur- 
lesque poem  by  which  he  is  now  remendicred — "The 
Splendid  Sliilling."  It  would  not  have  created  nuich 
of  a  sensation  had  it  been  published  a  century  later;  but 
in  its  day  it  had  rare  success,  and  is  still  read  with  pleas- 
ure. Philips  also  wrote  a  creditable  poem  on  a  most 
unpromising  theme — "Cider."  He  led  a  blameless  life, 
was  much  esteemed,  and  died  young. 


FROM   '^THE   SPLENDID   SHILLING."' 

Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife. 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  splendid  shilling.     He  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale  ; 
But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise. 
To  Juniper's  Magpie,  or  Town-hall  repairs. 
Where,  mindful  of  the  nymi)h  whose  wanton  eye 
Transfixed  his  soul  and  kindled  amorous  flames, 
Chloe,  or  Phillis,  he,  each  circling  glass, 
Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love  :     • 
]\Ieanwhile  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale 
Or  pun  ambiguous  or  conundrum  quaint. 
But  I,  whom  griping  penury  surrounds, 
And  hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  want. 
With  scanty  offals  and  small  acid  tilf 
(Wretched  repast!)  my  meagre  corps  sustain, 
Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
In  garret  vile,  and  with  a  warming  puff 
Regale  chilled  finger.s,  or  from  tube  as  black 
As  winter-chimney  or  well-polished  jet 
Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfnming  scent. 
Not  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size. 
Smokes  Cambro-Britou  (versed  in  pedigree, 
S[)rung  from  Cadwallador  and  Arthur,  kings 
Full  famous  in  romantic  tale)  wlien  he 


132 


CYCLOI'.i:i)lA    OF  nUlTlSll   AM)  AMEUIVAX  I'OETIIY. 


O'er  many  a  craggy  ^''^^  ""^^  barren  cliffj 

I'lioii  a  cargo  of  famed  Cestrian  clieoso 

High  over-shadowing  rides,  witli  a  design 

To  vend  his  wares  or  at  tli'  Arvonian  mart, 

Or  Maridimum,'  or  tiie  ancient  town 

Yilei)ed  15recliinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 

Encircles  Ariconinm.  fiiiitfiil  soil  I 

Whence  flow  nectareous  wiiu's  lliat  well  may  vie 

"With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renowned  Falern. 

Thus,  while  my  joyless  minntes  tedions  flow, 
"With  looks  demnro  and  silent  pace,  a  dun, 
Ilorrilde  monster!   hated  by  gods  and  men! 
To  my  aerial  citadel  ascends. 
With  vocal   heel   thrice  tlniudcring  at   my  gate, 
With  liideons  accent  thrice  he  calls;    I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
What  shonld  I  do  ?    or  whither  turn  ?     Amazed, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of  wood-hole.     Straight  my  bristling  hairs  erect 
Throngh  sudden  fear ;    a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My  shuddering  limbs;    and  (wonderful  to  tell!) 
My  tongne  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech. 
So  horrible  he  seems!     llts  faded  brow 
Intrenched  with  many  a  frown,  and  conic  beard. 
And  spreading  band  admired  by  nn)dern  saints, 
Disastrous  acts  forebode;   in  his  ligjit  liand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves. 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscribed, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes :   ye  gods,  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous   men !      Behind  him 

stalks 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  himself, 
Sullen  of  aspect,  by  the  vulgar  called 
A  Catchpolc,  whose  polluted  hands  the  gods 
With  force  incredible  and  magic  charms 
First  have  endued.     If  he  his  ample  palm 
Should,  haply,  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of*  debtor,  straight  his  body,  to  the  touch 
Obsequious  (as  whilom  knights  were  wont), 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  conveyed, 
Where  gates  impregnable  and  coercive  chains 
In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till  in  form 
Of  money  Pallas  sets  the  cai)tive  fne. 

Beware,  ye  debtors,  when  ye  walk,  biware! 
Be  circumspect!     Oft  with  insidious  ken 
This  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdue  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Promi)t  to  enchant  some  inadvertent    wretch 
With  his  unhallowed  touch. 


•  Mariditnum,  Cncrmai-llion  ;    /J/'ccftinio,  Brecknock;    Vaga, 
tlic  Wye;  Ariconmm,  Ilcrefolil. 


ctljomas  JJarncU. 


Of  Englisli  descent,  Parnell  (1G79-1718)  was  born  in 
Dublin.  lie  became  areluleacou  of  Cloglier,  and  Swill 
got  for  liiui  tlic  appointment  of  vicar  of  Finglas.  He 
was  the  friend  of  Pope,  and  assisted  liim  in  the  transla- 
tion of  Homer.  "The  Hermit"  is  the  poem  for  which 
Parnell  still  maintains  a  respectable  rank  among  Eng- 
lish i)octs ;  but  there  arc  other  poems  of  considerable 
merit  from  his  pen.  Pope  collected  and  published  them 
all  in  1721,  dedicating  them  to  Robert  Harley,  Earl  of 
Oxford,  who  had  been  ParneU's  friend.  In  his  dedica- 
tion, Pope  says : 

"Such  were  tlie  notes  thy  once-loved  poet  siintr, 
Till  deatli  untimely  sto])ped  his  tuneful  toiifrne. 
O  just  beheld  and  lost!  admired  and  mourned! 
With  softest  manners,  gentlest  arts  adorned! 
]Uc<t  in  each  science,  blest  in  every  strain  ! 
Dear  to  the  Muse,  to  Harley  dear— iu  vain !" 

"The  Hermit"  is  a  modern  version  of  a  tale  from  the 
"Gcsta  Romanorum,"  winch  was  the  name  of  a  media"- 
val  collection  of  Latin  tales,  moralized  for  the  use  of 
preachers,  each  tale  having  a  religious  "application" 
fitted  to  it. 


THE   HERMIT. 

Far  in  a  wild  unkuowu  to  public  view. 
From  youth  to  ago  a  reverend  hermit  grew  ; 
The  moss  his  bed,,tho  cave  his  humble  cell. 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well  : 
Keumfe  from  nniu,  with  God  lie  jiassed  the  days. 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seemed  heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose  : 
That  Vice  shonld  triumph.  Virtue  Vice  obey — 
This  sprung  siuni'  doubt  of  Providence's  sway. 
His  hopes  no  nmre  a  certain  prospect  boast, 
And  all  the  temn-  of  his  soul  is  lost : 
So  when  a  snmoth  expanse  receives,  imprest. 
Calm  Nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow. 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colors  glow; — 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide. 
Swift  rufiling  circles  curl  on  every  side. 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  sun. 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies  in  thick  disorder  run  ! 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight. 
To  find  if  books  or  swains  report  it  right 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  Avorld  he  knew, 
Whoso  feet  canm  wandering  o'er  the  nightly  dew) 
Il(>  (piits  his  cell;   the  pilgrim-staft'  he  bore, 
And  lixed  the  scallop  iu  his  hat  before; 
Then   with  the  sun  a  rising  journey  went. 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


133 


#   Tho  moru  was  -wasted  in  the  pathless  grass, 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  tlio  wild  to  pass  ; 
But  when  tho  sontheru  snu  had  warmed  tho  day, 
A  Youth  camo  posting  o'er  a  erossing  way  ; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair. 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  waved  his  hair. 
Then  near  ai)i)roacliiug,  "Father,  hail!"  he  cried; 
And  "  Hail,  my  son !"'  tho  reverend  sire  replied. 
Words  followed  words,  from  question  answer  llowcd. 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceived  tho  road  ; 
Till  each  with  other  pleased,  and  loath  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  difter,  join  in  heart : 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  suii  ;   the  closing  hour  of  day 
Camo  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose : 
When  near  the  road  a  statelj"  l^alace  rose. 
There  by  the  moon  thro'  ranks  of  trees  they  pass. 
Whose  verdure  crowned  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 
It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger's  home. 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Proved  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive  ;   the  liveried  servants  wait ; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  iiiles  of  food. 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good ; 
Then,  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown. 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play  ; 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 
An  early  banquet  decked  the  splendid  hall; 
liich,  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  graced. 
Which  the  kind  master  forced  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then,  pleased  and  thankful,  from  the  xiorch  they  go, 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe  : 
His  cup  was  vanished,  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloined  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  iu  the  summer  ray, 
Disordered,  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near. 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear; 
80  seemed  tho  sire  when,  far  upon  the  road, 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  showed. 
He   stopped   witli   silence,  walked  Avitli  trembling 

heart, 
And  much  he  wished,  but  durst  not  ask,  to  part : 
Murmuring,  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 


While  thus  they  pass  tho  sun  his  glory  shrouds. 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sablo  clouds, 
A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain. 
Ami  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warned    by    the    signs,   the    wandering    pair    re- 
treat. 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighboring  seat. 
'Twas  built  with  turrets,  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimproved  around  ; 
Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe. 
Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a  desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew, 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew  ; 
The  nimble  lightning,  mixed  with  showers,  began. 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud-rolling  thunders  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  call  or  knock  in  vain. 
Driven  by  the  Avind,  and  battered  by  the  rain. 
At  length  some  pity  warmed  the  master's  breast 
('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  received  a  guest), 
Slow  creaking,  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care. 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair. 
One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls. 
And  Nature's  fervor  thro'  their  limbs  recalls ; 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager'  wine 
(Each  hardly  granted),  served  them  both  to  dine; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appeared  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  tho  pondering  hermit  viewed 
In  one  so  rich  a  life  so  poor  and  rude  ; 
And  why  should  sucli  (within  himself  he  cried) 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside  ? 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took  place, 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face. 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup  the  generous  landlord  owned  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  x>recious  bowl 
Tho  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul! 

But  now  tho  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly  ; 
Tho  sun,  emerging,  opes  an  azure  skj- ; 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display. 
And,  glittering  as  thej'  tremble,  cheer  the  day : 
The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While    hence    they    walk    the    pilgrim's    bosom 
wrought 
With  all  the  travail  of  uncertain  thought. 
His  jiartner's  acts  without  their  cause  apjmar ; 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seemed  a  madness  here : 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 


>  French,  aigrc,  sharp,  acid.    "With  e.nger  compounds  we  our 
palate  urge."— Shakspkare,  Sor.iiet,  US. 


134 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND   AM  III:  I  ('AX  POETRY. 


Now  night's  dim  sliadcs  again  involvo  tho  sty;  j 
Again  the  ^vand«!l•c^.s  want  a  phuc  to  lie  ;  [• 

Again  they  search,  and  iind  a  lod^injx  nigli.  ) 

Tho  soil  improved  amniid,  tlic  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low  nor  idly  great : 
It  seemed  to  speak  its  nnister's  tnrn  of  mind, 
Content,  and  not  for  praise  but  virtne  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  tnrn  with  weary  feet, 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet. 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestowed  with  modest  gnisc, 
Tlie  eonrteons  master  hears,  and  thns  replies : 

"Without  a  vain,  witiiont  a  grndging  heart, 
To  Him  who  gives  ns  all  I  yield  a  part; 
From  Him  you  come,  for  Him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober  more  than  costly  cheer." 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Tiien  talked  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed, 
Wlien  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warned  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  Avorld,  renewed  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil  ;    tho  dappled  morn  arose. 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  closed  cradle  where  an  infant  slept. 
And  writhed  his  neck:   the  landlord's  little  pride 
(Oh  strange  return !)  grew  black,  and  gasped,  and 

died. 
Horror  of  horrors  !     What !   his  only  son  ! 
How  looked  onr  herniK  when  the  fact  was  done! 
Not  hell,  though  hell's  black  jaws  in  snnder  part 
And    breathe    blue    lire,   could    more    assault    his 
heart. 

Confused,  and  struck  w  ith  silence  at  the  deed, 
He  Hies,  but,  trembling,  fails  to  lly  with  speed. 
His  stejis  the  youth  i)ursucs.     The  country  lay 
Perplexed  with  roads  :   a  servant  showed  tho  way. 
A  river  crossed  the  path  ;   the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find  :   the  s<-rvant  trod  before. 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  o])tn  bridge  supplied. 
And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  glide. 
The  Youth,  who  seemed  to  watch  a  time  to  sin. 
Approached  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in  : 
Plunging  he  falls,  and,  rising,  lifts  his  head; 
Then,  flashing,  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

W^ild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes ; 
Ho  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
"Detested  wretch!" — I5ut  scarce  his  speech  began 
When  the  strange  partner  seemed  no  longer  man. 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 
His  robe  turned  white,  and  flowed  upon  his  feet ; 
Fair  rounds  of  ladiant  points  invest  his  hair; 
Celestial  od(ns  breathe  through  purpled  air; 
And  wings,  whose  colors  glittered  <ni  tho  day. 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  jilumes  disi)hiy. 


Tlie  form  ethereal  bursts  upon  his  sight,  # 

And  moves  in  all  the  nnijesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion  grew. 
Sudden  he  gazed,  and  wist  not  Avhat  to  do  ; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
Hut  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravished  as  he  spoke) : 

"Thy   prayer,  thy   praise,  thy    life    to    vice    un- 
known. 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  tho  Tlirone. 
Tiieso  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find. 
And  force  an  angel  down  to  calm  thy  mind  ; 
For  this  commissioned,  I  forsook  the  sky ; 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

"Then  know  tho  truth  of  government  divine. 
And  let  these  scruples  bo  no  longer  thine. 

"The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made: 
In  this  the  Right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 
Its  sacred  nnijesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends. 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 
The  Power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high, 
Your  action  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 
And  bids  tho  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

"  What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  sur- 
prise 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  e^'os  ? 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  tho  Almighty  just, 
And  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 

"  The  great,  vaiu  man,  who  fared  on  costly  food, 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  bo  good ; 
Who  made  his  ivory  stands  Avith  goblets  shine. 
And   forced   his    guests    to    morning   draughts    of 

wine  ; 
Has  with  the  cup  the  graceless  custom  lost, 
And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

"The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 
Ne'er  moved  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor — 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless  if  mortals  will  bo  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead 
With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head  : 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 
And,  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  below. 

"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod ; 
But  now  the  child  half-weaned  his  heart  from  God: 
Child  of  his  age,  for  him  ho  lived  in  pain, 
Ami  measured  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ! 
But  God,  to  save  tho  father,  took  the  son. 


EDWARD   YOUNG. 


i:?5 


To  ;ill  1)11 1  tlieo  in  fits  ho  seemed  to  jio, 
And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  tlic  blow. 
Tlio  poor,  fond  parent,  Immblcd  in  the  dnst, 
Xow  owns  in  tears  the  pnuishinent  Avas  just. 

'•I'nt  how  had  all  his  fortnnc  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  ialse  serwant  sped  in  safety  baek  I 
This  night  his  treasnred  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  ■what  .1  fnnd  of  eliarity  \vonld  fail! 

"  Thns   Heaven    instrncts   tliy  mind.     Tiiis  trial 
o'er. 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 

On  sonnding  pinions  hero  the  youtli  withdrew ; 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  looked  Elisha  when  to  mount  on  higli 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky: 
The  iiery  pomp,  ascending,  left  the  view  ; 
The  prophet  gazed,  and  wished  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun — 
'•Lord!   as  in  heaven,  on  earth  thy  will  be  done!" 
Then,  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  passed  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 


(^bttuavL)  Uoumv 


The  author  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  (1GS4-1765)  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  and  on  finishing  his  education  be- 
came, after  the  example  of  other  poets  of  the  time,  an 
assiduous  aspirant  to  court  favor.  But  neither  Queen 
Anne  nor  George  I.  rewarded  his  zeal.  The  patronage 
of  the  "  notorious  Wharton,"  a  friend  of  Young's  father, 
did  the  son  no  honor.  He  accompanied  "Wliarton  to 
Ireland  in  ITIG.  It  was  during  this  visit  that  Young 
took  a  walk  witli  Dean  Swift,  when  the  dean,  looking 
at  the  withered  upper  branches  of  an  ehn,  remarked,  "I 
shall  be  like  tliat  tree  ;  I  shall  die  at  the  top."  Personal 
acquaintance  does  not  seem  to  have  warded  off  the  sat- 
ire of  Swift;  for  after  Young  was  appointed  a  king's 
chaplain  in  1727,  Swiit  described  the  poet  as  compelled 
to 

"Toi-tnre  his  invention 
To  flatter  knaves,  oi-  lose  his  peusiou." 

But  it  does  not  appear  that  there  was  any  other  reward 
than  the  chaplaincy.  AVhen  fifty  years  old,  Young  mar- 
ried Lady  Elizabeth  Lee,  a  widow.  By  her  he  had  a  son. 
She  had  two  children  by  her  former  marriage,  and  to 
these  Young  became  warmly  attached.  Both  died;  and 
when  the  mother  also  followed.  Young  composed  his 
"Night  Thoughts,"  a  work  of  unquestionable  power, 
exhibiting  rare  skill  in  giving  condensed  force  to  lan- 
guage, and,  amidst  all  its  gloom,  occasionally  lit  up  with 
flashes  of  genuine  poetical  feeling.  Sixty  years  had  ele- 
vated and  enriched  Young's  genius,  and  augmented  even 
the  brilliancy  of  his  fancy.  The  extremity  of  age  could 
not  arrest  his  indomitable  mental  activity.  He  died 
in  the  midst  of  his  literary  employments,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-four. 


The  foundation  of  his  great  poem  was  family  misfort- 
une, colored  and  exaggerated  lor  effect : — 

"Ins;itiato  archer!  conUl  not  one  s  uflicc  ? 
Tliy  sluifts  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  iieace  was  slain  ; 
And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fllled  her  horn." 

This  Tapid  succession  of  bereavements  was  a  poetical 
license;  for  in  one  of  the  cases  there  was  an  interval  of 
four  years,  and  in  anpther  of  seven  months. 

In  spite  of  the  artilieial,  antithetical,  and  epigrammatic 
style  of  piu-ts  of  the  great  poem — in  spite  of  what  Jlaz- 
litt  calls  "its  glitter  and  lofty  pretensions"  —  it  still 
leaves  for  our  admiration  many  noble  passages,  where 
the  poet  speaks,  as  from  inspiration,  of  life,  death,  and 
immortality.  The  more  carefully  it  is  studied  the  more 
extraordinary  and  weighty  with  thought  will  it  appear. 
But  there  is  no  plot  or  progressive  interest  in  the  poem. 
Each  of  the  nine  books  is  independent  of  the  other. 
Hazlitt  thinks  it  "has  been  much  over-rated  from  the 
popularitj'  of  the  subject;"  but  this  we  do  not  admit. 
The  wonder  is  in  that  mastery  of  language  that  could 
float  a  theme  so  vast  and  so  unpromising. 

Young  wrote  satires  under  the  title  of  the  "Love  of 
Fame,  the  Universal  Passion  ;"  also  plays,  among  which 
"Busiris"  and  "The  Revenge"  had  considerable  suc- 
cess on  the  stage.  But  his  "Night  Thoughts"  is  a 
work  that  so  towers  above  them  all,  as  to  leave  his  other 
I)oems  in  merited  obscurity.  The  lapse  of  time  has  en- 
hanced rather  than  detracted  from  the  fame  of  this  ex- 
traordinary production.  Lord  Lytton  has  left  his  tes- 
timony to  its  greatness. 

Young,  Avho  had  become  acquainted  with  Voltaire 
(thirteen  years  his  junior)  during  the  latter's  residence 
in  England  (about  the  year  1738),  dedicated  some  of  his 
verses  to  him  in  a  poem  of  fifty-four  lines,  highly  com- 
plimentary to  the  rising  French  author. 


INVOCATION  TO   THE   AUTHOR   OF   LIGHT. 

Night  I. 

Thou  who  did'st  put  to  flight 

Primeval  silence,  when  the  morning  stars. 

Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  vale; — 

O  thou  !   whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 

That  s])avlc,  the  sun, — strike  wisdom  from  my  soul ; 

My  soul  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure, 

As  misers  to  tlieir  gold  wliile  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul, 
This  donble  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     Oh,  lead  my  mind 
(A  mind  that  faiu  would  Avander  from  its  woe). 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason  ;   my  best  will. 
Teach  rectitude  ;    and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
AYisdom  to  wed,  and  paj'  her  long  arrear : 


136 


CYCLOPJEDTA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Nor  let  tho  vial  of  tliy  vengeance,  ponreil 
On  this  devoted  head,  bo  ponied  in   \  ;iin. 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of  time 
Bnt  from  its  loss:   to  t;ive  i(   tlieu  a  tongno 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solcnni  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  tho  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 
Where  are  they  ?     With  the  years  beyond  the  Hood. 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch  : 
How  much  is  to  be  done  !     My  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down — on  what?     A  fathomless  abyss; 
A  dread  eternity  !   how  surely  mine ! 
And  can  eternity  belong  to  me. 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour ! 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such! 
Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes! 
From  difierent  natures,  marvellously  mixed, 
Counectiou  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorpt ! 
Though  sullied  aud  dishonored,  still  divine! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute ! 
An  heir  of  glory!   a  frail  child  of  dust! 
Helpless  immortal !   insect  intiuite  ! 
A  worm!   a  god! — I  tremble  at  myself, 
And  iu  myself  am  lost.     At  home  a  stranger. 
Thought  w%anders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  Avondering  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels! 
Oh  !   what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man ! 
Triumphantly  distressed !   what  joy  !   what  dread  ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 
What  can  preserve  my  life?   or  what  destroy? 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  tho  grave  ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 


THE   DEPARTED  LIVE. 

XlCllT   I. 

E'en  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  innnortal : 
E'en  silent  night  proclaims  eternal  diiy  ; 
For  hinuan  weal  heaven  husbands  all  events: 
Dull  sleep  instructs,  nor  sport  vain  dreams  in  vain. 

Why  then  their  loss  deplore  that  are  not  lost  ? 
Why  wanders  wretched  thought  their  tombs  around 
In  infidel  distress  ?     Arc  angels  there  ? 
Slumbers,  raked  up  in  dust,  ethereal  fire? 

They  live,  they  greatly  live — a  life  on  earth 
Unkindled,  nnconceived — and  from  an  eye 


Of  tenderness  let  lieavenly  pity  fall 

On  me,  more  justly  numl)ered  with  the  dcail. 

This  is  the  desert,  this  tho  solitude, 

The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades! 
All,  all  on  earth  is  shadow,  all  beyond 
Is  substance  ;   the  rever.se  is  folly's  creed ! 

*  *  *  *  *  » 

This  is  the  bud  of  being,  tho  dim  dawn. 
The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule  ; 

Yet  man,  fool  man  !   here  buries  all  his  thoughts, 

Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh. 

Prisoner  of  earth,  and  pent  beneath  tho  moon, 

Here  pinions  all  his  wishes;   winged  by  heaven 

To  lly  at  infinite — and  reach  it  there 

Where  scrai)hs  gather  innuortality. 

On  life's  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 

What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clustering  glow 

In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just. 

Where  momentary  ages  are  no  more  ! 

Where  time  and  pain  and  chance  and  death  expire! 

And  is  it  iu  the  liiglit  of  threescore  years. 

To  push  eteruity  from  human  thought, 

Aud  smother  souls  innnortal  in  the  dust? — ■ 

A  soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires. 
Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness, 
Thrown  into  tumult,  raptui-ed  or  alarmed. 
At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought. 
To  Avaft;  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  llv. 


HOMER,  MILTON,  POPE. 


How  often  1  repeat  their  rage  divine. 

To  lull  my  griefs,  aud  steal  my  heart  from  woe ! 

I  roll  their  raptures,  but  not  catch  their  lire : 

Dark,  though  not  blind,  like  thee,  Ma>onides! 

Or,  Milton  !   thee;   ah,  could  I  reach  your  strain! 

Or  his,  who  made  Ma'onides'  our  own  : 

Man  too  ho  sung;   immortal  nuiu  1  sing; 

Oft  bursts  my  song  beyond  the  bounds  of  life; 

What  noAV  bnt  innuortality  can  please! 

Oh,  had  ho  pressed  the  theme,  pursued  the  track 

Which  opens  out  of  darkness  into  day ! 

Oh,  had  he,  mounted  on  his  wings  of  lire. 

Soared  where  I  siidc,  and  sung  immortal  man. 

How  had  it  blest  mankind,  aud  rescued  me ! 


1  By  MiPoniilcs  is  me.i'.it  Homer;  and  by  him  "wlio  m.ide 
Majoiiidcs  oiu-  own  "  is  meant  Pope,  who  wrote  the  "Essay  ou 
Man,"  and  translated  Homer. 


EDWARD   YOUNG. 


1:57 


WELCOME   TO   DEATH. 

XlCIIT   III. 

Then  ■^•clcoino,  Doatli !   tliy  (Iroudcil  liarltiiigers, 
Age  and  disease  ;   disease,  though  long  my  guest ; 
That  phifks  luy  nerves,  those  tender  strings  of  life. 
Which,  plucked  a  little  more,  v;\\\  toll  the  bell, 
That  calls  my  few  friends  to  my  funeral ; 
Where  feeble  Nature  drops,  perhaps,  a  tear, 
While  Reason  and  Religion,  better  taught. 
Congratulate  the  dead,  and  crown  his  tomb 
Witli  wreath  triumphant.     Death  is  Aictory ! 

Death  is  the  crown  of  life  : 

Were  death  denied,  poor  man  would  live  in  vain; 
Were  death  denied,  to  live  would  not  be  life  ; 
Were  death  denied,  e'en  fools  would  wish  to  die. 
Death  wounds  to  cure :  we  fall,  we  rise,  we  reign — 
Spring  from  our  fetters ;   fasten  in  the  skies 
Where  blooming  Eden  withers  in  our  sight : 
Death  gives  us  more  than  was  in  Eden  lost ; — 
This  king  of  terrors  is  the  prince  of  peace. 
When  shall  I  die  to  vanity,  pain,  death? 
When  shall  I  die? — When  shall  I  live  forever? 


I  TRUST   IN  THEE. 


0  thou  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death ! 
Nature's  immortal,  immaterial  Sun  ! 
Whose  all-prolific  beam  late  called  me  fortii 
From  darkness,  teeming  darkness,  where  I  lay 
The  worm's  inferior,  and,  in  rank  beneath 
The  dust  I  tread  on,  high  to  bear  my  brow, 
To  drink  the  spirit  of  the  golden  day, 

And  triumph  in  existence ;    and  could  know 
Nil  motive  l)ut  my  bliss;   and  hast  ordained 
A  rise  in  blessing ! — with  the  patiiarch's  joy, 
Thy  call  I  follow  to  the  land  unknown  ; 

1  trust  in  thee,  and  know  in  whom  I  trust : 
Or  life  or  death  is  equal ;   neither  weighs : 
All  weight  is  this — O  let  me  live  to  thee ! 


HUMANITY   OF  ANGELS. 


Why  doubt  we,  then,  the  glorious  truth  to  sing. 

Though  yet  unsung,  as  deemed  perhaps  too  bold 

Angels  are  men  of  a  superior  kind  ; 

Angels  are  men  in  lighter  habit  clad. 

High  o'er  celestial  mountains  winged  in  flight ; 


And  men  are  angels  loaded  for  an  hour, 
Who  wade  this  niiiy  ^ah•,  and  cliniU  witli  pain. 
And  slippery  step,  the  bottom  of  the  stfi  p. 
Angels  their  failings,  mortals  have  tlicir  pr:iise  ; 
Wliile  here,  of  corps  ethereal,  such  enrolled, 
And  summoned  to  the  glorious  standard  soon. 
Which  flames  eternal  crimson  through  the  skies. 
Nor  are  our  brothers  tlioughtless  of  their  kin, 
Yet  absent ;   but  not  absent  from  their  love. 
Michat4  has  fougiit  our  battles ;   Raphael  sung 
Our  triumphs  ;   Gabriel  on  our  errands  flown. 
Sent  by  the  Sovereign  ;   and  are  these,  O  mau ! 
Thy  friends,  thy   warm    allies  ?    and   thou   (shame 

burn 
Thy  cheek  to  cinder !)  rival  to  the  brute  ? 


NO   ATOM  LOST. 


The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various  forms. 
All  dies  into  new  life.     Life  born  from  death 
Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  forever  roll. 
No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost. 
With  change  of  counsel  charges  the  Most  High. 

What  hence  infers  Lorenzo?     Can  it  be? 
Matter  immortal  ?     And  shall  spirit  die  ? 
Above  the  nobler,  shall  less  noble  rise  ? 
Imperial  man  be  sown  in  barren  ground. 
Less  privileged  than  grain  on  which  he  feeds  ? 


IMMORTALITY   DECIPHERS   MAN. 

Night  VII. 

If  man  sleeps  on,  untaught  by  what  he  sees, 
Can  ho  prove  infidel  to  what  he  feels  ? 
He,  Avhose  blind  thought  futurity  denies. 
Unconscious  bears,  Belleroplion,  like  thee, 
His  own  indictment ;   ho  condemns  himself, 
W^lio  reads  his  bosom,  reads  immortal  life, 
Or  Nature,  there,  imposing  on  her  sons. 
Has  written  fables ;   man  was  ujadc  a  lie. 

«  *  ■  *  »  *  # 

His  immortality  alone  can  solve 
The  darkest  of  enigmas,  human  hope, — - 
Of  all  the  darkest,  if  at  death  we  die! 

#  #  *  vf  *  * 

pSinco  virtue's  recompense  is  doubtful  here, 
If  man  dies  wholly,  well  may  wo  demand, — 

Why  whispers  Nature  lies  on  virtue's  part  ? 
Or  if  blind  instinct  (which  assumes  the  name 


138 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Of  sacred  conscience)  plays  tbo  fool  in  man, 
Why  reason  niatlo  acconiplico  in  the  cheat? 
Why  are  the  wisest  loudest  in  her  praise? 
Can  man  liy  reason's  beam  bo  led  astray  ? 
Or  at  his  peril  iuiitato  his  God? 
i>inco  virlno  sometinii's  rnins  us  on  (>arth. 
Or  both  are  true,  or  man  survives  the  grave! 

■V  #  »  *  *  » 

Divo  to  th(!  liottoni  of  his  soul,  the  base 
Sustaining  all, — what  lind  wo?     Knowledge,  love, 
As  light  and  heat  essential  to  the  sun. 
These  to  the  soul.     And  why,  if  souls  expire  ? 

This  cannot  be.  To  love  and  know,  in  man 
Is  boundless  appetite  and  boundless  power ; 
And  these  demonstrate  boundless  objects  too. 

*  *  *  i«  rf  # 

'Tis  immortality  deciphers  man. 
And  opens  all  the  mysteries  of  his  make  : 
Without  if,  half  his  instincts  are  a  riddle: 
Without  it,  all  his  virtues  are  a  dream. 

Still  seems   it  strange   that   thou   shoukVst  live 
forever  ? 
Is  it  less  strange  that  thou  shonld'st  live  at  all? 
This  is  a  miracle  ;   and  that  no  more. 
Who  gave  begiiniiug  can  exclude  an  end. 
Deny  thou  art,  then  doubt  if  thou  shalt  be. 
A  miracle  with  miracles  inclosed, 
Is  man;   and  starts  his  faith  at  what  is  strange? 
What  less  than  Avonders  from  the  wonderlnl ; 
What  less  than  miracles  from  God  can  tlow  ? 
Admit  a  God — that  mystery  supreme — 
That  cause  uncaused ! — all  other  wonders  cease  ; 
Nothing  is  marvellous  for  him  to  do : 
Deny  him — all  is  mystcrj'  besides  : 
Millions  of  mysteries !   each  darker  far 
Than  that  thy  wisdom  would  unwisely  shun. 
If  weak  thy  faith,  why  choose  the  harder  side  ? 
We  nothing  know  but  what  is  marvellous, — 
Yet  what  is  marvellous  we  can't  believe ! 


EXISTENCE  OF  GOD. 
Night  IX. 

Retire;  —  the  world  shut  out;  —  thy  thoughts  call 

lujuie ; — 
Imagination's  airy  wing  repress ; — 
Lock  up  thy  senses; — lot  no  passion  stir; 
Wake  all  to  reason  ; — let  her  reign  ahuie  ; 
Then,  in  thy  soul's  deep  silence,  and  the  depth 
Of  Nature's  silence,  midnight,  thus  inquire. 


As  I  have  done ;   and  shall  inquire  no  more. 
In  Naturti's  channel,  thus  the  questions  run  : — 
'•Wliat   am    I?   and   from   whence?  —  I   nothing 
know 
But  that  1  am  ;    and,  since  I  am,  conclude 
Sonuithing  eternal  :    had  there  e'er  been  naught, 
Naught  still  had  been  ;   eternal  tliere  must  be. — 
Hut  what  eternal? — Why  not  human  race? 
And  Adam's  ancestors  without  an  »mh1  ? — 
That's  hard  to  be  conceived,  since  every  link 
Of  that  long-cliained  succession  is  so  frail. 
Can  every  part  depend,  and  not  the  whole? 
Yet  grant  it  true;   new  dilliculties  rise; 
I'm  still  quite  out  at  sea,  uor  see  the  shore. 
Whence  Earth,  and  these  bright  orbs  ? — Eternal  too  ? 
Grant  matter  was  eternal;   still  these  orbs 
Would  want  some  other  father; — nnuli  design 
Is  seen  in  all  their  njotions,  all  their  makes; 
Design  implies  intelligence  and  art ; 
That  can't  be  from  themselves — or  man  :   that  art 
Man  scarce  can  comprehend,  could  man  bestow  ? 
And  nothing  greater  yet  allowed  than  man.— 
Who,  motion,  foreign  to  the  smallest  grain. 
Shot  through  vast  masses  of  enormous  weight? 
Who  bid  brute  matter's  restive  lump  assume 
Such  various  forms,  and  gave  it  wings  to  lly  ? 
Has  matter  innate  motion?   then  each  atom. 
Asserting  its  indisputable  right 
To  dance,  would  form  a  universe  of  dust : 
Has   matter   none  ?      Then    whence   these   glorious 

foiuis 
And  boundless  dights,  from  shapeless,  and  reposed  ? 
Has  matter  more  than  motion?   has  it  thought. 
Judgment,  and  genius?   is  it  deeply  learned 
111  mathematics  ?     Has  it  framed  snch  laws. 
Which  but  to  guess,  a  Newton  made  inmiortal  ? — 
If  so,  how  each  sage  atom  laughs  at  me, 
Who  thiidc  a  clod  inferior  to  a  man  ! 
If  art,  to  form  ;   and  counsel,  to  conduct ; 
And  that  with  greater  far  than  human  skill. 
Resides  not  in  each  block  ; — a  Godhead  reigns. 
Grant,  then,  invisible,  eternal  Mind; 
That  granted,  all  is  solved." 


(P'corcjc  Ucrkclcij. 


Althougli  Berkeley  (1684-17.53)  is  known  in  poetical 
lileiature  by  only  a  single  piece,  yet  tliat  seems  to  have 
in  it  the  elements  of  a  persistent  vitality.  Born  in  Kil- 
kenny County,  Irehuul,  he  was  ctlucatcd  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin,  lie  was  intimate  with  Swift,  Pope,  Steele, 
and  their  "set,"  and  Pope  assigned  to  liim  "cveiy  virtue 
inider  heaven.''     By  these  friends  he  seems  to  have  been 


GEORGE  BEEEELEY.—ALLAX  RAMSAY 


13«J 


sinccrcl}'  beloved.  In  1713,  he  published  his  most  im- 
portant philosophical  work,  "Three  Dialogues  between 
Hylas  and  Philonous,"  in  which  his  system  of  ideality 
is  developed  with  siny;ular  felicity  of  illustration,  purity 
of  style,  and  subtlety  of  thought.  It  gave  him  a  reputa- 
tion that  is  still  upon  the  increase.  In  1729,  he  sailed 
for  Rhode  Island,  fixed  his  residence  at  Newport,  and  re- 
mained there,  or  on  the  farm  of  Whitehall  in  the  vicini- 
ty, some  two  years.  To  the  libraries  of  Harvard  and 
Yale  he  made  important  donations  of  books.  Returning 
to  England,  he  was  appointed,  in  1734,  Bishop  of  Cloyne. 
In  175:2,  he  removed  to  Oxford  to  superinteud  the  educa- 
tion of  one  of  his  sons,  and  died  there  veiy  suddenly  the 
next  year  while  sitting  on  a  couch  in  the  midr^t  of  his 
family,  while  his  wife  was  reading  to  him. 


VERSES    OX   THE    PROSPECT    OF    PLANTING 
ARTS   AND   LEARNING  IN  AMERICA. 

The  nuise,  disgusted  at  au  age  and  clime, 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  dista'nt  lauds  uow  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  Avortby  fame. 

lu  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  suu 
And  Tirgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true  : 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides,  and  virtue  rules  ; 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools  : 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  ri.se  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay  ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
"When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  lier  clay, 

Bj-  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  cour.se  of  empire  takes  its  way  ; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day ; 

Time's  noblest  ofispring  is  the  last. 


!:^llau  Uainstaii. 

Ramsay  (1686-1758)  was  a  native  of  Lanarkshire,  Scot- 
land. Most  of  his  long  life  was  passed  in  Edinburgh, 
where  he  was  a  wig-maker,  and  then  a  book-seller  and 


keeper  of  a  circulating  library.  His  pastoral  drama, 
"The  Gentle  Sliepherd,"  first  published  in  1725,  and 
written  in  the  strong,  broad  Doric  of  North  Britain,  is 
the  finest  existing  specimen  of  its  class.  His  songs,  too, 
have  eudearcd  him  to  the  Scottish  heart. 


THE   CLOCK  AND  DIAL. 

Ae  daj'  a  Clock  wad  brag  a  Dial, 
And  put  his  qualities  to  trial; 
Spake  to  him  thus,  "  Jly  neighbor,  pray, 
Can'st  tell  me  what's  the  time  of  day?" 
The  Dial  said,  "  I  dinna  ken." — 
"Alake!   what  stand  ye  there  for,  then  ?" — ■ 
"  I  wait  here  till  the  sun  shines  bright. 
For  naught  I  ken  but  by  Lis  light :" 
"AVait  on,"  quoth  Clock,  "I  scorn  liis  help, 
Baitli  night  and  day  my  lane'  I  skelp." 
Wind  up  my  weights  but  anes  a  week, 
Without  him  I  can  gang  and  speak ; 
Nor  like  au  useless  sumph  I  stand. 
But  constantly  wheel  round  my  baud : 
Hark,  hark,  I  strike  just  now  the  hour; 
And  I  am  right,  ane — twa — three — four." 

Whilst  thus  the  Clock  was  boasting  lond, 
The  bleezing  sun  brak  throw  a  cloud  ; 
The  Dial,  faithfu'  to  his  guide, 
Spake  truth,  and  laid  the  thumper's  pride. 
"  Ye  see,"  said  he,  "  I've  dung  you  fair ; 
'Tis  four  liours  and  three-quarters  mair. 
Mj'  friend,"  he  added,  "  count  again. 
And  learn  a  wee  to  be  less  vain  : 
Ne'er  brag  of  constant  clavering  cant, 
And  that  yon  answers  never  want ; 
F(n'  you're  not  aye  to  be  belicA-ed : 
Wha  trusts  to  you  may  be  deceived. 
Be  counselled  to  behave  like  me ; 
For  when  I  dinna  clearly  see 
I  always  own  I  dinna  ken, 
And  that's  the  Avay  of  wisest  men." 


FAREWELL   TO   LOCHABER. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber!   and  farewtll,  my  Jean, 
Where    Leartsome    with    thee    I    lui'o    mony    day 

been  ! 
For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 
WVll  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  ! 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on  war, 


By  myself. 


2  Beat  as  a  clock. 


140 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BUITISII  AM)   AMEIUCAX  I'OF.TRY. 


Though  boiuo  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore, 
Maybe  to  rotiuii  to  Lochalier  no  nioie. 

Tlioiinh  hmiicancs  ii.s(%  and  rise  every  wind, 
Tiiey'll  ne'er  make  a  tempest  like  lliat  in  my  mind; 
Tliongh  londest  of  tluinder  on  hinder  waves  roar, 
That's  naething  like  Icax  ing  my  lovo  on  the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me  niy  heart  is  sair  pained  ; 
Uy  ease  that's  inglorious  no  I'nuie,  ean  be  gained  ; 
And  beanty  and  love's  the  reward  of  the  brave, 
And  I  must  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeanie,  mann  plead  my  excuse  : 
Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  1  reltisc;  ? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee. 
And  without  thy  favor  I'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae,  then,  my  lass,  to  Aviu  honor  and  fame  ; 
And  if  I  should  luck  to  come  gloriously  liame, 
I'll  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  running  o'er, 
And  then  I'll  leave  Iheo  and  Lochaber  no  more. 


^nnc,  €ountc55  of  llViucljclGca. 

Daughter  of  Sir  Richard  Kiiigsmill,  and  wife  of  Hcnc- 
age,  Earl  of  Winchelsca,  this  lady  (circa  1000-1720)  pub- 
lished a  voluuic  of  poems  iu  171o,  and  left  many  in  man- 
uscript. Her  fable  of  "The  Atheist  and  the  Acorn"  is 
well  known,  and  is  still  often  reprinted.  "Words wortii 
says  of  her:  "She  is  one  of  the  very  few  original  ob- 
servers of  nature  who  appeared  in  an  artificial  age  ;"  and 
Leigh  Hunt  says:  "She  deserves  to  have  been  gathered 
into  collections  of  English  verse  far  more  than  half  of 
our  minor  poets."  She  was  the  friend  of  Pope,  who  ad- 
dressed an  "  Iinpronii)tu"  to  her,  complimentary  in  its 
character.  The  following  beautiful  poem  is  not  a  con- 
tinuous extract,  but  is  made  up  of  passages,  the  omis- 
sions iu  wliich  are  not  indicated  by  the  usual  marks. 


FROM   "A   WISIIED-FOR   RETREAT." 

Give  me,  O  indulgent  Fate, 

Give  rao  yet,  before  I  die, 

A  sweet  but  absolute  retreat, 

'Mong  path!*  so  lost,  and  trees  so  high. 

That  the  world  may  ne'er  invade. 

Through  such  windings  and  such  shade. 

My  unshaken  liberty! 

No  intruders  thither  como 
Who  visit  but  to  be  from  home, — 
None  Avho  their  vain  moments  jiass, 
Only  studious  of  their  glass ! 


Bo  no  tidings  thither  brought! 
liwt,  silent  as  a  midnight  thought, 
Where  the  world  may  ne'er  invade, 
I3c  those  windings  and  that  shade! 

Courteous  Fate;!   afford  me  there 
A  table  spread  without  \\\y  care 
With  what  the  neighboring  lields  impart, 
Whoso  clciinliuess  be  all  its  art. — 
Fruits,  indeed  (would  Heaven  bestow). 
All  that  did  in  Eden  grow 
(All  but  the  forbidden  tree). 
Would  be  coveted  by  me  ; — 
Grapes,  with  juice  .so  crowded  up 
As  breaking  through  their  native  cup  ; 
Figs  (yet  growing)  candied  o'er 
By  the  sun's  attracting  power; 
Cherries,  with  the  downy  peach, — 
All  within  my  easy  reach  ! 
W^liilst,  creeping  near  the  humble  ground, 
Should  the  strawberry  be  found. 
Springing  whcrcsoe'er  I  strayed 
Through  those  Avimlings  and  that  shade! 

Give  me  there  (since  Heaven  has  showu 
It  was  not  good  to  be  alone), 
A  partner  suited  to  my  mind, — 
Solitary,  pleased,  and  kind. — 
Who,  partially,  nniy  something  see, 
I'referred  to  all  the  world,  in  me  ; 
Slighting,  by  my  humble  side. 
Fame  and  splendor,  wealth  and  pride. 
Rage,  and  jealousy,  and  hate, — ■ 
Transports  of  man's  fallen  .state 
When  by  Satan's  wiles  betrayed, — 
Fly  those  windings  and  that  shade ! 

Let  me,  then,  indulgent  Fate, 
Let  nu',  still  in  my  retreat, 
From  all  roving  thoughts  be  freed. 
Or  aims  that  may  contention  breed  ; 
Nor  bo  my  endeavors  led 
By  goods  that  perish  with  the  dead! 
Fitly  might  the  life  of  man 
Be,  indeed,  esteemed  a  span, 
If  the  present  nitunent  were 
Of  delight  his  only  share  ; 
If  no  other  joys  he  knew 
Than  what  round  about  him  grew  : — 
But,  as  those  who  stars  would  trace 
From  a  subterraiu'an  place. 
Through  some  engine  lift  their  eyes 
To  the  outward  glorious  skies, — 
So  the  immortal  spirit  may, 
Wheu  descended  to  our  clay, 


THOMAS   riCKELL.—ALEXANDElt  I'OI'E. 


141 


From  a  rightly  govcrucd  frame 
View  the  height  from  ^vheuce  she  came 
To  her  Paradise  be  caught, 
And  things  unutterable  taught  I 

Give  me,  then,  in  that  retreat, — 
Give  me,  O  indulgent  Fate ! 
For  all  pleasures  left  behind 
Contemplations  of  the  mind. 
Let  the  fair,  the  gay,  the  vain 
Courtship  and  applause  obtain ; 
Let  the  ambitions  rule  the  earth ; 
Let  the  giddy  fool  have  mirth : 
Give  the  epicure  his  dish, 
Every  one  his  several  Avish ; 
"Whilst  my  transports  I  employ 
On  that  more  extensive  joy, 
When  all  heaven  shall  be  surveyed 
From  those  wiudiugs  and  that  shade ! 


(tljomas  ilickcll. 


Poet  and  essayist,  Tickell  (1686-1T40)  was  born  near 
Carlisle,  and  educated  at  Oxford.     Through  the  friend- 
ship of  Addison,  lie  became  Under -secrctarj'  of  State, 
and  was  afterward  appointed  Secretary  to  the  Lord-jus- 
tices of  Ireland.     He  wrote  the  ballad  of  "Colin  and 
Lucy,"  one  stanza  from  which  is  still  often  quoted : 
"I  hear  a  voice  yon  cannot  hear, 
Which  says  I  must  not  stay; 
I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see, 
Which  beckons  me  away." 

He  wrote  an  allegorical  poem,  called  "Kensiugton  Gar- 
dens," besides  many  papers  in  the  Spectator  and  the 
Gnardian.  His  lines  on  the  death  of  Addison  are  the 
1"  -t  of  his  poems.  Gray  calls  him  "a  poor,  short-winded 
imitator  of  Addison." 


FRO.M  LINES  "  TO  THE  EAEL  OF  WARWICK," 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ME.  ADDISON. 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath  stayed, 
And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid, 
Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan. 
And  judge,  oh  judge,  my  bosom  by  your  own  I 
What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires  ? 
Slow  comes  the  ver.se  that  real  woe  inspires : 
Grief  nnatiected  suits  but  ill  with  art. 
Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 
My  soul's  best  part  forever  to  the  grave  ? 
How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread. 
By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors  and  through  Avalks  of 
kings ! 


What  awe  did  the  slow,  solemn  knell  inspire; 
The  pealing  organ  and  the  pausing  choir : 
The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid, 
And  the  last  words  that  dust  to  dust  conveyed  ! 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone 
(Sad  luxury!   to  vulgar  minds  unknown). 
Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  .show 
AVhat  worthies  form  the  hallowed  mould  below ; 
Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire  held, 
In  arms  Avho  triumphed,  or  in  arts  excelled; 
Chiefs,  graced  Avith  scars,  and  prodigal  of  blood  ; 
Stern  i)atriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood  ; 
Just  men,  by  Avliom  impartial  laws  were  given ; 
And  saints,  AAho  taught  and  led  the  way  to  heaven. 
Ne'er  to  these  chambers,  Avhere  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundation,  came  a  nobler  guest ; 
Nor  e'er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  conveyed 
A  fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region  to  the  just  assigned. 
What  new  employments  please  the  unbodied  mind? 
A  Avinged  Virtue,  through  the  ethereal  sky, 
From  world  to  Avorld  unwearied  does  he  fly  ? 
Or  curious  trace  the  long,  laborious  maze 
Of  Heaven's  decrees,  where  wondering  angels  gaze  ? 
Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battled,  and  the  dragon  fell; 
Or,  mixed  with  milder  cherubim,  to  glovr 
In  hynms  of  Ioac,  not  ill  essayed  below  ? 
Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind? 
Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend. 
To  me  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  Genius,  lend! 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms  ; 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms. 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before. 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more. 


^Icjfanbcr  JJopc. 


The  only  child  of  a  London  linen-draper,  Pope  (1688- 
1744)  was  bred  a  Roman  Catholic  :  hence  he  was  disqual- 
ified for  entering  an  English  university.  He  spent  his 
childhood  on  the  small  estate  of  Binlield,  in  Windsor 
Forest.  A  delicate  and  deformed  youth,  he  received  in- 
struction at  two  Catholic  schools;  but  after  twelve  years 
of  age  became  his  own  instructor,  and  at  fifteen  went  to 
London  alone,  to  take  lessons  in  French  and  Italian. 
He  had  "lisped  in  numbers"  so  early  that  he  could  not 
recollect  the  time  when  he  did  not  write  poetry.  Before 
he  was  twelve,  the  little  invalid  had  written  his  "  Ode  on 


142 


CYCLOI'JUJIA    OF  JUiinsiI  ASD  AMElllCAX  ruiCTIlY. 


Solitude."  His  father  encouiat;;ccl  liis  tastes;  and  Pope's 
life  as  an  autiior  dates  from  liis  sixteonlli  year,  wlien  he 
wrote  liis  "Pastorals,"  whicli  were  praised  far  beyond 
their  deserts.  Ills  "Essay  on  Critieisni,"  published  when 
he  was  twenty-three,  is  in  a  hii^her  strain.  It  has  lived, 
and  will  eonlinue  to  live,  in  spile  of  the  depreeiatory  es- 
timates of  De  Quinccy  and  Elwiii. 

Other  works  followed  in  quiek  succession,  the  prin- 
cipal of  which  were  his  "Messiah,"  "Odes,"  "Windsor 
Forest,"  "Essay  on  Man,"  "Rape  of  the  Lock,"  the 
matchless  "Eloisa  to  Abelard,"  and  "The  Dunciad." 
His  most  laborious  literary  undertakinsj  was  his  transla- 
tion of  Homer.  Of  this  the  great  scholar,  Benlley,  re- 
marked, in  return  for  a  presentation  copy,  "It  is  a  i)ret- 
ty  poem,  Mr.  Pope,  but  you  must  not  call  it  Homer." 
By  this  work  Pope  realized  above  £5000,  part  of  which 
he  laid  out  in  tlie  purchase  of  a  house  with  live  acres  at 
Twickenham,  to  which  he  removed  with  his  ai^ed  moth- 
er in  1715.     He  was  never  married. 

Pope  is  a  poet  of  the  intellect  rather  than  of  nature 
and  the  emotions.  The  nineteenth  century  raised  the 
(luestion,  contested  by  Bowles  on  the  adverse  side,  and 
Roscoc  on  the  other,  whether  Pope  was  a  poet  at  all. 
AVordsworth  thonj^ht  poorly  of  him ;  but  Wordsworth 
had  no  wit,  and  wit  is  the  predominant  element  in  Pope. 
"  There  can  be  no  worse  sign  for  the  taste  of  the  times," 
says  Byron,  "than  the  depreciation  of  Pope,  the  most 
perfect  of  our  poets,  and  the  purest  of  our  moralists.  *  *  * 
In  my  mind,  the  highest  of  all  poetry  is  ethical  poetry, 
as  the  highest  of  all  eartiily  objects  must  be  moral 
truth." 

"In  spite  of  the  inlluences,"  says  Mr.  John  Dennis 
(1876),  "at  work  during  the  earlier  years  of  this  century, 
tending  to  lessen  the  poetical  fame  of  Pope,  his  rei)uta- 
tion  has  grown,  and  is  still  growing."  And  Mr.  John 
Ruskin,  in  his  lectures  on  Art,  after  referring  to  Pope  as 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  artists  in  literature,  adds: 
"  Putting  Shakspearc  aside  as  rather  the  world's  than 
ours,  I  hold  Pope  to  be  the  most  perfect  representative 
we  have,  since  Chaucer,  of  the  true  English  mind." 

The  "  Rape  of  the  Lock"  is  a  brilliant  specimen  of  the 
mock-heroic  style.  The  "Essay  on  Man"  is  a  singular- 
ly successful  cllbrt  to  weave  ethical  philosophy  into  jioe- 
try.  The  argument  seems  directly  intended  to  meet  the 
form  of  doubt  prevalent  at  the  time,  and  wliich  brought 
into  question  not  only  the  divine  justice,  but  the  divine 
existence. 

Jealousy  of  his  marvellous  success  involved  Pope  in  a 
literary  warfare,  the  evidences  of  wliich  are  abundantly 
exhibited  in  his  later  writings.  By  some  critics  his 
"Dunciad"  is  regarded  as  his  greatest  effort.  Full  of 
wit  and  power  as  it  is,  however,  it  is  little  read  in  our 
day.  Such  a  war  upon  the  dunces  should  have  been  be- 
neath the  nature  and  the  dignity  of  a  true  poet.  Pope 
ought  never  to  have  soiled  his  hands  with  tlie  dirt  of 
Grub  Street. 

A  constant  state  of  excitement,  added  to  a  life  of 
ceaseless  stud}'  and  contemplation,  operating  on  a  fee- 
ble frame,  completely  exhausted  the  powers  of  Pope  be- 
fore his  lifty-scventli  year.  He  complained  of  his  inabil- 
ity to  think;  yet  a  short  time  before  his  death  he  said, 
"1  am  so  certain  of  the  soul's  being  immortal  that  I 
seem  to  feel  it  in  me,  as  it  were,  by  intuition."    Another 


of  his  dying  remarks  was,  "  There  is  nothing  that  is  mer- 
itorious but  virtue  and  friendship;  and,  indeed,  friend- 
ship itself  is  only  a  part  of  virtue." 

Pope's  example  teaches  us  that  the  patient  labor  of 
the  artist  must  supplement  genius  for  the  production 
of  works  of  enduring  fame.  This  is  a  lesson  wliich  some 
even  of  the  pojiular  poets  of  our  day,  who  "say  what 
they  feel  without  consideiing  what  is  lilting  to  be  said," 
very  much  need. 


ODE  ON  SOLITUDE. 

WUniKN    UIClOllE   POPE   AV.\S   TWLLVK  VH.VUS  OLD. 

Happy  the  man  Avhose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground  : 

Whoso  herds  with  milk,  wlio.se  fields  with  bread, 

Who.se  ilocks  sujiply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  Avintcr  fire  : 

Blest,  who  can  iincoueern'dly  lind 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away  ; 
III  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day : 

Soniul  sleep  by  night,  study  and  ease, 

Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation; 
And  iiiiioceiiee,  which  most  does  please, 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  mo  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus,  unliiniontcd,  let  me  die. 
Steal  from  tlic  world,  and  not  a  stone 
'rdl  where  I  lie. 


FROM   "THE   ESSAY   ON    CRITICISM." 

Paiit  II. 

lint  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song; 
And  smooth  or  rough  with  them  is  right  or  wrong. 
Ill  the  bright  Mnsc  though  tlionsand  charms  con- 
spire. 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire, 
Who  liannt  Parna-ssus  but  to  jdease  their  ear, 
Not  mend  their  minds;   as  some  to  church  repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  ihusic  there. 
These  ccpial  syllables  alone  require. 
Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire; 
While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  cue  dull  line : 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


14: 


While  they  ring  roiiiul  the  s;ime  unvaried  chiuics, 
With  sure  returns  of  still-expected  rhymes. 
Where'er  you  tind  the  "cooling  western  breeze," 
111  the  next  line  it  "whispers  through  the  trees;" 
If  crystal  streams  "with  pleasing  ninrmnrs  ci'ccp," 
The  reader's  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with  "sleep  ;" 
Then  at  the  last  and  only  couplet,  fraught 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  tlie  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length 

along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dnll  rhymes,  and 

know 
Wiiat's  roundly  smooth  or  langiiishingly  slow. 
And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line 
Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness 

join. 
True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  iu)t  chance. 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 
'Tis  uot  enough  no  harshness  gives  ofteuce ; 
The  souud  nnist  seem  au  eclio  to  the  sense  : 
Soft  is  the  strain  Avhcu  Zephyr  gently  blows. 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows; 
But  when  loud  surges  lasli  the  sounding  shore, 
Tiie  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar: 
Wlien  Ajas  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow  ; 
Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 
riies  o'er  tli'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the 

main. 


TO   HENRY   ST.  JOHN,  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 

FRO^r  "TuE_  Essay  on  Man,"  Epistle  I. 

Awake,  ray  St.  John  !   leave  all  meaner  things 
To  low  ambition  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die) 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man  : 
A  mighty  maze !   but  uot  Avithout  a  plan  ; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  liowers  promiscuous  shoot ; 
Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field. 
Try  vrhat  the  open,  what  the  covert,  yield  ; 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore. 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar; 
Eye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  Folly  as  it  flies, 
And  catch  tlie  manners  living  as  they  rise; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  cau. 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

Say,  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below. 
What  can  we  reason  but  from  what  we  know  ? 


Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here 
From  whicli  to  reason,  or  to  which  refer? 
Through  worhls   unnunibered  though   the   (Jod   be 

kuown, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce, 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe  ; 
Observe  how  system  into  system  runs, 
What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
Wiiat  varied  being  peoples  every  star, — 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  ns  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies. 
Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 
Looked  through  ?  or  can  a  part  contain  the  whole  ? 
Is  the  great  chain  that  draws  all  to  agree, 
And,  drawn,  supports,  upheld  by  God  or  thee  .' 
Presumptuous    man !    the    reason    wouldst   thou 
find 
Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind  ? 
First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less. 
Ask  of  thy  mother  Earth  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  and  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade  ; 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above 
WHiy  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  possible,  if  'tis  eonfest 
That  Wisdom  Infinite  must  form  the  best. 
Where  all  must  full,  or  not  coherent  be. 
And  all  that  rises,  rise  in  due  degree; 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain 
There  must  be,  somewhere,  such  a  rank  as  man  : 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this — If  God  has  placed  him  wrong. 
Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call 
May,  must,  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  labored  on  with  pain, 
A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose  gain  ; 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce, 
Yet  serves  to  second,  too,  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone, 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown, 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal : 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole. 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man  re- 
strains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the  clod, 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god; 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dulness  comprehend 
His  actions',  passions',  being's,  use  and  end  ; 
Wliy  doing,  suffering;  checked,  impelled;  and  why 
Tins  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deitv. 


144 


CYVLOrJCDlA    OF  liULTlsJl   AM)  AMElilCAN  POETIiY. 


Tlii'ii  say  not  man's  imperfect,  Heaven  iu  fault ; 
Say,  rather,  man's  as  iK'ifect  as  he  ought; 
llis  knowk'd^e  measured  to  his  state  and  place. 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  spaee. 

*  -.V  *■  *  *  * 

See,  tliioii,!j;li  this  air,  tliis  ocean,  and  this  earth. 
All  matter  (piieh,  and  hurstiug  into  birtli. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go! 
Around,  how  wide!    how  deep  extend  below! 
Vast  chain  of  being,  which  from  God  began, — 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man, 
Beast,  bird,  lisli,  insert — what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  ean  reaeh, — from  infinite  to  thee. 
From  thee  to  nothing!     On  superior  powers 
Were  wo  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void, 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed  : 
From  Nature's  chain  Avhatevcr  link  you  strike. 
Tenth  or  ten-tlionsaiidth.  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll. 
Alike  essential  to  the  annizing  -whole, 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole,  nmst  fall. 
Let  Earth,  unbalanced,  from  her  orbit  liy  ; 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky: 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled. 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  Avorld  ; 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod. 
And.  Nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God ! 
All  this  dread  order  break  ?     For  Avhom  ?  for  thee  ? 
Vile  worm  !     O  madness  !   pride  !  impiety  ! 

What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head? 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear,  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind  ? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  ])art  to  claim 
To  be  another  iu  this  general  frame; 
Just  as  absurd  to  numrn  the  tasks  or  pains 
The  great  directing  IMind  of  all  oi'dains. 

All  are  but  i>arts  of  one  stu])en(lous  whole. 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul  ; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same. 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal  frame; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze. 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  iu  the  trees : 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  throngii  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  un.spent, 
Breathes  in  our  .soul,  informs  our  unutal  part. 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart  ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  niunnis 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns: 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small  ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  andecpials  all. 


Cease,  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name  ; 
Our  ])roper  bliss  depends  on  -what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point:   this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindutss,  weakness.  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit ! — in  this  or  any  other  sphere 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  Ijcar ; 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  di.sposiug  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal  or  the  mortal  Imnr. 
All  nature  is  but  art  unkno-wu  to  thee  ; 
All  chance,  direction  which  thou  canst  not  sec; 
All  discord,  Iiarmony  not  luiderstood  ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good  : 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear — Whatever  i.s,  is  right. 


FROM  THE   "  EPISTLE   TO   DK.  ARBUTHNOT." 

''Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John,"  fatigued  I  said; 
"Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead!" 
The  dog-star  rages !   nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam  or  Parnassus  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand. 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  Willis  can  guard  me,  or  what   shades  can 

hide  ? 
Tiiey   pierce    my   thickets,  through    my   grot   they 

glide  ; 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge; 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  tiie  church  is  free. 
Even  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me  ; 
Then    from    the    Mint'    Avalks    forth    the    man    of 

rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me  just  at  dinner-time. 

Is  there  a  parson,  much  be-mused  iu  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross. 
Who  i)ens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened  walls? 
All  ily  to  Twickenham,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  sou  neglects  the  laws. 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  dannied  works  the  cause: 
Poor  Cormis  sees  liis  frantic  ^Yife  elope, 
And  curses  Avit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life  (which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song), 


•  A  place  to  which  iusolveut  debtors  retired  to  eujoy  nn  il- 
legal protection. 


ALEXAXDER  rOPE.. 


145 


What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove  ? 

Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love  ? 

A  dire  dilemma !   either  way  I'm  S2)ed ; 

If  foes,  thoy  write ;   if  friends,  they  read  inc  dead. 

Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I! 

Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie. 

To  laugh  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 

And  to  bo  grave  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 

I  sit  with  sad  civilitj',  I  read 

With  honest  anguish  and  an  achiug  head, 

And  drop  at  last,  but  iu  unwilling  ears, 

Tliis  saving  counsel,  "Keep  your  piece  nine  years." 

"  Xine  years  !''  cries  he,  who,  high  in  Drury  Lane, 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane. 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends, 
Obliged  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends: 
"  The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect  ?  why  take  it ; 
I'm  all  submission,  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it." 

Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound; 
"  My  friendship,  and  a  iirologue,  and  ten  pound." 
Pitholeon  seuds  to  me ;    "  You  know  his  grace : 
I  want  a  patron  ;   ask  him  for  a  iilace." 
Pitholeon  libelled  me, — ''  But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him,  Curll  invites  to  dine? 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine !" 

Bless  me !   a  packet. — "  'Tis  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  "Furies,  death,  and  rage;" 
If  I  approve,  "Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission  ends ; 
The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 
Fired  that  the  house  reject  him,  "'Sdeath,  I'll  priut 

it, 
And  shame  the  fools, — j'our  interest,  sir,  with  Liu- 
tot." 
Lintot,  dull  rogue,  will  think  your  price  too  much : 
"Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it  and  retouch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks  : 
At  last  he  Avhispers,  "Do,  and  we  go  suacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door, 
"  Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more !" 
^  *  #  *  #  > 

Why  did  I  write  ?     What  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  iuk, — my  parents',  or  my  own  ? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  iu  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came  : 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade. 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed : 
The  Muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife ; 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life, 
To  second,  Arbuthnot !   thy  art  and  care, 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserved  to  bear. 
10 


FKOM   "THE   RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK." 

Canto  1. 

And  now,  unveiled,  tlie  toilet  stands  disphiycd, 
Eacli  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  jjowers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears. 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears ; 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling,  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  Pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 
This  casket  ludia's  glowing  gems  unlocks. 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elejihant  unite. 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  iiowders,  patches,'  Bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  Beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face : 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care  : 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair ; 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  while  others  plait  the  gown; 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 

Canto  II. 

Nor  with  more  glories,  iu  the  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  ijurpled  main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymiihs  and  well -dressed  youth  around  her 

shone, 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore ; 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those : 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends : 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet,  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  foults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide: 


'  Sti-fingely  amoug  our  grandmothers  reckoued  oruaments 
to  beauty. 


14G 


CYCLOVJiDIA    OF  BUITISH  AXJJ   AMEllICAX  rOETllT. 


If  to  her  share  soino  iViiinlo  orrors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  iiml  you'll   luri;!'!   Hiciii  all. 

This  nympli,  to  tlit'  (U'stiiiitioii  of  inaiikiiid, 
XoiuisluMl  two  locks,  which  f^raccful  liuiijj  behind 
In  cijual  cnils,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  wo  the  birds  betray, 
Slight  lines  of  hair  snri)ri.so  the  linny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare, 
And  beanty  draws  ns  with  a  single  hair. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  all!  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime,  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  great  Fir.st  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

Yet  gave  mo,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will : — 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives: 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound  ; 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw. 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 
Still  iu  the  right  to  stay; 


If  I  am  wrong,  oh,  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride. 

Or  impious  discontent ; 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied. 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe ; 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

Tiiat  mercy  show  to  nie. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath  ; 

Oh,  lead  me,  wheresoe'er  I  go, — 
Throngh  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day,  be  bread  ami  peace  my  lot: 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  th}'  will  be  done. 

To  thee,  whoso  temple  is  all  space. 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies ! 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise ; 
All  nature's  incense  rise! 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOLTL. 

This  ode  was  partly  suggested  by  the  followiug  Hues,  written 
by  the  Emperor  Adriau  : 

ADRIANI   MORIENTIS.— AD   ANIMAM  SUAM. 

Animiila,  vagiila,  blandula, 
Hospes  Coniei»que  Corporis, 
Qiiie  luuic  ai)ibis  in  loca, 
Pallidnla,  rigida,  nudula? 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  joca. 

Pope's  lines  were  composed  at  the  reqnest  of  Steele,  who  wrote :  \ 
"This  is  to  desire  of  you  that  you  would  plea.«e  to  make  an  , 
ode  as  of  a  cheerful,  dying  spirit;  that  is  to  say,  tlie  Emperor 
Adrian's  aninuila  ra;ju!n  put  into  two  or  three  stanzas  for  mu- 
sic." Pope  replied  with  the  three  stanzas  below,  and  says  to  i 
Steele  iu  a  letter,  "Yon  have  it,  as  Cowley  calls  it,  warm  from  I 
the  braiu.    It  came  to  me  the  llrst  moment  I  waked  this  moru-  i 


Vital  spark  of  heavenly  llame, 
Qnit,  oh  quit  this  mortal  frame! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering.  Hying, 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife. 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark  I   they  whisper;   angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away. 


ALEXJXDEli   POPE. 


147 


What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight. 

Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breatli  ? 

Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  Avurld  recedes  ;   it  disappears  ; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes ;   my  ears 

With  sounds  serapliic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  Avings!   I  mount!   I  fly! 
O  grave  !   where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  death  !   ^here  is  thy  sting  ? 


FROM  "ELOISA   TO   ABELARD." 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells. 
Where  heavenly-pensive  Contemplation  dwells. 
And  ever-musing  Melancholy  reigns  ; 
What  means  this  tumult  in  a  vestal's  veins  ? 
Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyond  this  last  retreat  ? 
Why  feels  my  heart  its  long-forgotten  heat  ? 
Yet,  yet  I  love ! — From  Abelard  it  came. 
And  Eloisa  yet  must  kiss  the  name. 

Dear,  fatal  name !   rest  ever  unrevealed. 
Nor  pass  these  lips  in  holy  silence  sealed : 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  Avithiu  that  close  disguise. 
Where,  mixed  with  God's,  his  loved  idea  lies : 
Oh,  "write  it  not,  my  hand — the  name  appears 
Already  written — wash  it  out,  my  tears ! 
In  vain  lost  Eloisa  weeps  and  prays, 
Her  heart  still  dictates,  and  her  hand  obeys. 

Relentless  walls!  whose  darksome  round  contains 
Repentant  sighs  and  voluntary  pains : 
Ye  rugged  rocks !   which  holy  knees  have  worn  ; 
Ye  grots  and  caverns  shagged  with  horrid  thoru ! 
Siirines!  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed  virgins  keep; 
And  pitying  saints,  whose  statues  learu  to  weep ! 
Though  cold  like  you,  unmoved  and  silent  grown, 
I  have  not  yet  forgot  myself  to  stone. 
All  is  not  Heaven's  while  Abelard  has  part, 
Still  rebel  Nature  holds  out  half  my  heart ; 
Nor  prayers  nor  fasts  its  stubborn  pulse  restrain, 
Nor  tears,  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in  vain. 

■Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  unclose. 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all  my  woes. 
Oh,  name  forever  sad!  forever  dear  I 
Still  breathed  in  sighs,  still  ushered  with  a  tear. 
I  tremble  too,  where'er  my  own  I  find, 
Some  dire  misfortune  f«dlows  close  behind. 
Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'erflow, 
Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe  : 
Now  warm  in  love,  now  withering  in  my  bloom, 
Lost  in  a  convent's  solitarv  gloom  I 


There  stern  Religion  quenched  th'  unwilling  flame, 
There  died  the  best  of  passions,  love  and  fame. 

Yet  write,  oh  write  me  all,  that  I  may  join 
Griefs  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine. 
Nor  foes  nor  Fortune  take  this  j)owev  away  ; 
And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than  they  ? 
Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need  not  spare, 
Love  but  demands  what  else  were  shed  in  prayer ; 
No  happier  task  these  faded  eyes  pursue ; 
To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can  do. 

Then  share  thy  pain,  allow  that  sad  relief; 
Ah,  more  than  share  it,  give  me  all  thy  grief. 
Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid. 
Some  banished  lover,  or  some  captive  maid  ; 
They  live,  they  speak,  thej'  breathe  what  love   in- 
spires, 
AVarm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to  its  fires, 
The  virgin's  Avish  without  her  fears  impart. 
Excuse  the  blush,  and  pour  out  all  the  heart. 
Speed  the  soft  intercourse  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the  Pole. 


CONCLUSION   OF  THE    ''ESSAY   ON  MAN." 

What  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 

The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heai't-felt  joy. 

Is  Virtue's  prize  :   A  better  would  you  fix  ? 

Then  give  Humility  a  coach  and  six, 

Justice  a  conqueror's  sword,  or  Truth  a  gown, 

Or  Public  Spirit  its  great  cure,  a  crown. 

Weak,  foolish  man !   will  Heaven  reward  us  there 

With  the  same  trasli  mad  mortals  wish  for  here  ? 

The  boy  and  man  an  individual  makes, 

Yet  sigh'st  thou  now  for  apples  and  for  cakes  ? 

Go,  lilvc  the  Indian,  in  another  life 

Expect  thy  dog.  thy  bottle,  and  thy  wife ; 

As  well  as  dream  such  trifles  are  assigned. 

As  toys  and  empires,  for  a  godlike  mind ; 

Rewards,  that  either  would  to  virtue  bring 

No  joy,  or  be  destructive  of  the  thing; 

How  oft  by  these  at  sixty  are  undone 

The  virtues  of  a  saint  at  twenty-one ! 

To  whom  can  riches  give  repute,  or  trust, 

Content,  or  pleasure,  but  the  good  and  just  ? 

Judges  and  senates  have  been  bought  for  gold  ; 

Esteem  and  love  were  never  to  be  sold. 

O  fool !   to  think  God  hates  the  worthy  mind. 

The  lover  and  the  love  of  human-kind. 

Whose    life     is    healthful,    and    whose    conscience 

clear, 
Because  he  wants  a  thousand  pounds  a  year! 


148 


CYCLOI'.EniA    UF  BRlTItill  JXD  AMEUICAX  rOETRY. 


Honor  and  sbaine  from  no  condition  riso  ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  ;ill  flic  lionor  lies. 
Fortune  lu  men  has  some  small  (lifVercneo  made, 
One  daunts  in  rags,  one  llutters  in  brocade  ; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  ])arson  frowned, 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 
'■What   dill'er    nu)re,''  you    cry,  "than    crown    and 

cowl  I" 
I'll  tell  you,  iViiMid  I   a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You'll  lind,  if  once  the  nmnarch  acts  the  moidc. 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  jjanson  will  be  drunk, 
AVorth  makes  the  iiian.  :ni(l  want  of  it  the  fellow: 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Go!  if  your  ancient,  but  ignoble  blood 

Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the  Flood, 

Go!   and  pretend  your  family  is  young; 

Nor  own  your  fathers  have  been  fools  so  long. 

"What  can  ennoble  sots,  or  slaves,  or  cowards  ? 

Alas  I   not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 

Look   next  on   greatness ;    say,  where  greatness 
lies: 
"Where  but  among  the  heroes  and  the  wise?" 
Heroes  are  much  the  same,  the  point's  agreed, 
From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede ; 
The  whole  strange  purpose  of  their  lives,  to  find, 
Or  make,  an  enemy  of  all  mankind! 
Not  one  looks  backward,  onward  still  he  goes, 
Yet  ne'er  looks  forward  further  than  his  nose. 
No  less  alike  the  jiolitic  and  Aviso: 
All  sly  slow  things,  with  circumspective  eyes : 
Men  in  their  loose,  unguarded  hours  they  take  ; 
Not  that  themselves  are  wise,  but  others  weak. 
But    grant    that    those    can    conquer,   these    can 

cheat : 
'Tis  phrase  absurd  to  call  a  villain  great ; 
AV^ho  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave. 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  knave. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtain.s, 
Or,  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains. 
Like  good  Aurelins  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

Wliat's  fame  ?   a  fancied  life  in  others'  breath, 
A  thing  beyond  us,  ev'n  before  our  death. 
Just   what  you   hear,  you   have ;    and   what's   un- 
known. 
The  same,  my  lord,  if  TuUy's,  or  your  own. 
All  that  we  feel  of  it  begins  and  ends 
In  the  small  circle  of  our  foes  or  friends; 
To  all  beside  as  much  an  empty  .shade 
An  Eugene  living,  as  a  Cu'.sar  dead; 
Alike  or  wiien,  or  where  they  shone,  or  shine. 
Or  on  the  Kubicon,  or  on  the  Khine. 


A  wit's  a  feather,  and  a  chief  a  rod  : 

An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 

Fame  i)ut  from  death  a  villain's  name  can  save, 

As  Justice  tears  his  liody  from  the  grave; 

When  what  1'  oblivion  better  were  resigned, 

Is  hung  on  high  to  poison  half  mankind. 

All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert; 

I'lays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart : 

One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 

Of  stn])id  starers,  and  of  loud  huzzas; 

And  nunc  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels. 

Than  Cicsar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

In  parts  superior  what  advantage  lies? 
Tell  (for  you  can)  what  is  it  to  be  wise? 
'Tis  but  to  know  how  little  can  be  known  ; 
To  see  all  other.s'  faults,  and  feel  our  own  : 
Condemned  in  business  or  in  arts  to  drudge. 
Without  a  second,  or  without  a  judge: 
Truths  would  you  teach,  or  save  a  sinking  land  ? 
X\\  fear,  none  aid  you,  and  few  uiulerstaud. 
Painful  pre-eminence  !   yourself  to  view 
Above  life's  weakness,  and  its  comforts  too. 

Bring,  then,  these  blessings  to  a  strict  account  : 
Make  fair  deductions ;   see  to  what  they  mount : 
Ho'w  much  of  other  each  is  sure  to  cost ; 
How  much  for  other  oft  is  wholly  lost ; 
How  inconsistent  greater  goods  with  these; 
How  sometimes  life  is  risked,  and  always  ease: 
Think,  and  if  still  the  things  thy  envy  call, 
Say,  wouldst  thou  bo  the  man  to  whom  they  fall  ? 
To  sigh  for  ribbons,  if  thou  art  so  silly, 
Mark  how  they  grace  Lord  Umbra,  or  Sir  Billy. 
Is  yellow  dirt  the  passion  of  thy  life? 
Look  but  on  Gripus,  or  on  Gripus'  Avife. 
If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bacon  shincd. 
The  wi.sest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind  : 
Or,  ravished  with  the  whistling  of  a  name. 
See  Cromwell,  damned  to  everlasting  fame ! 

Know,  then,  this  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know"). 
"Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below:" 
The  only  point  where  human  bliss  stands  still. 
And  tastes  the  good  without  the  fall  to  ill; 
Where  only  merit  constant  pay  receives. 
Is  blest  in  what  it  takes,  and  what  it  gives; 
The  joy  nnequalled,  if  its  end  it  gain. 
And  if  it  lose,  attended  with  no  pain; 
Without  satiety,  though  e'er  so  blest. 
And  but  more  relished  as  the  more  distressed: 
The  broadest  mirth  unfeeling  Folly  wears. 
Less  pleasing  far  than  Virtue's  very  tears; 
Good,  from  each  object,  from  each  place,  acquired. 
Forever  cxerci.sed,  yet  never  tired ; 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


149 


\over  elated  while  one  inau's  oppressed; 
Never  dejected  while  another's  blest; 
Aud  where  no  Avauts,  no  wishes  can  remain, 
Since  but  to  wish  more  virtue  is  to  gain. 

See  the  sole  bliss  Heaven  could  on  all  bestow  ! 
Which   who   but   feels   can  taste,  but   thinks   can 

know  ? 
Vet  poor  with  fortune,  and  with  learning  blind, 
The  bad  must  miss,  the  good,  untaught,  will  iind  ; 
Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private  road, 
But  looks  through  Nature  np  to  Nature's  God  ; 
Pursues  that  chain  which  links  th'  immense  design. 
Joins  heaven  and  earth,  and  mortal  and  divine  ; 
Sees  that  no  being  any  bliss  can  know 
But  touches  some  above  and  some  below  ; 
Learns  from  this  union  of  the  rising  whole 
The  tirst,  last  purpose  of  the  human  soul ; 
And  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals  all  began. 
All  end  in  love  of  God  and  love  of  man. 
For  him  alone  Hope  leads  from  goal  to  goal. 
And  opens  still,  and  opens  on  his  soul ; 
Till,  lengthened  on  to  Faith,  and  uncouGned, 
It  pours  the  bliss  that  tills  up  all  the  mind. 
He  sees  why  Nature  plants  in  man  alone 
Hope  of  known  bliss,  and  faith  in  bliss  unknown 
(Nature,  whose  dictates  to  no  other  kind 
Are  given  in  vain,  but  what  they  seek  they  find) : 
Wise  is  her  present ;   she  conuect,s  in  this 
His  greatest  virtue  with  his  greatest  bliss  ; 
At  once  his  own  bright  prospect  to  be  blest. 
And  strongest  motive  to  assist  the  rest. 

Self-love,  thus  pushed  to  social,  to  divine, 
Gives  thee  to  make  thy  neighbors  blessing  thiue. 
Is  this  too  little  for  the  boundless  heart  ? 
Extend  it,  let  thy  enemies  have  iiart. 
Grasp  the  whole  worlds  of  reason,  life,  aud  sense 
In  one  close  system  of  benevolence ; 
Happier  as  kinder,  in  whate'er  degree, 
Aud  height  of  bliss  but  height  of  charity. 

God  loves  from  whole  to  parts  ;  but  human  soul 
Must  rise  from  individual  to  the  whole. 
Self-love  but  serves  the  virtuous  mind  to  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake : 
The  centre  moved,  a  circle  straight  succeeds, 
Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads  ; 
Friend,  parent,  neighbor,  first  it  will  embrace; 
His  country  next,  aud  next  all  human  race  ; 
Wide  and  more  wide,  th'  o'erflowings  of  the  mind 
Take  everj^  creature  in,  of  every  kind  ; 
Earth  smiles  around,  with  boundless  bounty  blest, 
Aud  Heaven  beholds  its  imago  in  his  breast. 

Come,  then,  my  friend  !  my  genius  !  come  along  ! 
Oh  master  of  the  poet  and  the  song ! 


Aud  while  the  Muse  n(jw^  stoops,  or  now  ascends, 
To  man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends. 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise, 
To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise ; 
Formed  by  thy  converse,  happily  to  steer, 
From  grave  to  gaj',  from  lively  to  severe  ; 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease  ; 
Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please. 
Oh,  while  along  the  stream  of  time  thy  name 
Expanded  flies,  aud  gathers  all  its  fame, 
Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendan't  sail, 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale  ? 
AVhen  statesmen,  heroes,  kings,  in  dust  repose. 
Whose  sons  shall  blush  their  fathers  were  thy  foes, 
Siiall  theu  this  verse  to  future  age  pretend 
Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  aud  friend  ? 
That,  ui'ged  by  thee,  I  turned  the  tuneful  art, 
From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart  ? 
For  Wit's  false  mirror  held  up  Nature's  light ; 
Showed  erring  Pride,  Whatever  is,  is  right  ; 
That  reason,  passion,  answer  oue  great  aim  ; 
That  true  self-love  and  social  are  the  same ; 
That  virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below  ; 
Aud  all  our  knowledge  is  ourselves  to  know  V 


OF  THE   CHARACTERS   OF  W^OMEN. 

IiiOM  " To  A  Lady,"  Epistle  II. 

Ah !   friend,  to  dazzle  let  the  vain  design ; 
To  raise  the  thought  aud  touch  the  heart  he  thiue! 
That  charm  shall  grow,  while  what  fatigues  the  ring 
Flaunts  aud  goes  down,  an  unregarded  thing : 
So,  when  tlie  Sun's  broad  beam  has  tired  the  sight. 
All  mild  ascends  the  Moon's  more  sober  light. 
Serene  in  virgin  modesty  she  shines. 
And  unobserved  the  glaring  orb  declines. 

Oh !   blest  with  temper,  whose  unclouded  ray 
Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day : 
She,  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  or  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwounded  ear ; 
She  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools. 
Or,  if  she  rules  him,  never  shows  she  rules; 
Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways, 
Yet  has  her  humor  most  when  she  obej- s ; 
Lets  fops  or  fortune  fly  which  way  they  will, 
Disdains  all  loss  of  tickets  or  codille ; 
Spleen,  vapors,  or  small-pox,  above  them  all, 
Aud  mistress  of  herself,  though  china  fall. 

Aud  yet,  believe  me,  good  as  well  as  ill. 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still. 

•  Tlie  " Essny  on  Man"  is  in   fouf  epistles,  addressed  to 
Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Boliugbroke. 


150 


CYCLOJUiJUA    OF  JIUITISII   AM)   AMKRICAN  rUKTRY. 


Heaven,  wlieii  it  strives  to  ]M>lisli  all  it  can 

Its  last  best  work,  Ijiit  loriiis  a  softer  man  ; 

Picks  from  each  sex,  to  make  the  favorite  blest, 

Yonr  lovo  of  pleasnre,  our  desire  of  rest: 

lilenils,  in  exception  to  all  general  rules, 

Your  taste  of  follies  with  our  scorn  of  fools : 

Reserve  with  frankness,  art  with  truth  allied, 

Courage  with  softness,  modesty  with  pride  ; 

Fixed  principles,  with  fancy  ever  new; 

.Shakes  all  together,  and  produces — you. 

He  this  a  woman's  fame !    with  this  unblest, 

Toasts  live  a  scorn,  and  queens  may  die  a  jest. 

This  Pha'bns  promised  (I  forget  the  year) 

When  those  blue  eyes  lirst  opened  on  the  sphere  ; 

Ascendant  Phn-bus  watched  that  hour  with  care, 

Averted  half  your  parents'  simple  prayer; 

And  gave  you  beauty,  but  denied  the  pelf 

That  buys  your  sex  a  tyrant  o'er  itself. 

The  generous  god,  who  gold  and  wit  refines, 

And  riiicns  spirits  as  he  ripens  mines. 

Kept  dross  for  duchesses,  the  world  shall  know  it. 

To  you  gave  sense,  good  humor,  and  a  poet. 


PROLOGUE  TO  MR.  ADDISON'S  TRAGEDY  OF 
"  CATO." 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art. 
To  raise  the  genius,  and  to  mend  the  heart; 
To  make  inaukiud  in  conscious  virtue  bold, 
Live  o'er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they  behold; 
For  this  the  Tragic  Muse  first  trod  the  stage, 
Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  every  age; 
Tyrants  no  more  their  savage  nature  kept. 
And  foes  to  Virtue  wondered  how  they  wept. 
Our  author  shuns  by  vulgar  springs  lo  move 
The  hero's  glory,  or  the  virgin's  love; 
In  pitying  Love,  we  but  our  W'eakness  show. 
And  wild  Ambition  well  deserves  its  woe. 
Here  tears  shall  How  from  a  more  gcnierous  cause, 
Such  tears  as  patriots  shed  for  dying  laws : 
Ho  bids  your  breasts  with  ancient  ardor  rise, 
And  calls  forth  Roman  drops  from  British  eyes. 
Virtue  confessed  in  Innnan  shape  ho  draws. 
What  Plato  thought,  and  godlike  Cato  was: 
No  common  object  to  j'our  sight  disi)lays. 
But  what  with  pleasure  Hcaveu  itself  surveys, 
A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of  fiite. 
And  greatly  falling  with  a  falling  state. 
While  Cato  gives  his  little  senate  laws, 
What  bosom  beats  not  in  his  country's  cause  ? 
Who  sees  him  act,  but  envies  every  deed  ? 
Who  hears  him  groan,  and  does  not  wish  to  bleed? 


Even  when  proud  Ciesar  midst  trinmplial  cars. 
The  spoils  of  nations,  and  tin;  pomp  of  wars, 
Ignobly  vain,  and  impotentlj'  great. 
Showed  Rome  her  Cato's  figure  drawn   in  state  ; 
As  her  dead  father's  reverend  imago  past, 
The  pomp  was  darkened,  and  the  day  o'ercast ; 
The  triumph  ceased,  tears  gushed  from  every,  eye  ; 
The  world's  great  victor  passed  unheeded  by ; 
Her  last  good  man  dejected  Rome  adored. 
And  honored  Ciesar's  less  than  Cato's  swoid. 

Britons,  attend :   be  worth  like  this  approved, 
And  show  you  have  the  virtue  to  be  moved. 
With  honest  scorn  the  first  famed  Cato  viewed 
Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece, whom  she  subdued; 
Your  scene  precariously  subsists  too  long 
On  Freuch  translation,  and  Italian  song. 
Dare  to  have  sense  yourselves;   assert  the  stage. 
Be  justly  warmed  with  your  own  uative  rage ; 
Such  plays  alone  should  Avin  a  British  ear. 
As  Cato's  self  had  not  disdained  to  hear. 


THE   MOOX. 

Translated  from  HouEit. 

As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night, 
O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred  light. 
When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene. 
And  not  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene, 
Around  her  throne  the  vivid  jilanets  roll. 
And  stars  unnumbered  gild  the  glowing  pole; 
O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellower  A'erdure  shed. 
And  tip  with  silver  every  mountain's  head ; 
Then  shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect  rise, 
A  Hood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies : 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight. 
Eye  the  blue  vault,  and  bless  the  useful  light. 


FROM   "THE   TEMPLE   OF  FAME." 

Nor  Fame  I  slight,  nor  for  her  favors  call : 

She  comes  unlooked  for,  if  she  comes  at  all. 

But  if  the  purchase  cost  so  dear  a  price 

As  soothing  folly,  or  exalting  vice, — 

Oh!   if  tiie  muse  must  Hatter  lawless  sway, 

And  follow  still  where  fortune  leads  the  way, — 

Or  if  no  basis  bear  my  rising  name, 

But  the  fallen  ruins  of  another's  fame, — 

Then  teach  me,  Heaven  !  to  scorn  the  guilty  bays, 

Drive  from  my  breast  that  wretched  lust  of  prais(! ; 

I'nblemished  let  me  live,  or  die  unknown  : 

Oh,  grant  an  honest  fame,  or  grant  me  none ! 


ALEXANDER  POPE.— JOHN  GAY. 


151 


LINES   ON  ADDISON. 

Whfii  Pope  first  came  to  town,  a  boy  and  little  known,  lie 
Courted  Addison,  and  wrote  an  admirable  prolo<j;ue  for  his 
"Cato."  Gradually  a  coolness  arose  between  them.  Some 
think  that  Addison  was  jealous  of  Pope's  brighteiiiu;^  fame ; 
but  it  is  far  more  probable  that  Pope,  whose  peevish  temper 
was  the  accompaniment  of  a  sickly  frame,  tooli  ofl'ence  at  fan- 
cied wrong's.  His  "portrait"  of  Addison  must,  therefore,  be 
regarded  more  as  a  literary  curiosity  than  as  an  honest  like- 
ness.   The  lines  are  from  the  "Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthuot." 

Peace  to  all  such !   but  ■were  tbero  one  whose  fires 
True  geuius  kiudles,  aud  fair  fame  inspires ; 
Blest  with  each  talent  aud  each  art  to  please, 
Aud  born  to  write,  couverse,  aud  live  ■with  ease: 
Should  such  a  luan,  too  fond  to  rule  aloue, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  uo  brother  uear  the  throne, 
View  him  ■with  scoruful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
Aud  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise ; 
Damu  -with  faiut  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And,  ■without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer ; 
Willing  to  ■wound,  aud  yet  afraid  to  strike ; 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame  or  to  comraeud, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  susiiicious  frieud  ; 
Dreading  even  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
Aud  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged ; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  seuate  laws, 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause  ; 
Whilst  wits  aud  Templars  every  seutence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise  : — 
Who  but  must  laugh  if  such  a  one  there  be  ? 
Who  would  not  weep  if  Atticus  were  he  ? 


CONCLUSION   OF   '-THE   DLTsCIAD." 

She  comes !  she  comes !  the  sable  throne  behold 

Of  Night  iirimeval,  and  of  Chaos  old ! 

Before  her  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay, 

Aud  all  its  varj'iug  rainbows  die  away. 

Wit  shoots  iu  vain  its  momentary  fires. 

The  meteor  drops,  aud  in  a  flash  expires. 

As  one  by  oue,  at  dread  Medea's  strain. 

The  sickening  stars  fade  off  the  ethereal  plain ; 

As  Argus'  eye,  by  Hermes'  waud  opprest, 

Closed  one  by  oue  to  everlasting  rest ; 

Thus,  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might. 

Art  after  art  goes  out,  aud  all  is  night. 

See  skulking  Truth,  to  her  old  cavern  fled. 

Mountains  of  casuistry  heaped  o'er  her  head ! 

Philosophy,  that  leaned  on  Heaven  before. 

Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  aud  is  no  more. 

Physic  of  metaphysic  begs  defence, 

xVnd  metaphysic  calls  for  aid  ou  sen.se ! 


See  mystery  to  mathematics  fly ! 

In  vain!  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 

Religion,  blushiug,  veils  her  sacred  fires, 

Aud  unawares  morality  expires. 

Nor  public  flame,  nor  private  dares  to  shine: 

Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine ! 

Lo  !   thy  dread  empire,  Chaos  !   is  restored ; 

Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word; 

TLy  haiul,  great  Anarch !   lets  the  curtaiu  fall. 

And  universal  darkness  buries  all. 


Solju  (&avi. 


A  Devonshire  man  of  good  family  (1688-1732),  Gay 
was  first  apprenticed  to  a  silk-mercer  in  London.  Not 
liking  the  business,  he  got  his  discharge,  and  commenced 
writing  poetry.  As  domestic  secretary  to  the  Duchess 
of  Monmouth,  he  found  leisure  for  literary  pursuits.  He 
is  best  knowu  by  his  "Fables"  and  bis  "Beggars'  Ope- 
ra." This  last,  produced  in  1727,  was  the  great  success 
of  his  life.  Swift  had  suggested  to  Gay  the  idea  of  a 
Newgate  pastoral.  This  gave  rise  to  the  "Beggars'  Op- 
era." It  was  offered  to  Gibber,  at  Drury  Lane,  and  re- 
fused. It  ■was  theu  offered  to  Rich,  at  Covcnt  Garden, 
and  accepted.  Its  success  gave  rise  to  the  saying  that 
"  it  made  Rich  gay,  and  Gay  rich."  It  ■nas  composed  in 
ridicule  of  the  Italian  Opera,  and  had  such  a  ruu  that  it 
drove  the  Italians  aM'ay  for  that  season. 

As  a  poet.  Gay  hardly  rises  above  mediocrity ;  but  he 
was  the  inventor  of  the  English  Ballad  Opera,  and  some 
of  his  "Fables"  are  excellent,  having  a  philosophical 
aud  moral  purpose  far  beyond  that  of  ordinary  verses. 
His  "  Trivia,  or  The  Art  of  Walking  the  Streets  of  Lon- 
don," has  some  witty  lines;  and  his  "Epistle  to  Pope 
on  the  Completion  of  his  Translation  of  Homer's  Iliad  " 
is  still  ■n'orth  reading  as  a  rapid  sketch  of  Pope's  fasli- 
ionable  acquaintances.  The  fable  of  "  The  Hare  and 
Many  Friends"  is  supposed  to  be  drawn  from  Gay's 
own  experience ;  for  he  sought  court  favor,  and  was 
grievously  disappointed. 

Pope  says  that  Gay  "was  a  natural  man,  without  de- 
sign, who  spoke  what  he  thought,  aud  just  as  he  thought 
it."  Swift  was  deeply  attached  to  him,  and  Pope  char- 
acterizes Gay  as 

"  Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild  ; 
In  wit,  a  man  ;  simplicity,  a  child." 

Gay's  mortal  remains  were  interred  in  Westminster  Ab- 
be}',  where  a  handsome  monument  was  erected  to  his 
memory  by  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Queensberr3\ 


SWEET   WILLIAM'S   FAREWELL    TO    BLACK- 
EYED   SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  iu  the  wind. 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard. 
"Oh,  Avhere  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 


152 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  JUiJTL->Il  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tell  iijc,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  mo  true, 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  aiuuiig  (he  crew." 

William,  wlio,  liigli  upon  the  yard, 

Kocked  with  the  billow  to  aiul  fro. 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below: 
The     cord    slides    swiftly    through    liis    glowing 

bands, 
Aud  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  be  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  bis  breast. 
If  chance  bis  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
Aud  drops  at  once  into  her  nest : 
The  uoblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  "William's  lips  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear ! 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  tbat  falling  tear ; 
AVe  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  Avinds ;   my  bcart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say. 

Who  tempt  witb  doubts  thy  constant  mind. 
They'll  tell  thee  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  bud  : 
Yes,  yes,  believe  tbem  Avbeu  they  tell  thee  so. 
For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail. 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright ; 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms. 

Let  not  mj-  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest    precious    tears    should    drop    from    Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  -word, 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  : 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  bis  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  : 
"Adieu!"  she  cries,  aud  waved  her  lily  hand. 


THi:   HARE   AND   MANY  FRIENDS. 
I-noM  THE  "  Fables." 

Fiicndsliip,  like  love,  is  but  a  n:ime. 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
"Tis  thus  in  friendship:    who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  lind  a  friend. 

A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way, 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  haunt  the  wood  or  graze  the  plain  : 
Her  care  was  never  to  oftend, 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn. 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn. 
Behind  she  bears  the  hunter's  cries. 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath  ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death  ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round ; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half  dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay. 

What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view! 

"Let  me,"  says  she,  "your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight : 
To  friendship  every  burden's  light." 

The  Horse  replied,  "Poor  honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus : 
Be  comforted  ;   relief  is  near, 
For  all  your  friends  ai'e  in  the  rear." 

She  next  the  stately'  Bull  implored, 
Aud  thus  reiilied  the  mighty  lord : 
"Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may  without  otlenco  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence ;   a  favorite  cow 
Expects  mo  near  yon  barley-mow ; 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case,  j 

You  know,  all  other  things  give  place.  ■ 

To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind. 
But,  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind." 

The  Goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high. 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye : 
"  My  back,"  says  he,  "  may  do  you  harm  ; 
The  Sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained  ; 


JOHN  BYBOM. 


153 


Said  lie  was  slow  ;   confessed  his  fears, 
For  lioniids  eat  slieep  as  Avell  as  hares. 

She  now  the  trotting  Culf  addressed 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 

"Shall  I,"  says  he,  "of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage? 
Older  and  abler  passed  yon  by. 
How  strong  are  those !  how  weak  am  I ! 
Shonld  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then  ;   you  know  my  heart ; 
But  dearest  friends,  alas !   must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament !     Adieu  ; 
For,  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view." 


iJoljii  Biirom. 


Byrom  (1691-1768)  was  born  near  ^lanchester,  was  ed- 
ucated at  Cambridge,  and  studied  medicine  in  France. 
His  poetical  reputation  seems  to  have  oilgiuated  in  a 
pastoral  poem,  "  ]\Iy  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily 
spent,"  publislied  in  the  Spectator,  October  6tli,  1714, 
and  mildly  commended  by  Addison.  In  reading  it  now, 
one  is  surprised  to  fiud  that  so  slender  a  literary  invest- 
ment could  have  ijroduced  such  returns  of  fame.  By- 
rom, however,  proved  himself  capable  of  better  things. 
He  inveuted  a  system  of  stenography,  in  teaching  which 
he  had  Gibbon  and  Horace  Walpole  for  pupils.  By  the 
death  of  a  brother  he  at  last  became  heir  to  the  family 
property  in  Manchester,  where  he  lived  much  respected. 
His  poems  were  included  by  Chalmers  in  his  edition  of 
tlie  poets. 


MY   SPIRIT  LOXGETH   FOR  THEE. 

My  spirit  longeth  for  thee 
Within  my  troubled  breast, 

Although  I  be  unworthy 
Of  so  divine  a  Guest. 

Of  so  divine  a  Guest 
Unworthy  though  I  be, 

Yet  has  my  heart  no  rest 
Unless  it  come  from  thee. 

Unless  it  come  from  thee. 
In  vaiu  I  look  around  ; 

In  all  that  I  can  see 
No  rest  is  to  be  found. 

No  rest  is  to  be  found 
But  in  thy  blessdd  love  : 

Oh,  let  my  wish  be  crowned, 
And  send  it  from  above ! 


Tin:   AXSWKi:. 

Clicer  up,  dcspomling  soul! 

'I'iiy  longing  jilcased  I  sec  ; 
'Tis  part  of  that  great  whole 

Wherewith  I  longed  for  thee. 

AVherewith  I  longed  for  thee, 
And  left  my  Father's  throne. 

From  death  to  set  thee  free, 
To  claim  thee  for  my  own. 

To  claim  thee  for  my  own 
I  suffered  on  the  cross. 

Oh,  were  my  love  but  known, 
No  soul  could  fear  its  loss. 

No  soul  could  fear  its  loss. 
But,  filled  with  love  divine. 

Would  die  ou  its  own  cross, 
And  rise  forever  mine. 


AN  EPIGRAM  ON  THE   BLESSEDNESS  OF 
DIVINE   LOVE. 

Faith,  Hojie,  and  Love  were  questioned  what  they 

thought 
Of  future  glory,  which  Religion  taught. 
Now,  Faith  believed  it  firndj'  to  be  true, 
And  Hope  expected  so  to  find  it  too; 
Love  answered,  smiling,  with  a  conscious  glow. 
Believe  ?   expect  ?     I  know  it  to  be  so. 


ST.  PHILIP  NERI  AND   THE   YOUTH. 

St.  Philip  Neri,  as  old  readings  say, 

Met  a  young  stranger  iu  Rome's  streets  one  day; 

And,  being  ever  courteously  inclined 

To  give  young  folks  a  sober  tnru  of  mind. 

He  fell  into  discourse  with  him  ;   and  thus 

The  dialogue  they  held  comes  down  to  ns.  . 

St.  P.  N.  Tell  me  what  brings  you,  gentle  youth, 
to  Rome  ? 

Youth.  To  nuike  myself  .a,  scholar,  sir,  I  come. 

*SY.  P.  X.  And  when  you  are  one,  what  do  you  in- 
tend ? 

Youth.  To  be  a  priest,  I  hope,  sir,  in  the  end. 

St.  P.  X.  Suppose  it  so,  what  have  you  next  in 
Aiew  ? 

Youth.  That  I  may  get  to  be  a  canon  too. 

St.  P.  X.  Well,  and  how  then  ? 


154 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  JUUTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Yimth.  Why,  tlieu,  for  auglit  I  know, 

I  may  Im  made  a  bisliop. 

.S7.  P.  X.  Bo  it  so, — 

Wliat  theu  ? 

l(>((//(.  Why,  cardiual's  a  high  degree. 

Ami  yi't  my  hit  it  possibly  may  be. 

.S7.  P.  X.  !5iii)posc  it  Avas, — what  then  ? 

Youth.  Why,  who  cau  say 

But  I've  a  chance  of  being  pope  om:  day? 

St.  P.  X.  Well,  having  worn  the  mitre,  and  red  hat, 
And  triple  crown,  w  hat  follows  after  that  ? 

Youth.  Xay,  there  is  nothing  further,  to  be  sure, 
Upou  this  earth  that  wishing  can  procure  : 
Wheu  I've  enjoyed  a  dignity  so  high 
As  long  as  God  shall  please,  then  I  must  die. 

St.  P.  X.  What!   ?«/(«<  you  die,  fond  youth?   and 
at  the  liest 
But  wish,  and  hope,  and  viaybe  all  the  rest  ? 
Take  my  advice — whatever  may  betide, 
For  that  which  must  be,  first  of  all  provide; 
Theu  think  of  that  Avhich  7nci)j  be  ;   and,  indeed. 
When  well  prepared,  who  knows  what  may  succeed  ? 
Who  knows  but  you  may  then  be,  as  you  hope. 
Priest,  cauon,  bishop,  cardinal,  aud  pope  ? 


Spleen"  is  ;  "  Orandum  est  ut  sit  mens  sana  in  corpore 
sano."  It  is  "inscribed  by  the  author  to  his  particular 
friend,  Mr.  C.  J." 


JACOBITE  TOAST. 

God  bless  the  king!— I  mean  the  Faith's  Defender; 
God  bless  (no  harm  in  blessing)  the  Pretender ! 
But  who  Pretender  is,  or  who  is  king, — 
God  bless  us  all! — that's  quite  another  thing. 


illdttljcui   (f^rccn. 


Little  is  known  of  Mattlicw  Green  (169G-173T)  except 
that  he  had  his  education  among  the  Dissenters,  and  his 
employment  in  the  London  Custom-house,  lie  is  re- 
membered by  his  poem  of  "The  Spleen;"  less  known 
than  it  deserves  to  be  to  modern  readers.  It  contains 
less  than  nine  hundred  lines ;  is  full  of  liap]iy  expres- 
sions, and  evidently  the  production  of  a  profound,  origi- 
nal, and  independent  thinker.  Gray  recognized  his  gen- 
ius, and  said  of  him,  "Even  his  wood-notes  often  break 
out  into  strains  of  real  poetry  and  musie."  Aikin,  while 
naively  objecting  to  Green's  speculating  "  very  freely  on 
religious  topics,"  remarks :  "It  is  further  attested  that 
he  was  a  man  of  great  probity  and  sweetness  of  dispo- 
sition, and  that  liis  conversation  abounded  with  wit,  but 
of  the  most  inollensive  kind.  *  *  *  He  passed  his  life  in 
celibacy.  Few  ])oenis  will  bear  more  repeated  perusals 
than  his  ;  and  with  those  who  can  fully  enter  into  them, 
they  do  not  fail  to  become  favorites."  Tlie  motto  on 
the   title-page   of  the   original    edition  (1737)  of  "The 


ITiOM   'Tin:   8PLEEN." 

This  motley  piece  to  you  I  send. 
Who  always  were  a  faithful  friend; 
Who,  if  disputes  should  happen  hence, 
Can  best  explain  the  author's  sense; 
And,  anxious  for  the  public  weal. 
Do,  what  I  sing,  so  often  feel. 

The  want  of  method  pray  excuse, 
Allowing  for  a  vapored  Muse ; 
Nor  to  a  narrow  path  confined. 
Hedge  in  by  rules  a  roving  mind. 

The  child  is  genuine,  yon  may  trace 
Throughout  the  sire's  transmitted  face. 
Nothing  is  stolen  :   my  Muse,  though  mean, 
Draws  from  the  spring  she  finds  Avithiu  ; 
Nor  vainly  bnys  Avhat  Gildou'  sells. 
Poetic  buckets  for  dry  Avells. 

Such  thoughts  as  love  the  gloom  of  night, 
I  close  examine  by  the  light; 
For  who,  though  bribed  by  gain  to  lie. 
Dare  sunbeam-written  truths  deny. 
And  execute  xdain  common-sense, 
On  faith's  mere  heai'say  evidence  ? 

That  superstition  mayn't  create. 
And  club  its  ills  v.ith  those  of  fate, 
I  many  a  notion  take  to  task, 
jMade  dreadful  by  its  visor-mask ; 
Thus  scruple,  spasm  of  the  mind. 
Is  cured,  and  certainty  I  find; 
Since  optic  reason  shows  me  plain, 
I  dreaded  spectres  of  the  brain  ; 
And  legendary  fears  are  gone. 
Though  in  tenacious  childhood  sown. 
Thus  in  opinions  I  commence 
Freeholder,  in  the  proper  sense, 
Aud  neither  suit  nor  service  do. 
Nor  homage  to  pretenders  show, 
Who  boast  themselves,  by  spurious  roll. 
Lords  of  the  nuinor  of  the  soul ; 
Preferring  sense,  from  chin  that's  bare. 
To  nonsen.se  throned  in  whiskered  hair. 

"To  thee,  Creator  uncreate, 
O  Entium  Ens!  divinely  great!" 


'  Gildon  published  (1718)  a  "Complete  Art  of  Poetry."  He 
8eem8  to  hiivc  been  a  literary  pretender.  Macanlay  8pcak.s  <if 
him  as  "a  l)ad  writer,"  and  as  pestering  tlie  jjublic  "with  dog- 
gerel aud  slander."    Pope  meutions  him  coutemptuously. 


MATTHEW  GREEN.— ROBERT  BLAIR. 


155 


Hold,  Must",  nor  molting  pinions  try, 

Xor  near  the  blazing  glory  lly  ; 

Nor,  straining,  break  tliy  feeble  bovc, 

Ilnfeatliered  arrows  far  to  throw 

Throngh  fields  unknown,  nor  madly  stray. 

Where  no  ideas  mark  the  way. 

Witli  tender  eyes,  and  colors  faint, 

And  trembling  hands  forbear  to  paint. 

Who,  features  veiled  by  light,  can  hit? 

Where  can,  what  has  no  outline,  sit? 

My  soul,  the  vaiu  attempt  forego. 

Thyself,  the  fitter  subject,  know. 

He  wisely  shuns  the  bold  extreme, 

Who  soon  lays  by  the  unequal  theme, 

Xor  runs,  with  Wisdom's  sirens  caught. 

On  quicksands  swallowing  shijiwrecked  thought; 

But,  conscious  of  his  distance,  gives 

Mute  praise,  and  humble  negatives. 

lu  One,  no  object  of  our  sight, 
Immutable,  and  infinite, 
Who  can't  be  cruel,  or  unjust. 
Calm  and  resigned,  I  fix  my  trust ; 
To  Him  my  past  and  jireseut  state 
I  owe,  and  must  my  future  fate. 
A  stranger  into  life  I'm  come. 
Dying  may  be  our  going  home : 
Transported,  here  by  angiy  fate, 
The  convicts  of  a  iirior  state. 

Hence,  I  no  anxious  thoughts  bestow 
On  matters  I  can  never  know : 
Through  life's  foul  way,  like  vagrant,  passed. 
He'll  grant  a  settlement  at  last ; 
And  with  sweet  ease  the  wearied  crown. 
By  leave  to  lay  his  being  down. 
If  doomed  to  dauce  the  eternal  rouud 
Of  life,  no  sooner  lost  but  found, 
And  dissolution,  soon  to  come. 
Like  sponge,  wipes  out  life's  present  sum, 
But  can't  our  state  of  power  bereave 
An  endless  series  to  receive  ; 
Then,  if  hard  dealt  with  here  by  fate. 
We  balance  in  another  state. 
And  consciousness  must  go  along. 
And  sign  th'  acquittance  for  the  wrong. 
He  for  his  creatures  must  decree 
]More  liapi)iness  than  misery. 
Or  be  su]tpos6d  to  create. 
Curious  to  try,  what  'tis  to  hate : 
And  do  an  act,  which  rage  infers, 
'Cause  lameness  halts,  or  blindness  errs. 

Thus,  thus  I  steer  my  bark,  and  sail 
On  even  keel  with  seutle  jrale  : 


At  helm  I  make  my  reason  sit, 

My  crew  of  ])assions  all  submit. 

If  dark  and.  blustering  prove  some  nights. 

Philosophy  puts  forth  her  lights ; 

Experience  holds  the  cautious  glass, 

To  shun  the  breakers  as  I  pass. 

And  frequent  throws  the  wary  lead. 

To  see  what  dangers  may  be  hid: 

And  once  in  seven  years  I'm  seen 

At  Bath  or  Tunbridge,  to  careen. 

Though  pleased  to  see  the  dolphins  play, 

I  mind  my  compass  and  my  way : 

W^ith  store  sufficient  for  relief, 

And  wisely  still  prepared  to  reef; 

Nor  wanting  the  dispersive  bowl 

Of  cloudy  weather  in  the  soul, 

I  make  (may  Heaven  propitious  send 

Such  wind  and  weather  to  the  end!). 

Neither  becalmed  nor  overblown. 

Life's  voyage  to  the  world  unknown. 


Robert  Blair. 

Blair  (1699-1746)  was  a  native  of  Edinburgh,  became  a 
clergyman,  and  wrote  a  poem,  vigorous  in  execution,  en- 
titled "The  Grave."  In  it  he  ignores  the  poetical  as- 
pects of  his  subject,  and  revels  much  in  the  physically 
repulsive.  It  was  written  before  the  "  Night  Thoughts  " 
of  Young,  but  has  little  of  the  condensed  force  of  that 
remarkable  work.  Tliere  are,  however,  occasional  flashes 
of  i^oetic  fire  in  Blair's  sombre  production.  He  died 
young,  of  a  fever,  leaving  a  numerous  family. 


DEATH   OF  THE   STRONG  MAN. 

Strength,  too!   thou  surly,  and  less  gentle  boast 
Of  those  that  laugb  loud  at  the  village  ring ! 
A  fit  of  common  sickness  pulls  thee  down 
With  gTeater  ease  than  e'er  thou  didst  the  stripling 
That  rashly  dared  thee  to  the  unequal  fight. 
What  groan  was  that  I  heard  ?    Deep  groan,  indeed. 
With  anguish  heavy-laden  !     Let  me  trace  it. 
From  yonder  bed  it  comes,  where  the  strong  man. 
By  stronger  arm  belabored,  gasps  for  breath 
Like  a  hard-hunted  beast.     How  his  great  heart 
Beats  thick !   his  roomy  chest  by  far  too  scant 
To  give  the  lungs  full  play!     AVhat  now  avail 
The   strong -built,  sinewy   limbs   and   well -spread 

shoulders  ? 
See  how  he  tugs  for  life,  and  lays  about  him. 
Mad  with  his  iiain  !     Eager  he  catches  hold 
Of  what  comes  next  to  hand,  and  grasps  it  hard, 


156 


CYCLOr.EVIA    or  liUITISlI  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Just  like  !i  creature  drowiiiii';.     Hideous  si>j;ht ! 
Oh,  how  his  eyes  stand  out.  and  stan;  full  "^liastly  ! 
While  the  distemper's  rank  and  deadly  venom 
Slioots  like  a  burninjj;  arrow  'cross  his  bowels, 
And  drinks  his  marrow  up. — Heard  yon  that  groau  ? 
It  was  his  last.— See  how  the  jireat  Goliath, 
,)nst  like  a  child  that  brawled  itself  to  rest, 
Lies  still. 

vlnouiimouG  aui)  iUiGCcllancous. 


THE  LINCOLNSHIRE  POACHER. 

This  old  ditty  was  a  favorite  with  George  IV.,  and  it  is  said 
tliat  he  often  had  it  sinig  for  liis  anuiseinent  by  a  baud  of 
Berkshire  i)longlnnen.  It  was  once  a  favorite  also  at  Ameri- 
can theatres,  where  Henry  J.  Finn,  the  estimable  comedian, 
used  to  sing  it  with  great  applause. 

When  I  -was  Ininnd  apprcutice 

In  famous  Lincolnsheer, 
Full  well  I  served  my  master 

For  more  thau  seveu  year, 
Till  I  took  up  -with  poaching. 

As  you  shall  quickly  hear : — 
Oh  !   'tis  my  delight  of  a  shiny  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year. 

As  me  aiut  my  comrades 

Were  setting  of  a  snare, 
'Twas  then  avo  seed  the  game-keeper — 

For  him  we  did  not  care; 
For  we  can  wrestle  and  fight,  my  boys, 

And  juiui)  o'er  everywhere: — 
Oil !   'tis  my  delight  of  a  shiny  night 

lu  the  season  of  the  year. 
1 
As  me  and  my  comi\ades 

W^ere  setting  four  or  five. 
And  taking  on  him  up  again. 

We  caught  the  luire  alive  ; 
Wo  caught  the  hare  alive,  my  boys, 

And  through  the  woods  did  steer: — 
Oil !   'tis  my  delight  of  a  shiny  night 

In  the  6ea.son  of  the  year. 

Bad  luck  to  every  magistrate 

That  lives  in  Lincolnsheer; 
Success  to  every  ijoachcr 

That  wants  to  sell  a  hare ; 
Bad  luck  to  every  ganuvkeeper 

That  will  not  sell  his  deer :  — 
Oh!   'tis  my  delight  of  a  shiny  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year. 


THE   TWA   CORBIES. 

This  weird  little  ballad  belongs,  probably,  to  the  nth  centu- 
ry. It  was  comnHniicated  to  Scott  by  ^Ir.  Sharpe,  as  written 
down  from  tradition  by  a  lady. 

As  I  was  walking  ail  alane 

I  heard  twa  corbies'  making  a  mane  ; 

The  tano  unto  the  t'other  say, 

"  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  to-day  ?" 

"Ill  Ix'hint  yon  aiild  fail'  dyke 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight ; 
And  naebody^  kens  that  he  lies  there 
Bnt  his  hawk,  his  liDiiiid,  and  lady  fair. 

"His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane. 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hatne, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate; 
So  we  may  mak'  our  dinner  sweet. 

"Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause'-bane, 
And  I'll  pick  out  his  bonny  blue  ecu  : 
Wi'  ac  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek'  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

"Jlony  a  one  fur  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  still  ken  where  he  is  gtvnc  ; 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair.'' 


STILL  WATER. 

Thomas  D'Urfev  (1G3S-1723). 

Damon,  let  a  friend  advise  you, 
Follow  Clores,  though  she  flies  you, 
Though  her  tongue  your  .suit  is  slighting, 
Ilcr  kind  eyes  you'll  find  inviting : 
Women's  rage,  like  shallow  water, 
Does  but  show  their  hurtless  nature; 
When  the  stream  seems  rough  ;iud  frowning. 
There  is  then  least  fear  of  drowning. 

Let  mo  tell  tho  adventurous  stranger. 
In  our  calmness  lies  our  danger; 
Like  a  river's  silent  running. 
Stillness  shows  our  depth  and  cunning: 
She  that  rails  you  into  trembling, 
Only  shows  her  fine  dissembling ; 
But  the  fawner  to  abuse  you 
Thinks  you  fools,  and  so  will  use  you. 


1  Crows. 


2  Turf. 


3  Neck. 


*  Thatch. 


AXOXYMOUS  JXD  MISCELLAXEOVS  POEMS. 


157 


THE  JOVIAL  BEGGARS. 

From  "Playford's  Choice  Aires,"  IGGO.     The  anthorship  is 
attributed  to  Kichard  Broine. 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar, 

He  had  a  Avooden  leg, 
Lame  from  his  cradle, 
Aud  forced  for  to  l)eg. 
Aud  a-begging  we  will  go,  will  go,  will  go, 
And  a-begging  avc  will  go. 

A  bag  for  his  oat  meal. 

Another  for  his  salt, 
And  a  pair  of  cratches 

To  show  that  lie  can  halt. 
Aud  a-begging  we  Avill  go,  etc. 

A  bag  for  his  wheat, 

Another  for  his  rye. 
And  a  little  bottle  by  his  side 
To  drink  when  he's  a-dry. 
And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

Seven  years  I  begged 
For  my  old  master  Wild, 

He  taught  me  to  beg 

Wheu  I  was  but  a  child. 
Aud  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

I  begged  for  my  master. 
And  got  him  store  of  pelf, 

Bitt  Jove  now  be  praised, 
I'm  begging  for  myself. 
Aud  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

In  a  hollow  tree 

I  live,  aud  i^ay  uo  rent — 

Providence  provides  for  me, 
And  I  am  well  content. 
And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

Of  all  the  occupations 

A  beggar's  life's  the  best. 
For,  whenever  he's  a-weary. 
He  can  lay  him  down  to  rest. 
And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

I  fear  uo  plots  against  me, 

I  live  in  open  cell : 
Then  who  Avould  be  a  king, 

Wheu  beggars  live  so  well? 
And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 


HARVEST-HOME   SONG. 


Onr  oats  they  are  howed,  and  our  barley's  reaped ; 
Our  hay  is  mowed,  and  our  hovels  heaped  : 

Harvest-home !   harvest-home ! 
We'll  merrily  roar  out  our  harvest-home ! 

Harvest-home !   harvest-home ! 
We'll  merrily  roar  out  our  harvest-home ! 

We  cheated  the  parson,  we'll  cheat  him  agaiu  ; 
For  whj-  should  the  vicar  have  one  in  ten  ? 

One  in  ten  !   one  in  ten ! 
For  whj'  should  the  vicar  have  oue  iu  ten  ? 
For  why  should  the  vicar  have  oue  in  ten  ? 
For  staying  while  dinner  is  cold  aud  hot, 
And  imddiug  and  dumpling's  burnt  to  x>ot : 

Burnt  to  iiot !  burnt  to  i)ot ! 
The  jiuddiug  aud  dumpling's  burnt  to  i^ot  I 

Burnt  to  pot !   burnt  to  pot ! 

We'll  drink  off  the  liquor  while  we  can  stand, 
Aud  hey  for  the  honor  of  old  England ! 

Old  England!   old  Enghmd! 
Aud  hey  for  the  honor  of  old  England ! 

Old  England  !   old  England  ! 


TIME'S   CURE. 


ASOXTMOUS. 


Mourn,  O  rejoicing  heart! 

The  hours  are  flying! 
Each  one  some  treasure  takes. 
Each  oue  some  blossom  breaks, 

Aud  leaves  it  dying. 
The  chill,  dark  uight  draws  near ; 
The  sun  will  soon  depart, 

And  leave  thee  sighing. 
Thou  mourn,  rejoicing  heart ! 

The  hours  are  flying ! 

Rejoice,  O  grieving  heart! 

The  hours  fly  fast ! 
With  each  some  sorrow  dies, 
With  each  some  shadow  flies, 

Until,  at  last, 
The  red  dawn  iu  the  east 
Bids  weary  uight  depart. 

And  pain  is  past ! 
Rejoice,  then,  grieving  heart ! 

The  hours  flv  fast ! 


158 


CYCLOrJiDlA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMERICAN  I'OETRT. 


"WHEN    SHALL   WK   TlllJEE   MEET   AGAIN?" 


When  shall  wo  three  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  wo  three  meet  again  ? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 
Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Oft  sliall  (k-atli  and  sorroAV  reign, 
Ere  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Tarehed  beneath  a  hostile  sky ; 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls : 
Still  in  Faney's  rich  domain 
Oft  shall  we  tiiree  meet  again. 

Wlion  the  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 
W^hen  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead  ; 
When  in  cold  oblivion's  siiade 
Beauty,  jiower,  and  fame  are  laid  ; 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign. 
There  shall  we  three  meet  again ! 


GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 

ANOXYMOrS. 

The  English  National  Anthem  (which,  as  a  merely  literary 
lirodiiction,  is  hardly  entitled  to  notice)  is  generally  attribnted 
to  Dr.  John  15iill  (1591),  professor  of  music,  Oxford,  and  cham- 
ber musician  to  James  I.  Henry  Carey's  son  claimed  it  as  the 
production  of  his  father,  whose  granddaughter,  Alice  Carej', 
was  the  mother  of  Edmund  Kean,  the  actor.  The  germ  of  the 
song  is  to  be  found  in  one  which  Sir  Peter  Carew  used  to  sing 
before  Henry  VIII.— Chorus  : 

"And  I  said,  Good  Lord,  defend 
England  with  thy  most  holy  hand, 
And  save  uoble  Henry  our  King." 

God  save  our  gracious  King! 
Long  live  our  uoble  King! 

God  save  the  King! 
Send  him  victorious, 
llii])i)y  and  glorious. 
Long  to  reign  over  us ! 

God  save  the  King ! 

O  Lord  our  God,  arise ! 
Scatter  his  enemies. 

And  make  fhein  fall  ; 
Confound  their  i)olitics. 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks: 
On  him  our  hopes  we  iix — 

God  save  us  all ! 


Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  bo  pleased  to  pour; 

Long  may  he  reign  ! 
May  he  defend  our  laws, 
And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing  with  heart  and  voice, 

God  save  the  King! 


WINIFREDA. 

This  poem  Bishop  Percy  believes  to  have  becu  first  printed 
in  a  volume  of  "Miscellaneous  Poems  by  DifTereut  Hands,"  by 
David  Lewis  (17'20).  The  authorsliip,  though  much  discussed, 
is  as  yet  unlvuowu. 

Away!  let  naught  to  love  displeasing. 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care  ; 
Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 

Nor  squeamish  pride  nor  gloomy  fear. 

"Wiiat  tiiongh  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  title  grace  our  blood? 

We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors, 
And  to  be  noble  Ave'U  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke  ; 

And  all  the  great  ones  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  Fortune's  lavish  bounty 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess? 

We'll  lind  within  our  pittance  plenty. 
And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  kind  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  rensoii, 

And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age  in  love  excelling, 
We'll  hand-in-hand  together  tread  ; 

Sweet  smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 
And  bal)os,  sweet  smiling  babes,  onr  bed. 

How  slidiild  I  love  the  prettj'  creatures, 
AVliilc  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung. 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features. 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue ! 

And  when  with  envy  Time  transported 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  onr  joys. 

You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 
And  111  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 


AXOX¥MOi\S  AMJ   MISCELLASEULS   I'ULMS. 


159 


WHY   SHOULD  WE   QUARREL  FOR  RICHES. 

The  chorns  of  this  old  aud  favorite  song,  taken  from  "Ram- 
say's Tea-Tab!e  Miscellany,"  has  become  almost  proverbial. 

How  plcasaut  a  sailor's  life  passes, 

Who  roams  o'er  tlie  watery  main  ! 
Xo  treasure  lie  ever  amasses, 

But  cheerfully  speuds  all  bis  gain. 
We're  strangers  to  party  aud  faction, 

To  liouor  aud  bouesty  true  ; 
And  would  uot  commit  a  bad  actiou 
For  power  or  profit  iu  view. 
Tbeu  wby  sbould  we  quarrel  for  riches, 

Or  any  such  glittering  toys ; 
A  light  heart,  and  a  thin  pair  of  breeches, 
Will  go  through  the  world,  my  brave  boys! 

The  world  is  a  beautiful  garden. 

Enriched  with  the  blessings  of  life, 
The  toiler  with  plenty  rewarding, 

"Which  plenty  too  often  breeds  strife. 
When  terrible  tempests  assail  us, 

Aud  mountainous  billows  atJ'riglit, 
No  grandeur  or  wealth  can  avail  us, 

But  iudustry  ever  steers  right. 
Then  why  should  we  quarrel,  etc. 

The  courtier's  more  subject  to  dangers. 

Who  rules  at  the  helm  of  the  State, 
Than  we  that  to  politics  strangers. 

Escape  the  snares  laid  for  the  great. 
The  various  blessings  of  nature. 

In  various  nations  we  try ; 
Xo  mortals  than  us  can  be  greater, 

Who  merrily  live  till  we  die. 
Then  why  should  we  quarrel,  etc. 


THE   FAIRY   QUEENE. 

These  lines  (1C35),  from  "Percy's  Reliqnes,"  indicate  a  pop- 
ular belief  got  from  Saxon  ancestors  long  before  they  left  their 
German  forests:  a  belief  in  a  kind  of  dimluntive  demons,  or 
middle  species  between  men  and  spirits,  whom  they  called 
Dnergars  or  Dwarfs,  and  to  whom  they  attributed  many  won- 
derful performances  far  exceeding  hnman  art. 

Come  follow,  follow  nie, 

Yon,  fairy  elves  that  be  : 

Which  circle  on  the  greene, 

Come  follow  Mab  your  queene. 
Hand  in  hand  let's  dance  around. 
For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 


W^heu  mortals  are  at  rest. 

And  snoring  in  their  nest ; 

Unheard,  and  uuespied, 

Through  keyholes  wo  do  glide  ; 
Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves, 
W'e  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 

Ami  if  the  house  be  foul 

With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl, 

Upstairs  we  nimbly  creep. 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep  : 
There  we  pinch  their  amies  aud  thighs  ; 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies. 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleanuess  kept. 

We  praise  the  household  maid. 

And  duly  she  is  paid  : 
For  we  use  before  we  goo 
To  drop  a  tester  in  her  shoe. 

Upon  a  nmshroome's  head 

Our  table-cloth  we  spread ; 

A  grain  of  rye,  or  wheat. 

Is  manchet,'  which  we  eat ; 
Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink 
In  acorn  cups  filled  to  the  brink. 

The  brains  of  nightingales, 
With  unctuous  fat  of  snailes, 
Between  two  cockles  stewed, 
Is  meat  that's  easily  chewed ; 
Tailes  of  wormes,  and  marrow  of  mice. 
Do  nuike  a  disli  that's  wondrous  nice. 

The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly, 

Serve  for  our  minstrelsie  ; 

Grace  said,  we  dance  awhile. 

And  so  the  time  beguile  : 
Aud  if  the  moon  doth  hide  her  head. 
The  gloe-worni  lights  us  home  to  bed. 

On  tops  of  dewie  grasse 

So  nimbly  do  we  passe  ; 

The  young  and  tender  stalk 

Xe'er  bends  when  we  do  walk : 
Yet  iu  the  morning  may  be  seen 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  been. 


'  A  loaf  or  cake  of  fine  bread.    Tenn}-son  has  this  conplet ; 

"And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make  them  cheer, 
Aud,  iu  her  veil  infolded,  manchct  bread." 


160 


CYCLOrJiDlA    OF  liKITIiill  J^D  AMElilCAN  I'OETRY. 


THE   MAIDEN'S   CHOICE. 

Henry  1'ielding  (1707-1"o4). 

Genteel  in  jiersonnfije, 
Conduct,  and  equii)age ; 
Nolilc  hy  heritiigc, 

GeneiDus  and  free  ; 
Brave,  not  romantic  ; 
Learned,  not  pedantic ; 
Frolic,  not  frantic — 

This  must  be  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Meanness  disdaining, 
Still  entertaining. 

Engaging  and  new ; 
Neat,  but  not  tinical ; 
Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 
Never  tyrannical, — 

But  ever  true  I 


THE  WHITE  ROSE  :    SENT  BY  A  YORKSHIRE 
LOVER  TO  HIS  LANCASTRLiN  MISTRESS. 


If  this  fair  rose  otfend  thy  sight, 
Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 

'Twill  blush  to  lind  itself  less  white, 
And  turn  Ijancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 

As  Iviss  it  tlion  may'st  deign. 
With  envy  l)alo  'twill  lose  its  dj'c, 
And  Yorkish  turn  aiiain. 


FROM  MERCILESS  INVADERS. 


From  a  mamisciipt  beaiing  date  15SS.    Probably  written  at 
the  time  of  the  threateued  invasiou  of  the  Spanish  Armada. 

From  merciless  invaders. 

From  wicked  men's  device, 
O  God,  arise  and  iielp  ns 

To  ([nell  our  enemies ! 
Sink  deep  their  potent  inivies. 

Their  strength  and  courage  lireak  I 
O  God,  arise  and  save  us, 

For  Jesus  Christ  bis  sake! 


Tliougb  cruel  Spain  and  Parma 

Witli  beatbeu  legions  come, 
O  (Jod,  arise  and  arm  us! 

We'll  die  for  our  home. 
Wo  will  not  change  our  credo 

For  i)oi)e,  nor  book,  nor  bell ; 
And  iC  tii(^  devil  come  himself, 

We'll  liDimd  him  back  to  hell. 


WILLIE'S  VISIT  TO  MELVILLE  CASTLE. 

Anonymocs. 

\Vc  cannot  jrive  the  orij^ui  of  this  spirited  little  jjoem.  We 
find  it  quoted  in  William  Black's  novel  of  "^Iadc;ip  Violet," 
where  it  is  mentioned  as  "tlie  t;""cb  old,  wholesome  ballad  of 
'  Willie's  Visit  to  Melville  Castle.'  " 

O  AVillie's  gane  to  Melville  Castle, 

Boots  and  spurs  and  a'. 
To  bid  the  ladies  a'  farewell. 

Before  he  gacd  awa'. 


The  fust  he  met  was  Lady  Bet, 

Who  led  him  tlirougli  the  ha', 
And  with  a  sad  and  sorry  heart 

She  let  the  tears  doon  fa'. 

Near  the  lire  stood  Lady  Grace, 

Said  ne'er  a  word  ava ;' 
She  thought  that  she  was  sure  of  him 

Before  he  gaed  awa'. 

The  next  he  saw  was  Lady  Kate  ; 

Guid  troth,  he  necdna  craw, 
"Maybe  the  lad  will  fancy  me, 

And  disappoint  ye  a'." 

Then  down  the  stair  .skii)pcd  Lady  Jean, 

The  llowcr  among  them  a' ; 
Oh,  lasses,  trust  in 'Providence, 

And  ye'll  get  husl)ands  a'. 

As  on  his  steed  he  galloped  off, 

TJiey  a'  came  to  the  door ; 
Ho  gayly  raised  bis  feathered  plume; 

They  set  up  sic  a  roar! 

Their  sighs,  their  cries,  brought  Willie  back, 

He  kissed  them  ano  and  a': 
"Oh,  lasses,  bide  till  I  come  hame. 

And  then  I'll  wed  ye  a' !" 

1  At  all. 


JXOyi'MOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


161 


OUR  GUDE-JIAN. 

In  this  humorous  ballad,  the  wife  hides  a  rebel  relative  in 
the  house,  and  endeavors  to  guard  lier  husband's  loyalty  at  the 
expense  of  her  owu  veracity,  and  the  "  irude-inan's"'  sense  of 
sight. 

Our  gnde-mau  cam'  lianie  at  e'en, 

Ami  bame  cam"  Le ; 
And  there  lie  saw  a  saddle-borse, 

Wbaiir  nae  horse  should  be. 
"Ob,  bow  cam'  this  horse  here, 

How  can  this  be  ? 
How  cam'  this  horse  here, 
Without  the  leave  o'  me?" 
"A  horse!"  quo'  she. 
"Ay,  a  horse,"  quo'  he. 
"Ye  auld  blind  doited  carle, 

Blinder  mat  ye  be ! 
'Tis  uaetbing  but  a  milk  cow 
My  niiunie  seut  to  me." 
"A  milk  cow!"  quo'  he. 
"Ay,  a  milk  cow,"  quo'  she. 
"Far  ba'e  I  ridden, 

And  meikle  ha'e  I  seen  ; 
But  a  saddle  ou  a  cow's  back 
Saw  I  never  nane !" 

Our  gnde-man  cam'  bame  at  e'en, 

And  bame  cam'  he  ; 
He  spied  a  iiair  o'  jack-boots, 

Whaur  nae  boots  should  be. 
"  What's  this  now,  gude-wife  ? 

What's  this  I  see  ? 
How  cam'  these  boots  here, 

Without  the  leave  o'  me?" 
"  Boots  !"  quo'  she. 
"Ay,  boots,"  quo'  he. 
"Shame  fa'  your  cuckold  face, 

And  ill  mat  ye  see ! 
It's  but  a  pair  o'  water-stoups 

The  cooper  sent  to  me." 
"AVater-stoups!"  quo'  he. 
"Aj-,  water-stoups,"  quo'  she. 
"Far  ba'e  I  ridden. 

And  far'er  ha'e  I  gane  ; 
But  siller  spurs  ou  water-stoups 

Saw  I  never  uaue !" 

Our  gude-man  cam'  bame  at  e'en, 

And  bame  cam'  be ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  sword, 

Whaur  nae  sword  should  be. 
"  W^hat's  this  now,  gude-wife  ? 

What's  this  I  see  f 
11 


Oh,  bow  cam'  this  sword  here. 

Without  the  leave  o'  me?" 

"A  sword!"  quo'  she. 

"Ay,  a  sword,"  quo'  ho. 

"  Shame  fa'  your  cuckold  face. 

And  ill  mat  ye  see ! 
It's  but  a  parritch  spurtle' 
My  niinnie  sent  to  me." 
"A  .spurtle !"  quo'  he. 
"Ay,  a  spurtle,"  quo'  she. 
"Wecl,  far  ha'e  I  ridden, 

And  meikle  ba'e  I  seen  ; 
But  siller-handled  spurtles 
Saw  I  never  uane !" 

Our  gude-man  cam'  bame  at  e'en, 

And  bame  cam'  he ; 
There  be  spied  a  poutbered  wig, 

W^haur  nae  wig  should  be. 
"What's  this  now,  gude-wife? 

What's  this  I  see  ? 
How  cam'  this  wig  here. 

Without  the  leave  o'  me  ?" 
"A  wig !"  quo'  she. 
"Ay,  a  wig,"  quo'  be. 
"  Shame  fa'  yotir  cuckold  face, 

And  ill  mat  ye  see ! 
'Tis  naethiug  but  a  clockin'  hen 

My  minnie  sent  to  me." 
"A  clockin'  hen  !"  quo'  be. 
"Ay,  a  clockin'  hen,"  quo'  she. 
"Far  ha'e  I  ridden. 

And  meikle  ha'e  I  seen ; 
But  pouther  on  a  clockin'  ben 

Saw  I  never  nane !" 

Our  gude-man  cam'  bame  at  e'en. 

And  bame  cam'  he ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  riding-coat, 

Wliaur  nae  coat  should  be. 
"  Oh,  bow  cam'  this  coat  here  ? 

How  can  this  be  ? 
How  cam'  this  coat  here. 

Without  the  leave  o'  me  ?" 
"A  coat !"  quo'  she. 
"Ay,  a  coat,"  quo'  he. 
"Ye  auld  blind  dotard  carle, 

Blinder  mat  yo  be ! 
It's  but  a  pair  o'  blankets 

My  minnie  sent  to  me." 


'  A  stick  for  stirring  porridge. 


162 


CTCLOFJWIA    OF  BUITISII  JXD  AMEUIVAX  POETRY. 


"  Blankets!"  quo'  lie. 
"Ay,  blankets,''  (iiio'  slic. 
"  Far  lia'o  I  ridiU'n, 

And  nieiklo  ha'c  I  soon  ; 
But  buttons  npon  blankets 
Saw  I  never  uaue  I" 

Ben  went  our  gude-man. 

And  ben  went  lie  ; 
And  there  he  spied  a  sturdy  man, 

Wliaur  nao  man  should  be. 
"How  cam'  tliis  man  here? 

How  can  this  Ixs  ? 
How  cam'  this  man  here. 

Without  the  leave  o'  me  ?" 
"A  man !"  quo'  she. 
"Ay,  a  doited  man,"  quo'  he. 
"Puir  blind  body! 

And  blinder  mat  yo  be ! 
It's  a  new  milking-maid 

My  minnio  sent  to  me." 
"  A  maid  !"  quo'  he. 
"Ay,  a  maid,"  quo'  she. 
"Far  ha'e  I  ridden, 

And  meikle  lia'e  I  seen  ; 
But  lang-bearded  milking-maids 

Saw  I  never  nane  I" 


JOCK  O'  HAZELGKEEN. 

The  followiiifr,  from  Roberts's  Collection,  is  constructed  from 
the  versions  of  Kinloch,  Buchan,  and  Chambers.  It  was  a  frag- 
ment of  this  which  suggested  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  his  fine  ballad 
of  "Jock  of  Hazeldeau." 

As  I  went  forth  to  take  the  air 

lutill  an  evening  clear, 
I  heard  a  pretty  damsel 

Making  a  heavy  bier:' 
Making  a  heavy  bier,  I  wot, 

But  aud  a  piteous  mean  ;■ 
And  aye  she  sighed,  and  said,  "Alas, 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgrcen  !" 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 

The  stars  were  shining  clear. 
When  thro'  the  thickets  o'  the  wood 

An  auld  knicht  did  appear : 
Says,  "  Wha  has  dune  you  wrang,  fair  maid, 

And  left  yon  here  alane  ? 
Or  wha  has  kissed  your  lovely  lips, 

That  ye  ca'  Hazelgreen  ?" 


'  Lamentation. 


9  Moan. 


"Hand  your  tongne,  kind  sir,"  she  said, 

"And  do  not  banter  sae. 
Oh,  why  will  ye  add  afliiction 

Unto  a  lover's  wae  ? 
For  nae  nnin  has  dune  nio  wrang,"  she  said, 

"Xor  left  me  here  alane; 
And  nane  has  kissed  my  lovely  lips, 

That  I  ca'  Hazelgreen." 

"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladye  ? 

Why  Aveep  ye  by  the  tide? 
How  blythe  and  hapjiy  micht  ho  be 

(jcts  yon  to  be  his  bride ! 
Gets  you  to  be  his  bride,  fair  maid. 

And  him  I'll  no  bemean  ; 
But  when  I  tak'  my  words  again, — 

Whom  ca'  ye  Hazelgreen  ? 

"What  like  a  man  was  Hazelgreen? 

Will  ye  show  him  to  me?" 
"  He  is  a  comely,  proper  youth 

I  in  my  days  did  see  ; 
His  shoulders  broad,  his  arm  is  lang, 

lie's  coiuely  to  be  seeu:" 
And  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fix' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgreen. 

"  If  ye'Il  forsake  this  Hazelgreen, 

And  go  along  wi'  me, 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  eldest  sou — 

Make  you  a  lady  free." 
"  It's  for  to  wed  your  eldest  sou 

I  am  a  maid  o'er  mean  ; 
I'd  rather  stay  at  hame,"  she  says, 

"And  dee  for  Hazelgreen." 

Then  he's  ta'eu  out  a  siller  Icaim, 

Kaimed  down  her  yellow  hair. 
And  lookit  in  a  diamond  bricht, 

To  see  if  she  were  fair. 
"My  girl,  ye  do  all  maids  surpass 

That  ever  I  ha'e  seen  ; 
Clioer  up  your  heart,  my  lovclj'  lass — 

Forget  young  Hazelgreen." 

"Young  Hazelgreen  ho  is  my  love. 

Ami  evermair  shall  bo  ; 
ril  nao  forsake  young  Hazelgreeu 

For  a'  the  gowd  ye'll  gie." 
But  aye  she  sighed,  and  said,  "Alas !" 

And  niade  a  piteous  mean  ; 
And  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgreeu. 


AXOXYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


1G3 


Hut  bo  lias  tii'en  her  up  bobiud, 

Set  lier  upon  bis  borso  ; 
And  tbey  rode  on  to  Euibio'-towii, 

And  licbted  at  tbe  Cross. 
And  bo  bas  coft    her  silken  clues  — 

Sbo  looked  like  any  queen  : 
"  Ye  surely  uow  will  sigb  nae  mail' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgrecn  ?" 

"Young  Hazelgreen  be  is  my  love, 

And  evermair  sball  be  ; 
I'll  nae  forsake  young  Hazelgreen 

For  a'  tbe  gowd  ye  gie." 
And  aye  she  sigbed,  «ind  said,  "Alas!" 

And  made  a  piteous  mean  ; 
And  aye  sbo  loot  tbe  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgreen. 

Then  he  has  coffc  for  that  ladye 

A  fine  silk  riding-gown  ; 
Likewise  be  coft  for  that  ladye 

A  steed,  and  set  her  on  ; 
Wi'  meuji  feathers  in  her  bat, 

Silk  stockings,  siller  shoon  ; 
And  tbey  ha'e  ridden  far  athort, 

Seeking  young  Hazelgreen. 

And  when  tbey  came  to  Hazelyetts, 

They  licbted  down  therein : 
Monie  were  the  braw  ladyes  there, 

Mouie  aue  to  be  seen. 
When  she  licbted  down  amang  them  a', 

She  seemed  to  be  their  queen  ; 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgreen. 

Then  forth  be  came  young  Hazelgreen, 

To  welcome  his  father  free  : 
"You're  welcome  here,  my  father  dear. 

An'  a'  your  compauie." 
But  when  be  looked  o'er  his  shoulder, 

A  licht  laugh  then  ga'e  be ; 
Says,  "If  I  getna  this  ladye, 

It's  for  her  I  maun  dee. 

"I  must  confess  this  is  tbe  maid 

I  ance  saw  in  a  dream, 
A-walkiug  thro'  a  pleasant  shade, 

As  she  bad  been  a  queen. 
And  for  her  sake  I  vowed  a  vow 

I  ne'er  would  wed  hut  she  ; 

'  Purchased. 


Should  this  fair  ladyo  cruel  prove, 
I'll  lay  mc  down  and  dee." 

"Now  baud  your  tongue,  young  Hazelgreen  ; 

Let  a'  your  folly  bo  : 
If  yo  be  sick  for  that  ladye, 

She's  thrice  as  sick  for  thee. 
She's  thrice  as  sick  for  thee,  my  son. 

As  bitter  doth  coraplean  ; 
And  a'  she  wants  to  heal  her  waes 

Is  Jock  o'  Hazelgreen." 

He's  ta'en  her  in  bis  armis  twa, 

Led  her  thro'  bower  aud  ha' : 
"Cheer  up  your  heart,  my  dearest  May, 

Ye're  ladye  o'er  them  a'. 
Tbe  morn  sball  bo  our  bridal  daj-. 

The  nicht's  onr  bridal  e'en ; 
Ye  sail  nae  mair  ha'e  cause  to  mean 

For  Jock  o'  Hazelgreen." 


LOVE  NOT  ME  FOR  COMELY  GRACE. 

Anontsious. 

Love  not  mo  for  comely  grace. 
For  my  iileasing  eye  or  face. 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart ; 

For  those  may  fail  or  tnrn  to  ill. 
So  thou  and  I  sball  sever : 
Keep  therefore  a  trne  woman's  eye. 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why. 

So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  dote  upon  me  ever. 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND? 

Anonymous. 

From  a  half-slieet  song,  with  the  music,  printed  about  the 
year  1710.  This  has  been  called  General  Wolfe's  sonj?,  aud  is 
said  to  have  been  sung  by  him  the  uight  before  the  battle  of 
Quebec. 

How  stands  tbe  glass  around  ? 

For  shame !  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys, 

How  stands  tbe  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound ; 

The  trumpets  sound! 
Tbe  colors  Hying  are,  my  boys. 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound. 

May  wo  still  bo  found 
Content  with  our  bard  fare,  my  boys, 

On  the  cold  cround. 


1G4 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AM)  AMEIIICAN  rOETIlY. 


Why,  soldiers,  wliy 
Slionlil  \vi'  lie  iiitlaiiclicily,  liovH  ? 

Wliy,  soldiois,  wliy  .' 

\Vlio80  business  'tis  to  die  ? 

What!   si<j;!iing?     Tie ! 
Shun  li'iir,  driiiic  on,  be  jolly,  boys! 

'Tis  he,  yoii,  or  I. 

Cold,  hot,  wet,  or  dry. 
We're;  always  bound  to  follow,  boys. 

And  .sforn  to  fly. 

'Tis  bnt  in  vain 
(I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys)  — 

'Tis  but  in  vain 

For  soldiers  to  eouiplain. 

Should  next  canipai^u 
Send  us  to  Iliui  that  made  us,  boys, 

We're  free  from  i)ain  ; 

But  should  we  remain, 
A  bottlii  and  kind  landlady 

Cures  all  again. 


YE   GENTLEMEN   OF  ENGLAND. 

This  song  by  Martyn  Paikev  (1C30)  is  interesting  ns  hiiviug 
prompted  niiicli  ol'the  lyric  force  in  Campbell's  far  uobler  pro- 
duction, "Ye  Mariners  of  Euglaud." 

Ye  gentlemen  of  Euglaud 

That  live  at  borne  at  ease, 
Ah!   little  do  you  tbiuk  upou 

The  dangers  of  the  seas. 
Give  ear  uuto  the  mariners. 

And  they  -will  plainly  show 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  -winds  do  blow. 
When  the  stormy,  etc. 

If  enemies  oppose  us 

When  Englaiul  is  at  war 
W^ith  any  foreign  nation. 

We  fear  not  wound  or  sear; 
Our  roaring  guns  shall  teach  'em 

Our  valor  for  to  know, 
Whilst  they  reel  on  the  keel. 

And  tlic  stormy  winds  do  blow. 
And  the  stormy,  etc. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  uuiriuers. 

And  ucver  be  dismayed ; 
While  we  have  bold  adventurers, 

Wc  ne'er  shall  want  a  trade  : 


Our  merchants  will  employ  us 
To  fetch  them  wealth,  wo  know ; 

Then  bo  bold — work  for  gold, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  Idow. 
A\'iieu  the  stormy,  etc. 


ANNIE  LAURIE. 

The  original  song,  which  is  in  two  stanzas,  and  inferior  to 
the  following  version,  may  be  found  in  Sliarpc's  Collection. 
It  was  coni))osed  previous  to  1688  by  one  Douglas  of  Fhig- 
land,  in  honor  of  Miss  Laurie,  of  Maxwelton.  The  bard  was 
unsuccessful  in  his  suit,  or  else  the  lady  jilted  him,  ns  elit.- 
married  a  Mr.  Ferguson. 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonuie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew  ; 
And  it's  there  that  Auuie  Laurie 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true ; 
Gi'ed  mo  her  promise  true, 

Which  nci'er  forgot  will  be  ; 
Ami  for  bonuie  Auuie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  douue  and  dec. 

Iler  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift, 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on  ; 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee  ; 
And  for  boiuiie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowau  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 
Like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet ; 
Her  voice  is  low  aiul  sweet — 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me  ; 
And  for  boiuiic  Annie  Laurie 

rd  lav  me  douue  and  dee. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  GLEE. 

From  "Deuteromelia  ;   on,  TnE  Second  Part  of  Mcsick's 
Melodie,"  etc.  (1C09). 

ASONTMOUS. 

We  be  soldiers  three, 

(raidonnez  moi,je  vous  en  prie !) 
Lately  come  forth  of  the  Low  Countrj', 

With  never  a  penny  of  mouie. 


HENRY  CARET.— JAMES   T ROM  SOX. 


1(35 


Here,  good  fellow,  I  drink  to  thee ! 

(Panlouuez  nioi,  jo  vons  en  pile  !) 
To  all  good  fellows,  wherever  they  be, 

With  never  a  peuuy  of  mouie  ! 

And  ho  that  will  not  pledge  nie  this 
(Pardounez  moi,  jo  vons  en  prie!) 

Pays  for  the  shot,  whatever  it  is, 
With  never  a  peuuy  of  mouie. 

Charge  it  again,  boy,  charge  it  agaiu, 
(Pardounez  uioi,J6  a'ous  en  prie!) 

As  long  as  there  is  any  ink  in  thy  pen, 
With  never  a  penny  of  mouie. 


fjcnrii  (!Iarcn. 


Carey  (about  1700-1743)  was  a  uatural  son  of  George 
Saville,  Marquis  of  Halifax,  from  whom  and  from  his 
family  he  received  a  handsome  annuity  to  the  time  of 
liis  unhappy  deatli  by  bis  own  band.  He  was  a  musician 
by  profession,  and  composed  several  songs,  dramas,  and 
burlesques.  His  "Sally  in  our  Alley"  was  highly  com- 
mended by  Addison.  Carey  bad  been  watching  an  ap- 
prentice and  bis  betrothed  in  Vauxhall  enjoying  their 
cakes  and  ale,  when  be  came  home  and  wrote  the  song. 
Edmund  Kean,  the  actor,  was  a  descendant  of  Carey. 
The  composition  of  "God  save  the  King"  has  been 
claimed  for  Carey;  but  it  was  probably  anterior  to  bis 
dav. 


SALLY  IN   OLE  ALLEY. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart. 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  allej". 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  laud 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And,  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  througli  the  streets  does  cry  'em ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darliug  of  mj-  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 
I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 


My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 
And  bangs  me  most  severely : 

But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 
I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally; 

She  is  the  darliug  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday ; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  mo  to  church. 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  uauied  ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  allej'. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  agaiu, 

Oh  then  I  shall  have  money  ; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey  : 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darliug  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally  ; 
And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out. 

Oh  then  I'll  marry  Sally,— 
Oh  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed. 

But  not  in  our  alley. 


jJamcs  itljonison. 


The  son  of  a  Scotch  minister,  Thomson  (1700-1748) 
was  born  at  Ednam,  in  Roxburghshire,  Scotland.  He 
completed  bis  education  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
where  in  1719  he  was  admitted  as  a  student  of  divinity. 
The  professor  gave  him  the  104th  Psalm  to  paraphrase, 
and  be  did  it  in  so  poetical  a  way  that  he  was  admon- 
ished to  curb  his  imagination  if  he  wished  to  be  useful 


166 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  LKITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


in  tlic  ministry.  Tliereupon  lie  resolved  to  try  his  fort- 
une as  nn  author.  His  latlier  liaving  died,  James  went 
to  London,  where  he  had  his  pocl<et  piclied  of  a  hand- 
kereliief  containing  his  letters  of  introduetion.  Finding 
himself  without  money  or  friends,  he  fell  back  on  his 
manuscript  of  "Winter,"  which  he  sold  to  Mr.  Millar 
for  three  guineas,  and  it  was  published  in  173G.  It  soon 
raised  up  friends  for  him,  among  them  Pope,  who  revised 
and  corrected  several  passages  in  his  verse.  "Winter" 
was  6.uccecdedby  "Summer"  in  17:^7;  "Spring"  In  1728; 
and  "Autumn"  in  17o0.  Tliomson  wrote  "Sophonisba," 
a  tragedy;  also  "Agamemnon,"  and  "Edward  and  Elco- 
nora,"  but  no  one  of  his  dramatic  ventures  was  a  suc- 
cess. His  "Coriolanus"  was  not  produced  till  after  his 
death.  In  173:i  he  published  his  poem  of  "Liberty,"  a 
production  now  little  I'cad. 

After  suffering  somewhat  from  narrow  means,  he  got 
a  pension  of  £100  from  the  Priucc  of  Wales,  and  was 
appointed  Surveyor-general  of  the  Leeward  Islands,  the 
duties  of  which  he  could  perform  by  proxy,  and  which 
brought  him  £300  a  year.  Being  now  in  easy  circum- 
stances, he  retired  to  a  cottage  near  Richmond  Hill,  on 
the  Thames, where  he  wrote  his  "Castle  of  Indolence," 
generally  regarded  as  his  masterpiece.  It  was  published 
in  1748.  One  day  in  the  August  of  that  year,  after  a 
brisk  walk,  he  took  a  boat  at  Hammersmith  for  Kew. 
On  the  water  he  got  chilled,  neglected  the  slight  cold, 
became  feverish,  and  in  a  few  days  departed  this  life  in 
his  forty-eighth  year. 

As  a  man,  Thomson  was  generous,  affable,  and  amia- 
ble. His  chief  fault  was  indolence,  of  which  he  was  fully 
aware.  As  a  poet,  he  was  remarkable  for  purity  of  lan- 
guage and  thought,  and  the  highest  eulogy  that  could 
be  pronounced  \x\ton  a  man's  writings  was  Lord  Lyttcl- 
ton's  assertion  that  Tliomson's  contain 

"No  line  whicli,  clyuig,  he  coiikl  wish  to  blot." 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  his  cumbrous  style,  his 
faded  classicalities,  and  his  redundant  and  somewhat 
turgid  diction  have  injured  him  with  modern  readers; 
but  he  was  a  genuine  poet  notwithstanding.  No  better 
l)roof  of  this  could  be  given  than  the  remarkable  lines 
which  he  wrote  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  This  curious 
fragment  was  first  ]iublislied  in  1841,  in  a  life  of  Thom- 
son by  Allan  Cunningham,  and  is  as  follows  : 

"Now  I  surveyed  my  native  faculties, 
And  traced  my  actions  to  tlieir  tccniinji;  source; 
Now  I  explored  the  miivcrsal  frame, 
Gazed  nature  tlu-ou!;li,  and,  with  interior  light, 
Conversed  with  anj^cls  and  unbodied  saints, 
That  tread  the  courts  of  tlic  Eternal  Kiuij ! 
Gladly  I  would  declare  in  lofty  strains 
The  power  of  Godhead  to  the  sons  of  men, 
But  tlionght  is  lost  in  its  immensity: 
♦  Imagination  wastes  its  strength  in  vain, 
Ar.d  fancy  tires  and  turns  witliin  itself, 
Struck  with  tlie  amazing  depths  of  Deity! 
Ah  !   my  Lord  God  !   in  vain  a  tender  youth, 
Unskilled  ni  arts  of  deep  philosoi)hy, 
Attcmiits  to  search  the  btdky  mass  of  matter. 
To  truce  the  rules  of  motion,  and  pursue 
The  i)liantom  Time,  too  subtle  for  his  grasp : 
Yet  may  I  from  Tliy  most  apparent  works 
Form  some  idea  of  their  wondrous  Author." 


There  are  passages  in  his  "Seasons"  and  his  "Castle 
of  Indolence"  which  arc  not  likely  to  become  obsolete 
while  high  art  and  genuine  devotional  feeling  find  a 
response  in  the  soul.  His  "Hymn  on  the  Seasons," 
though  at  times  suggesting  a  reminiscence  of  Milton, 
has  been  equalled  by  nothing  in  the  same  class  that  any 
succeeding  poet  has  jjroduced ;  and,  in  saying  this,  we 
do  not  forget  Coleridge's  "  Chamouni,"  nor  the  many 
noble  passages  in  Wordsworth's  "  Excursion."  To 
Thomson  we  owe  in  no  small  measuie  the  revival  of 
that  enthusiasm  for  the  associations  and  beauties  of  ex- 
ternal nature  which  had  been  absent  from  English  poetry 
during  the  predominance  of  the  artificial  school. 

One  of  the  finest  similes  in  that  part  of  "The  Sea- 
sons" entitled  "Autumn"  was  supplied  by  Pope,  to 
whom  Thomson  had  given  an  interleaved  copy  of  the 
edition  of  173G.     Describing  Lavinia,  Thomson  wrote  : 

'•Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  Beauty's  self, 
Kecluse  among  the  woods :   if  city  dames 
Will  deign  their  faith ;  and  thus  slie  went,  compelled 
By  strong  necessit)',  with  as  serene 
And  pleased  a  look  as  Patience  e'er  put  on, 
To  glean  Palemou's  fields." 

Pope  drew  his  pen  through  this  description,  and  sub- 
stituted the  following  lines— -and  so  they  stand  in  all 
the  subsequent  editions : 

"Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  Beauty's  self, 
Keclusc  amid  the  close-embowering  woods. 
As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Apennine, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  liills, 
A  myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eyes. 
And  breathes  Us  balmy  fragrance  o'er  the  wild  ; 
So  flourished  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all, 
The  sweet  Lavinia  ,   till  at  length  compelled 
By  strong  necessity's  supreme  command. 
With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To  glean  Palemon's  fields.'' 

"The  love  of  nature,"  says  Coleridge,  "seems  to  have 
led  Thomson  to  a  cheerful  religion;  and  a  gloomy  re- 
ligion to  have  led  Cowper  to  a  love  of  nature.  The  one 
would  carry  his  fellow-men  along  with  him  into  nature; 
the  other  files  to  nature  from  his  fellow-men.  In  chas- 
tity of  diction,  however,  and  the  harmony  of  blank  vci'se, 
Cowper  leaves  Thomson  immeasurably  below  him;  yet 
I  still  feel  tiie  latter  to  have  been  the  born  poet.'' 


THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Fkom  "  The  Seasons." 

From  tlio  moist  meadow  to  the  Avithorcd  hill, 
Led  by  tlio  breeze,  the  vivid  vordnre  runs, 
And  swells  aud  deepens  to  the  cberisbcd  eye. 
The  liawtborn  wbiteus  ;   and  the  juicy  groves 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees, 
Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  displayed, 
In  full  luxuriance,  to  the  sighing  gales; 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake, 
And  the  birds  sing  concealed.     At  onco  arrayed 
111  all  tbo  colors  of  the  llusbiug  year, 


JAMES   THOMSON. 


167 


By  Nature's  swift  aiul  secret-working  liaiul, 

Tbe  garden  glows,  and  tills  the  liberal  air 

Witli  lavish  fragrance;    while  the  promised  fruit 

Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  iinperceived 

Within  its  crimson  folds.     Now  from  the  to\yn. 

Buried  in  smoke,  and  sleep,  and  noisome  damps, 

Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 

"Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling 

drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweetbrier  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk ; 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy ;   or  ascend 
Some  emineuce,  Augusta,  in  thy  plains. 
And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around, 
One  boundless  blush,  cue  Avhite-empurpled  shower 
Of  mingled  blossoms ;   where  the  raptured  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy,  and,  hid  beneath 
The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 


HYilX   OX  THE   SEASONS. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these. 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  i^leasing  spring 
Tliy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
"Wide  flush  the  fields  ;   the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;   the  forest  smiles  ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 


SUNRISE  IN  SUMMER. 
Feosi  "  The  Seasons."' 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.     The  lessening  cloud. 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow 
Illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.     Lo  !  now,  apparent  all, 
Aslant  the  dew-bright  Earth,  and  colored  air, 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad ; 
And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays 
On    rocks,  and   hills,  and   towers,  and    wandering 

streams, 
High  gleaming  from  afar.     Prime  cheerer,  Light ! 
Of  all  material  beings  first  and  best ! 
Efflux  divine  !  Nature's  resplendent  robe  ! 
Without  whose  vesting  beauty  all  were  wrapt 
In  unessential  gloom  ;   and  thou,  O  Sun  ! 
Soul  of  surrounding  worlds !   in  whom  best  seen 
Shines  out  thy  Maker !     May  I  sing  of  thee  ? 


Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfincd. 
And  si)reads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter,  awful  thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness!   on  the  whirlwind's  wing. 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 
Mysterious  round!     What  skill,  what   force   di- 
vine. 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear!   a  simple  train. 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand, 
That,  ever-busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres, 
Works  in  the  secret  deep,  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  spring, 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day. 
Feeds  every  creature,  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
W^ith  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join  every  living  soul. 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join,  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song!     To  him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes. 
Oh,  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms, 
W'here,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  witii  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar. 
Who    shake    the    astonished    world,   lift    high    to 

heaven 
The    impetuous    song,   and    say    from    whom    you 

rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound! 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  hnmid  maze 
Along  the  vale  ;   and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  his  stupendous  praise ;  whose  greater  voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him ;  whoso  sun  exalts, 
Whose    breath    perfumes    you,   and    whose    pencil 
liaints. 


168 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  JililTISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Yc  forests  bond,  yo  harvests  wave,  to  liim  ; 
Ureal  he  your  still  soiijj  into  the  reapers  heart, 
As  homo  ho  goes  beneath  tlic  joyous  moon. 
Yo  that  keep  wateli  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  oiiliisc  your  mildest  beams, 
Yc  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike. 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source  of  day!   best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
Ou  nature  writo  Avitii  every  beam  his  praise. 
The  thunder  rolls:   l)e  huslied  tiie  prostrate  world; 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  yo  hills:   yo  mossy  rocks, 
Retain  the  sound:   tlio  broad  responsive  low. 
Ye  valleys,  raise ;   for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns; 
And  his  uusuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Yo  woodlands  all,  awake :   a  boundless  song 
Ijurst   from    the    groves !    and    when    the    restless 

day, 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep. 
Sweetest  of  birds!   sweet  I'hilomcla,  charm 
The    listening    shades,   and    teach    the    uight    his 

praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn  !   in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear. 
At  solemn  jianscs,  tlirough  the  swelling  bass ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  llamo  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  Heaven. 
Or,  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  secret  grove; 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  jioet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer-ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  autumn  gleams; 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east ; 
I5e  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

Should  fate  command  mo  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song;    where  lirst  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles;   'tis  naught  to  me. 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 
In  the  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full  ; 
And  where  he  vital  spreads,  tliere  must  bo  joy. 
W^heu  even  at  last  the  soleuui  hour  shall  come, 
And  Aving  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds. 


I  cheerful  will  obey;   there,  with  new  jiowers. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing:   I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around. 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  him,  in  light  inelfable  ; 
Come,  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his  i)raise. 


THE  BARD'S  SONG. 

FnoM  "Tur:  Castle  of  Indolence." 

It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  case 
That  Greece  obtained  the  brighter  palm  of  art, 
That  soft  yet  ardent  Athens  learnt  to  ideasc. 
To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  sublime  the  heart, 
In  all  supreme,  complete  in  every  part! 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Rome  aro.se. 
And  o'er  tho  nations  shook  her  conquering  dart: 
For  sluggard's  brow  the  laurel  never  grows; 
Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  repose. 

Had  nnambitious  mortals  minded  naught. 
But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away; 
Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  Dalliance  sought. 
Pleased  on  Ler  jiillow  their  dull  heads  to  lay, 
Rude  nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to-day; 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had  raised, 
No  arts  had  nuide  us  opulent  and  gay; 
With  brother-brutes  the  human  race  had  grazed; 
None  e'er  had  soared  to  fame,  none  honored  been, 
none  praised. 

Great  Homer's  song  ha<l  never  fired  tlie  breast 
To  thirst  of  glory,  and  heroic  deeds  ; 
Sweet  Maro's'  Muse,  sunk  in  inglorious  rest. 
Had  silent  slept  amid  tho  Mincian  reeds; 
The  wits  of  modern  time  had  told  their  beads, 
The  monkish  legends  been  their  only  sti'ains ; 
Our  Milton's  Eden  had  lain  wrapt  in  weeds. 
Our  Shakspeare  strolled  and  laughed  with  War- 

Avick  swains, 
Ne   had   my   master   Spenser  charmed   his   Mulla's 

plains. 

Dumb  too  had  been  tlie  sage  historic  Muse, 
And  jierished  all  the  sons  of  ancient  fame; 
Those  starry  lights  of  virtue,  that  ditfuso 


'  Virj:;il,  born  on  tlic  banks  of  the  Mincin«,  in  tlic  north  of 
Ilalv. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


169 


Througli    tlio    dark    depth    of   time    tlioii"   vivid 

flame, 
Had  all  been  lost  with  such  as  have  no  name. 
Who    then    had    scorned    his    case    for    others' 

good  ? 
Who  then  had  toiled  rapacious  men  to  tame? 
WJio  in  the  pnblic  breach  devoted  stood, 
And    for    his    country's    cause    been    prodigal    of 

blood  ? 

I?iit  should  your  hearts  to  fame  unfeeling  be. 
If  riglit  I  read,  you  pleasure  all  require  : 
Then  hear  how  best  nuiy  be  obtained  this  fee, 
How  best  enjoyed  this  nature's  wide  desire. 
Toil,  and  be  glad!  let  Industry  inspire 
Into  your  quickened  limbs  her  buoyant  breath  ! 
Who  does  not  act  is  dead ;   absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  ^iride,  no  joy  ho  hath : 
Oh  leaden-hearted  men,  to  be  in  love  with  death  ! 

Ah  !   what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss  ? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given  ! 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss, 
And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  wretch  who  slugs  his  life  away, 
Soon  swallowed  in  disease's  sad  abyss ; 
While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or  inanlj'  play. 
Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear 
as  day. 

Oh,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys  of  health! 
Unclogged  the  bodj",  unobscured  the  mind : 
Tiie  morning  rises  gay,  with  iileasiug  stealth. 
The  temperate  evening  falls  serene  and  kind. 
In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find. 
See  how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads. 
As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy  wind  ; 
Uanipant  with  life,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds: 

Yet    what   but   high-strung    health    this    dancing 

I  lileasaunce  breeds  ? 


RULE,  BRITANNIA! 

An   Ode,  from  "Alfred,  a   JIasque." 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  laud. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain  : 
"  Kule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves." 


Tiie  nations  not  so  blessed  as  thee' 

Must  in  tlieir  liun  to  tyrants  fall; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
"  Eule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves." 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
"Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves." 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  : 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 
But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
"  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  bo  slaves." 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine: 
All  thine  shall  bo  the  subject  main  : 
And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
"Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves." 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found. 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair : 
Blessed  isle !   with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
xVnd  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
"  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  bo  slaves." 


LOVE   OF  NATURE. 

From  "  The  Castle  of  Indolence." 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  yon  me  deny  ; 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace, 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  tho  sky. 
Through   which   Aurora    shows   her  brightening 

face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
Tho  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve: 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace. 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave; 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave. 


1  "Blessed  as  thou  "  would  be  the  correct  form  ;  but  rhyme 
is  imperious. 


170 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BlilTISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Solju  Piicr, 


Dyer  (1700-1758)  was  a  young  Wclsliman,  son  of  a 
prosperous  attorney.  lie  tried  to  be  a  jiainter,  and  went 
to  Home  to  study,  but  gave  it  up  on  liuding  lie  could 
not  rise  to  his  ideal.  Grongar  Hill  was  near  his  birth- 
place, and  he  sang  of  it  at  six-and-twenty.  The  poem, 
if  first  published  in  the  nineteenth  century,  would  have 
excited  less  attention ;  but  it  was  a  new  departure  in  its 
day  from  the  swelling  diction  then  so  prevalent,  that 
even  Thomson  did  not  escape  from  it  in  describing  nat- 
ural scenes.  Dyer  struck  a  less  artificial  note,  but  could 
not  wholly  cast  off  nymphs  and  Muses,  gods  and  god- 
desses, then  considered  a  necessary  part  of  the  "prop- 
erties" of  the  poetical  adventurer.  lie  wrote  "The 
Fleece,"  a  poem;  also  one  on  "The  Ruins  of  Rome" — 
both  in  blank  verse.  Wordsworth  addresses  a  sonnet  to 
him,  and  predicts  that  "a  grateful  few"  will  love  Dyer's 
modest  lay, 

"  Long  as  the  thrash  shall  pipe  on  Grongar  Hill  I" 


GRONGAR  HILL. 

Silent  nymph,  ■witli  cnrions  eye, 

Wlio,  the  purple  evening,  lie 

On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man  ; 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale, — 

Come  with  all  thy  vaiions  hues, 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ; 

Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  ^ky  ! 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song. 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly-musing  Quiet  dwells  ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade. 

For  the  modest  Muses  made. 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountaiu  of  a  rill, 

Sato  upon  a  flowery  bed. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

AVhile  strayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 

Over  mead,  and  over  wood. 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  lill. 

About  his  checkered  sides  I  wind. 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  l)ehind, 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay. 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day  : 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 


The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later  of  all  height, 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  si)reads. 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly  risen  hill. 

Now,  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow. 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapoi's  intervene. 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show. 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow, 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light. 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise. 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ; 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks. 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes: 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  pojdar  blue. 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  lir  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs. 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove. 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love  ! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn. 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  whicli  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wanderiug  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps. 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 
'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 
"Tis  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 
While  ever  and  anon  there  falls 
Hugo  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  walls. 
Yet  Time  has  seen, — that  lifts  the  low. 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, — 


JOHN  DTER.— PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 


171 


Has  scon  this  Lroken  pile  complete, 

Big  ^vitll  tbo  vanity  of  state  : 

But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 

A  little  rule,  a  little  swaj-, 

A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 

Is  all  the  proud  and  niightj'  have 

Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  rnn, 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  Avave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Lilce  human  life  to  endless  sleep. 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought. 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow, 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low  ; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Eoughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower. 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 
Tlie  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  give  each  a  double  charm. 
As  i^earls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side. 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide. 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye ! 
A  step,  methiuks,  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem  ;  ^ 

So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Ej'ed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass  ; 
As  you  summits  soft  and  fair. 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air. 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near. 
Barren,  brown,  and  rongh  appear ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  waj', 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

Oh  may  I  with  myself  agree. 
And  never  covet  what  I  see  ; 
Content  me  with  a  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air. 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain  turf  I  lie ; 


While  the  wanton  zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings  ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deej), 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep. 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 
And  with  music  till  the  sky. 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts;   be  great  who  will; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door. 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there  ; 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads. 
On  the  meads,  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 


Doddridge  (170:3-1751)  was  a  native  of  London.  He 
lost  both  his  parents  at  an  early  age,  and  pursued  his 
studies  for  the  ministry  at  an  academy  for  Dissenters  at 
Kibworth.  He  began  his  ministry  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
and  became  an  eminent  preacher.  As  an  author  of  jDrac- 
tical  religious  works  his  reputation  is  very  high.  His 
"Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in  the  Soul"  is  among 
the  most  esteemed  of  his  productions.  His  hymns, 
which  entitle  him  to  a  place  among  English  religious 
poets,  were  unexcelled  in  their  day,  and  show  genuine 
devotional  feeling,  a  good  ear  for  versification,  and  fine 
literary  taste.  A  pulmonary  complaint  caused  Dod- 
dridge to  try  the  climate  of  Lisbon.  He  arrived  there  on 
the  21st  of  October,  17.51,  but  survived  only  five  days. 
As  a  man  he  was  much  beloved,  and  his  character  shines 
forth  in  his  writings. 


YE   GOLDEN  LAMPS. 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell, 

With  all  your  feeble  light; 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon, 

Pale  empress  of  the  night ; 

And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day. 

In  brighter  flames  arrayed ! 
My  soul,  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere. 

No  more  demands  thine  aid. 


Ye  stars  are  but  the  shininj 
Of  my  divine  abode, — 


dust 


172 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlio  pavt'iiK'iit  of  those  licavciily  couits 
Wheio  I  shall  rcigii  with  God! 

The  Father  of  eternal  light 
Shall  there  his  beams  display, 

Nor  shall  one  moment's  darkness  mix 
With  that  unvaried  day. 

No  more  the  drops  of  piercing  grief 

Shall  swell  into  mine  eyes; 
Nor  tiie  meridian  snn  decline 

Amid  those  brighter  skies. 

There  all  the  millions  of  his  saints 

Shall  in  one  song  unite, 
And  each  the  bliss  of  all  shall  view 

With  inliuite  delight. 


AWAKE,  YE  SAINTS. 

Awake,  ye  saints,  and  raise  your  eyes. 
And  raise  your  voices  high  ; 

Awake  and  i)raisc  that  sovereign  lovo 
That  shows  salvation  nigh. 

Oa  all  the  wings  of  time  it  Hies, 
Each  moment  brings  it  near ; 

Then  Avelcomo  each  declining  day, 
Welcome  each  closing  year! 

Not  many  years  their  round  shall  run. 

Nor  many  mornings  rise. 
Ere  all  its  glories  stand  revealed 

To  our  admiring  eyes! 

Yo  wheels  of  nature,  speed  your  course! 

Ye  mortal  powers,  decay  ! 
Fast  as  ye  bring  the  night  of  death. 

Ye  bring  eternal  day  ! 


EPIGRAM. 

Dr.  Johnson  jiislly  pronounces  the  followin;;  "one  of  the 
finest  epi^^raniH  in  the  En;,'lish  lanjiiia^e."  It  is  fonnded  on 
Doddridge's  own  fiiinily  motto  of  "Diiin  vivinius  vivainus" 
(While  we  live,  let  us  live). 

"Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day." 
"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
"And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies." 
Lord,  in  my  view  let  both  united  be: 
I  live  in  pleasure  when  I  live  to  Thee! 


IIAKK,  TIIE  GLAD  SOUND. 

Hark,  the  glad  sound !   the  Saviour  comes, 

Tiio  Saviour  promised  long ; 
Let  every  heart  prepare  a  throuo, 

And  every  voice  a  song! 

He  comes,  the  prisoners  to  release, 

In  Satan's  bondage  held  ; 
The  gates  of  brass  before  him  burst, 

The  iron  fetters  yield. 

He  comes,  from  thickest  films  of  vice 

To  clear  the  mental  ray. 
And  on  the  eyeballs  of  the  blind 

To  pour  celestial  day. 

He  conies  the  broken  heart  to  bind. 

The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 
And  Avith  the  treasures  of  his  grace 

To  enrich  the  humble  poor. 

Our  glad  Hosannas,  Prince  of  Peace, 

Tiiy  welcome  shall  in-oclaim. 
And  heaven's  eternal  arches  ring 

With  thy  belovdd  name. 


3olju  lUcslcj). 


Son  of  the  rector  of  Epworth,  in  Lincolnsliire,  Jolm 
Wesley  (1703-1791)  was  educated  at  Oxford,  where  he 
and  his  brotlier  Charles,  and  a  few  other  students,  lived 
after  a  regular  system  of  pious  study  and  discipline, 
whence  they  were  denominated  Methodists.  James 
Harvey,  author  of  the  "  Meditations,"  and  George  White- 
lield,  the  great  preacher,  who  died  at  Newljuryport, 
Mass.,  were  members  of  this  association.  Jolm  and 
Charles  Wesley  sailed  for  Georgia  with  Oglethorpe,  Oc- 
tober 14tli,  17o.5,  and  anchored  in  the  Savannah  River, 
February  Gth,  173G.  Charles  soon  returned  to  England  ; 
John  stayed  in  Georgia  a  year  and  nine  months.  In  1740 
he  began  in  England  that  remarkable  career  as  preacher, 
writer,  and  laborer,  which  led  to  tlie  formation  of  the 
large  and  powerful  Methodist  denomination.  In  1750 
he  married,  but  the  union  was  an  unhappy  one,  and  sep- 
aration ensued.  lie  continued  his  ministerial  work  up 
to  his  eighty-eighth  year ;  his  apostolic  earnestness  and 
venerable  appearance  procuring  for  him  everywhere  pro- 
found respect.  His  religious  poems  arc  many  of  them 
l)araphrases  from  the  German,  but  have  much  of  the 
merit  of  original  productions.  From  phenomena  in  his 
own  family,  Wesley  became  a  devout  believer  in  preter- 
natural occurrences  and  spiritual  intereommunicatiou. 
"With  my  latest  breath,"  he  sa3'S,  "will  I  bear  my  tes- 
timony against  giving  up  to  infidels  one  great  proof  of 
the  invisible  Avorld." 


JOHN  WESLEY.  — WILLIAM  HAMILTOX. 


173 


COMMIT   THOU  ALL   THY   GRIEFS. 

From  the  Gebmax  of  Taul  GEnuAUDT. 

Commit  thou  all  tliy  griefs 
Aucl  ways  into  his  hands, 
To  his  snre  truth  and  tender  care, 

Who  earth  and  heaven  commands; 

Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Wliom  winds  and  seas  ohey, 
He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet, 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 

#  *  *  *  Jr  * 

Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears ; 
Hope,  and  be  undismayed  ; 
God  hears  thy  sighs,  and  counts  thy  tears, 
God  shall  lift  up  thy  head. 

Through  waves  aud  clouds  and  storms, 
He  gently  clears  thy  way  ; 
Wait  thou  his  time  ;   so  shall  this  night 
Soon  end  in  joyous  day. 

Still  heavy  is  thy  heart  ? 
Still  sink  thy  spirits  down  ? 
Cast  off  the  weight,  let  fear  depart, 
Aud  every  care  be  gone. 

What  though  thou  rulest  not  ? 
Yet  heaven  aud  earth  and  hell 
Proclaim,  God  sitteth  on  the  Throne, 
Aud  ruleth  all  things  well ! 

Leave  to  his  sovereign  sway 
To  clioose  and  to  command  ; 
So  shalt  thou  wondering  own,  his  way 
How  wise,  how  strong  his  hand  ! 

Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear, 
When  fully  he  the  work  hath  wrought 
That  caused  thy  needless  fear. 

Thou  seest  our  weakness,  Lord ! 
Our  hearts  are  known  to  thee  : 
Oh!   lift  thou  up  the  sinking  hand, 
Confirm  the  feeble  kuee ! 

Let  us,  in  life,  iu  death. 
Thy  steadfast  Truth  declare. 
And  publish,  with  our  latest  breath, 
Thy  love  and  guardian  care ! 


llVilliam  Ijamilton. 


A  native  of  Ayrshire,  in  Scotland,  Hamilton  of  Ban- 
gour  (1701-1751)  was  a  man  of  fortune  and  faniilj-.  An 
unauthorized  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  Glasgow 
in  174S;  a  genuine  edition  was  published  by  his  friends 
iu  1760;  and  a  still  more  complete  one,  edited  by  James 
Paterson,  appeared  in  18.50.  Hamilton  was  the  delight 
of  the  Aisliionable  circles  of  Scotland.  In  1745  he  joined 
the  standard  of  Prince  Charles,  and,  on  the  downfall  of 
the  Jacobite  party,  tied  to  France.  He  was  finally  par- 
doned, and  his  paternal  estate  restored  to  him;  but  he 
did  not  long  live  to  enjoy  it.  A  pulmonary  attack  com- 
pelled him  to  seek  a  warmer  climate,  and  he  died  at 
Lyons  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  age.  "  The  Braes  of 
Yarrow  "  is  the  best  known  of  Hamilton's  poems ;  in- 
deed, the  rest  of  them  are  quite  worthless.  Johnson 
said  of  his  poems,  with  some  justice,  that  "they  were 
very  well  for  a  gentleman  to  hand  about  among  his 
friends ;"  but  Johnson  must  have  overlooked  "  The 
Braes  of  Yarrow,"  or  else  he  was  not  iu  a  mood  to 
feel  its  marvellous  pathos  and  beauty.  It  seems  to 
have  suggested  three  charming  poems  to  Wordsworth 
— "Yarrow  Unvisited,"  "Yarrow  Visited,"  and  "Yar- 
row Revisited." 


THE   BKAES   OF   YARROW. 

A.  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride ; 
Busk  ye,  bnsk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow ; 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride, 
Aud  think  uae  mair  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

E.  Where  gat  ye  that  bonny,  bonny  bride? 
Where  gat  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ? 

A.  I  gat  her  where  I  darena  well  be  seen, 

Pu'iug  the  birks'  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride  ; 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  marrow ! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

B.  Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bouny,  bonny  bride  ? 

Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  marrow? 
Aud  why  dare  ye  nae  mair  weil  be  seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow? 

A.  Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she,  maun  she 
weep  ; 
Lang  maun  she  weep  with  dnle  and  sorrow; 
And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weil  be  seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

1  Polling  the  birches. 


174 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


For  she  lias  tint  her  lover,  lover  «lear, 
Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow  ; 

Anil  I  lia'o  slain  the  comelicst  swain 

Tliat  e'er  pu'ed  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Why  nuis  thy  stream,  O  Yarrow,  Yarrow,  reid  ? 

Why   on   thy  braes   heard  the  voice  of  sor- 
row ? 
And  why  yon  niehiiiehulions  weeds, 

Hung  on  the  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow? 

What's  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful,  rueful 
llude  ? 

What's  yonder  floats  ?  Oli,  dulo  and  sorrow  ! 
'Tis  he,  the  comely  swain  I  slew 

Upon  the  duleful  braes  of  Yarrow  ! 

Wash,  oh  wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in  tears, 
His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and  sorrow; 

And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds. 
And  lay  him  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow  ! 

Tlien  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters,  sisters  sad. 
Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow  ; 

And  weep  around  in  waeful  wise 

His  helpless  fate  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless,  useless  shield. 
My  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow. 

The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast, 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Did  I  not  warn  thee  not  to,  not  to  love, 
•     And  warn  from  fight  ?  but  to  my  sorrow, 
O'er-rashly  banld,  a  stronger  arm 

Thou  niet'st,  and  fell  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk,  gi'ecn  grows,  green  grows 
the  grass. 

Yellow  on  Yarrow's  bank  the  gowan. 
Fair  liangs  the  apple  frac  the  rock. 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowin'. 

Flows  Yarrow  SAveet  ?  As  sweet,  as  sweet  flows 
Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  l)racs  the  l>irk, 

The  apple  frae  the  rock  as  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  love,  fair,  fair  indeed  thy  love! 

In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fetter: 
Tho'  ho  was  fair,  and  Aveil  beloved  again, 

Thau  me  ho  never  lo'cd  thee  better. 


Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny,  bonnj'  bride ; 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  ; 
Busk  ye,  and  lo'e  mo  on  tho  banks  of  Tweed, 

And  think  nae  mair  ou  tho  braes  of  Yarrow. 

C.   How  can  I  busk  a  bojuiy,  bonny  bride  ? 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow  ? 
How  lo'e  him  ou  the  banks  of  Tweed 

That  slew  my  love  on  the  braes  of  Yan'ow  ? 

O  Yarrow  fields!   may  never,  never  rain 
Nor  dew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover ! 

For  there  was  basely  slain  mj"^  love. 
My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a  lover ! 

The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of  green  ; 

His  purple  vest,  'twas  my  ain  sowin'. 
xVh,  wretched  me!   I  little,  little  ken'd 

He  Avas  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin  ! 

The  boy  took  out  his  milk- white,  milk- white 
steed, 

Uuhecdful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow ; 
But  ere  tho  to-fall  of  the  night. 

He  lay  a  corpse  on  tho  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Much  I  rejoiced  that  waeful,  waeful  day; 

I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning; 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 

That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourning. 

What  can  my  barbarous,  barbarous  father  do 
But  with  liis  cruel  rage  pursue  me? 

My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear; 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then  woo  me  ? 

My  happy  sisters  may  be,  may  be  proud, 
With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffin'. 

May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow  Braes 
My  lover  naili5d  in  his  coffin. 

My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  upbraid. 
And  strive  with  threatening  words  to  move  me. 

My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear ; 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

Yes,  yes,  prepare  tho  bed,  the  bed  of  love  ; 

With  bridal  sheets  my  body  cover; 
Fnbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door. 

Let  in  the  expected  husband  lover! 

But  who  the  expected  husband,  husband  is  ? 
His  bauds,  methinks,  are  bathed  in  slaughter : 


NATHANIEL   COTTON— CHARLES  WESLEY. 


175 


Ah  me  !   Avhat  ghastly  spectre's  yon, 

Comes,  in  his  palo  shronil,  bleeding,  after? 

Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down  ; 

Oh,  lay  his  cold  head  ou  my  pillow ! 
Take  aff,  take  aff  these  bridal  weeds, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

Pale  tho'  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best  beloved. 
Oh  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee ! 

Ye'd  lie  all  iiight  between  my  breasts : 
No  j'outh  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

Pale,  palo  indeed,  oh  lovely,  lovelj'  youth  ! 

Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter. 
And  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts ; 

Xo  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after. 

A.  Keturn,  return,  oh  mournful,  mournful  bride ! 
Return,  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow  : 
Thy  lover  heeds  naught  of  thy  sighs ; 
He  lies  a  corpse  ou  the  braes  of  Yarrow ! 


3>3'atljauicl  (Eotton. 


Cotton  (1707-1788)  published  "Visions  in  Verse" 
(1751),  for  children,  and  "Works  in  Prose  and  Verse" 
(1791).  He  followed  the  medical  profession,  and  was 
distinguished  for  his  skill  in  the  treatment  of  cases  of 
insanity.  Cowper,  the  poet,  was  his  patient,  and  bears 
testimony  to  his  "well-known  humanity  and  sweetness 
of  temper." 


TO-MORROW. 

PEREUNT   ET   IMPUTANTUR. 
To-morrow,  didst  thou  say  ? 
Methought  I  heard  Horatio  say.  To-morrow. 
Go  to — I  will  not  hear  of  it.     To-morrow ! 
'Tis  a  sharper  who  stakes  his  penury 
Against  thy  plenty;   who  takes  thy  ready  cash. 
And  pays  thee  naught  but  wishes,  hopes,  and  prom- 
ises, 
The  currency  of  idiots.     Injurious  bankrupt. 
That  gulls  the  easy  creditor !     To-morrow  ! 
It  is  a  period  nowhere  to  be  found 
In  all  the  hoary  registers  of  Time, 
Unless,  perchance,  in  the  fool's  calendar! 
Wisdom  disclaims  the  word,  nor  holds  society 
With  those  who  own  it.     No,  my  Horatio, 
'Tis  Fancy's  child,  and  Folly  is  its  Father ; 
Wi'ought  of  such  stuff  as  dreams  are,  and  as  baseless 
As  the  fantastic  visions  of  the  evening. 


But  soft,  my  friend;  arrest  the  present  moments; 
For,  bo  assured,  they  are  all  arrant  tell-tales  ; 
And  though  their  llight  bo  silent,  and  their  path 
Trackless  as  the  winged  couriers  of  tho  air. 
They  post  to  heaven,  and  there  record  thy  folly ; 
Because,  though  stationed  on  tho  important  watch. 
Thou,  like  a  sleeping,  faithless  sentinel, 
Didst  let  them  pass  unnoticed,  unimproved. 
And  know  for  that  thou  slumberest  ou  the  guard, 
Tbou  shalt  be  made  to  answer  at  tho  bar 
For  every  fugitive  ;   and  when  thou  thus 
Shalt  stand  impleaded  at  the  high  tribunal 
Of  hoodwinked  Justice,  who  shall  tell  thy  audit  ? 

Then  stay  tho  present  instant,  dear  Horatio ! 
Imprint  tho  mai'ks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings. 
'Tis  of  more  worth  than  kingdoms — far  more  pre- 
cious 
Thau  all  the  crimson  treasures  of  life's  fountains! 
Oh,  let  it  not  elude  thy  grasp,  but,  like 
The  good  old  patriarch  upon  record. 
Hold  the  fleet  angel  fast  until  he  bless  thee! 


(!II)arle0  llUslcji. 


Charles  Wesley,  brother  of  John,  was  born  at  Epworth 
in  1708 ;  died  in  London,  1788.  Educated  at  Oxford,  he 
became  an  able  preacher,  and  aided  his  brother  in  the 
establishment  of  Methodism.  lie  wrote  hymns,  full  of 
devotional  fervor.  "  The  Wrestler"  stamps  him  a  poet. 
Two  of  Wesley's  sons,  Charles  and  Samuel,  became  emi- 
nent as  musicians. 


THE    WRESTLER. 
Genesis  XXXII.  21-2G. 

Come,  oh  thou  traveller  unknown. 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see, 

My  company  before  is  gone, 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee ; 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay. 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am, 

My  misery  or  sin  declare : 
Thyself  ha.st  called  me  by  my  name ; 

Look  on  thy  hands,  and  read  it  there! 
But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou  ? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vaiu  thou  strugglest  to  get  free, 
I  never  will  unloose  ray  hold ; 


176 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BllITlSII  AND  AMElilCAX  I'OETIiT. 


Art  tlion  the  Man  that  died  for  me? 

The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold. 
AVrestliiijj,  I  will  not  let  thee  go, 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  mo  reveal 

Thy  new,  nnutterablo  name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  toll : 

To  know  it  now,  resolved  I  am  : 
Wrestlinu^,  I  will  not  let  thee  go, 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

'Tis  all  in  vain  to  hold  thy  tongue, 
Or  touch  the  hollow  of  my  thigh  : 

Though  every  sinew  be  unstrung, 
Out  of  my  arms  thou  shalt  not  Uy : 

Wrestling,  I  Avill  not  let  thee  go, 

Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain. 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long? 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  ; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong : 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-Man  prevail. 

My  strength  is  gone  ;   my  nature  dies ; 

I  sink  beneath  thy  weighty  hand; 
Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise; 

I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand  : 
I  stand,  and  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 

But  conlident  in  self-despair; 
Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak. 

Be  conrpicred  by  my  instant  prayer! 
Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move. 
And  tell  mo  if  thy  name  bo  Love? 

'Tis  Love!  'tis  Love!     Thou  diedst  for  mc ! 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart ! 
The  nuuning  breaks,  the  shadows  llee  ; 

Pure  universal  Love  thou  art! 
To  me,,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move ; 
Thy  nature  aud  thy  name  is  Love! 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God;   the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive; 
Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face, 

I  see  thee  face  to  face,  aud  live : 
In  vaiu  I  have  not  wept  aud  strove  ; 
Thy  nature  aud  thy  luime  ia  Love  I 


I  know  thee.  Saviour,  who  thou  art ; 

Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend ! 
Nor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  depart. 

But  stay,  aud  love  me  to  the  end ! 
Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove, 
Thy  nature  aud  thy  name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Eighteousuess  on  mc 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  iu  his  wings; 

Withered  my  nature's  strength,  from  thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succor  brings; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt,  till  life's  short  journey  end  ; 

All  heli>lessuess,  all  weakness,  I 

On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend ; 

Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey. 

Hell,  earth,  aud  sin,  with  ease  o'ercome  ; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  waj', 

And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home! 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love! 


COME,  LET   US  ANEW. 

Come,  let  ns  anew  our  journey  pursue — 

Itoll  round  with  the  year. 
And  never  stand  still  till  the  Master  appear: 
His  adorable  will  let  ns  gladly  fulhl, 

And  our  talents  improve 
By  the  patience  of  hope,  and  the  labor  of  love. 

Our  life  is  a  dream  ;   our  time,  as  a  stream, 

Glides  swiftly  away. 
And  the  fugitive  moment  refuses  to  stay: 
The  arrow  is  llown,  llie  moment  is  gone; 

The  millenial  year 
Rushes  on  to  our  view,  and  eternity's  near. 

0  that  each,  iu  the  day  of  his  coming,  may  say, 

''  I  have  fought  my  way  through  ; 

1  have  liuished  the  work   thou   didst  give  me   to 

do  1" 
O  that  each  from  his  Lord  may  receive  the  glad 

word, 

"  Well  and  faithfully  done  ! 
Enter  into  my  joy,  aud  sit  down  ou  my  throne !" 


GEORGE,  LORD  LYTTELTON.— SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


177 


THE   ONLY  LIGHT. 

Christ,  whose  glory  fills  the  skies, 
Christ,  the  true,  the  only  Light, 

Sun  of  Kighteousuess,  arise, 

Triuiuph  o'er  the  shades  of  uightl 

Day-spriug  from  ou  high,  be  near ! 

Day-star,  in  my  lieart  appear! 

Dark  and  cheerless  is  the  morn 

Unaccompanied  by  thee  ; 
Joyless  is  the  day's  return 

Till  thy  mercy's  beams  I  see ; 
Till  they  inward  light  impart, 
Glad  my  eyes  and  warm  my  heart. 

Visit  then  this  soul  of  mine. 

Pierce  the  gloom  of  sin  and  grief  I 

Fill  me.  Radiancy  Divine, 
Scatter  all  my  unbelief! 

More  and  more  thyself  displaj'. 

Shining  to  the  perfect  daj-. 


George,  Corlr  Cijttclton. 

Lyttclton  (1709-1773),  a  native  of  Haglej',  and  the  son 
of  a  baronet,  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  at  nineteen 
travelled  on  the  Continent.  He  is  one  of  the  poets  ad- 
mitted into  Aiken's  Collection;  but  the  most  buoyant 
of  liis  productions  is  the  one  little  song  wliicli  we  sub- 
join. 


TELL  ME,  MY  HEART. 

"When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears, 
Awed  by  a  thousand  tender  fears, 
I  would  apiiroach,  but  dare  not  move  : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

Whene'er  she  speaks,  my  ravished  ear 
Xo  other  voice  but  hers  can  hear, 
Ko  other  wit  but  hers  approve : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

If  she  some  other  youth  commend. 
Though  I  was  once  his  fondest  friend. 
His  instant  enemy  I  prove : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

When  she  is  absent,  I  no  more 
Delight  in  all  that  jtleased  before, 
The  clearest  spring,  the  shadiest  grove 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 
Vi 


When,  fond  of  power,  of  beauty  vain. 
Her  nets  she  spread  for  every  swain, 
I  strove  to  hate,  but  vainlj-  strove  : — 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love? 


Samuel  iJoljuGon. 


Tlio  son  of  a  poor  Lichfield  bookseller,  Johnson  (1709- 
1784)  fought  his  way  nobly  to  literary  eminence  against 
poverty,  disease,  and  adverse  fortune.  At  nineteen  he 
went  to  Oxford,  where  he  stayed  three  years,  and  got  a 
reputation  for  his  Latin  verses  ;  but  his  father  becoming 
insolvent,  he  had  to  leave  without  taking  a  degree.  lu 
1736  he  married  Mrs.  Porter,  a  widow  twenty  years  older 
than  himself  To  her  he  showed  a  true  attachment  as 
long  as  she  lived.  In  1738  he  began  his  career  in  Lon- 
don with  a  poem  upon  "London,"  whicli  drew  from 
Pope  the  remark:  "The  author,  whoever  he  is,  will  not 
long  be  concealed."  For  ten  years  more  Johnson  bat- 
tled on,  doing  job  work  for  Cave,  publisher  of  the  Gen- 
tkmaiis  Magazine;  and  at  the  age  of  forty  published 
his  "Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,"  a  poem  in  imitation 
of  the  Tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal.  The  following  year  ap- 
peared "The  Eambler."  His  "  Rasselas  "  was  written 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  his  mother's  funeral.  His  "Dic- 
tionary" occupied  eight  years  of  his  life.  The  last  of 
his  literary  labors  was  "The  Lives  of  the  Poets."  Of 
tliis  almost  forgotten  work  it  has  been  remarked :  "  Some 
of  his  dwarfs  are  giants ;  many  of  his  giants  liave  dwin- 
dled iuto  dwarfs."  He  could  not  appreciate  Milton  or 
Gray ;  but  lie  gave  importance  to  versifiers  whose  very 
names  are  unfamiliar  to  the  modern  reader. 

In  17G2  the  king  conferred  on  Johnson  a  pension  of 
£300  a  year,  partlj',  it  may  be  inferred,  in  consequence  of 
his  political  services;  for  he  wrote  a  pamphlet  entitled 
"Taxation  no  Tyranny,"  to  show  that  Samuel  Adams, 
George  Washington,  and  tlie  rest  of  the  American  mal- 
contents ought  to  pay  their  taxes  on  tea,  etc.,  without 
grumbling.  Henceforth  he  had  a  comparatively  easy 
time  of  it,  and  the  Johnson  of  this  period  is  pretty  well 
known.  He  is  as  near  to  us  as  it  is  in  the  power  of 
writing  to  place  any  man.  Everything  about  him — his 
coat,  his  wig,  his  figure,  his  liiee,  his  scrofula,  his  St. 
Vitus's  dance,  his  rolling  walk,  his  blinking  eye;  the 
"flushed  face,  and  the  veins  swollen  on  his  broad  fore- 
head," outward  signs  which  too  clearly  marked  his  ap- 
probation of  his  dinner;  his  insatiable  appetite  for  fish- 
sauce  and  veal -pic  with  plums,  his  thirst  for  tea,  his 
trick  of  touching  the  posts  as  he  walked,  and  his  mys- 
terious prnclice  of  treasuring  up  scraps  of  orange-peel; 
his  moruing  slumbers,  his  midnight  disputations,  his 
contortions,  his  mutterings.  Ins  gruntings,  his  puffings; 
his  vigorous,  acute,  and  ready  eloquence  ;  his  sarcastic 
wit,  his  vehemence,  his  insolence,  his  fits  of  tempestuous 
rage,  bis  queer  inmates,  shielded  by  his  kindness  —  old 
Mr.  Levett  and  blind  Mrs.  Williams,  the  cat  Hodge,  and 
the  negro  Frank — all  are  as  faunliar  to  us  as  the  objects 
by  which  we  have  been  surrounded  from  childhood. 

For  all  this  knowledge  we  arc  indebted  to  James  Bos- 
well,  Esquire,"  a  Scottish  advocate,  of  shallow  brain  but 


178 


CYCLOPJKDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY, 


impciturbablc  conceit,  the  thickness  of  whose  mental 
i^kin  enabled  him  to  enjoy  the  great  Englishman's  eoei- 
ety,  in  si)lle  of  sneers  and  insnlts  hnrled  by  day  and 
night  at  his  empty  head.  Not  a  peifeet  vacuum,  how- 
ever, was  that  head;  for  one  fixed  idea  possessed  it— ad- 
miration of  Samuel  Johnson,  and  the  resolve  to  lose  no 
words  that  fell  from  his  idolized  lips.  To  this  fussy, 
foolish  man,  the  butt  and  bulloon  of  the  distinguished 
society  into  which  he  had  pushed  himself,  wc  owe  a 
book  which  is  justly  held  to  be  the  best  biography  in 
the  English  language." 

Johnson's  mortal  remains  were  buried  in  "Westminster 
Abbey,  near  the  foot  of  Shakspcare's  monument,  and 
close  to  the  grave  of  Garrick. 


CHARLES  XII.  OF  SWEDEN. 

On  what  fnundation  staniLs  the  warrior's  pride, 

How  just  his  liopes,  let  Swedish  Charles'  decide: 

A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tire; 

O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 

Uncouqnered  lord  of  jilcasnre  and  of  pain  ; 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield. 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field; 

Behold,  surrounding  kings  their  powers  combine, 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  hut  spreads  her  charms  in 

vain  ; 
"Think  udtliiiig  gained,"  he  cries,  "till  naught  re- 
main ; 
On  Mo-scow's  Avails  till  Gothic  standards  tly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  mitions  on  his  eye  suspended  wait; 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost; 
He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay: — 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day! 
The  vanqiiislied  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  mi.series  in  distant  lands; 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait: 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  cud  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 
Or  hoslile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fidl  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  : 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

»  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden,  defeated  at  the  battle  of  Piiltowa, 
in  July,  lTt>9,  was  shot  at  Fretlerickshnll,  on  the  coast  of  Nor- 
way, iu  December,  1718. 


ON  THE   DEATH    OF   MK.  KOBEHT   LEVETT,' 
A  riiACTISEK   IN   I'HYSIC. 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline. 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend, 

Oflicious,  innocent,  sincere. 

Of  every  friendless  uamo  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  lills  Aflfection's  eye, 
Obscurely  vvi.se,  and  coarsely  kind  ; 

Nor,  lettered  Arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  Nature  called  for  aid, 

And  hovering  Death  prepared  tlie  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

Tlie  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  Misery's  darkest  cavern  known, 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh. 
Where  hopeless  Anguish  poured  his  groan, 

And  lonely  Want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay. 
No  petty  gain  disdained  by  i)ride  ; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  i)ause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employed. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Uufelt,  unconnted,  glided  by; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 

Tliongli  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain. 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Deatii  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  bis  soul  the  nearest  way. 


'  One  of  the  odd  pensioners  on  Johnson's  bonntj',  and  an  in- 
mate of  his  house  for  twenty  years.  Macaulay  was  tcin))ted 
to  refer  to  him  as  "an  old  quack  doctor,  named  Levett,  who 
bled  and  dosed  coal-heavers  and  hackney-coachmen,  and  re- 
ceived for  fees  crnsis  of  bread,  bits  of  bacon,  glasses  of  gin, 
and  sometimes  a  little  copper."  Possibly  all  this  may  be  a 
triQe  unjust. 


SA  M UEL  JOHNSON. —RICHARD   (i  LO  FER. 


179 


CARDINAL   WOLSEY. 

Fno^r  "  The  Vanity  of  Human  'Wisiies." 

Ill  fiill-lilowii  (lijiuity  see  Wolscy  staiul, 
Law  in  his  voice,  and  lortnnc  in  liis  hand  : 
To  him  the  chnrch,  the  reahn,  their  powers  consign, 
Tlin>Mi;li  him  the  rays  of  regal  houuty  shine, 
Turned  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honor  Hows, 
His  smile  alone  secnrity  bestows  : 
Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower, 
Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power: 
Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please, 
And  riglits  submitted,  left  him  none  to  seize. 
At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train  of  state 
Mark  tiie  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate. 
Where'er  he  tnrns,  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye. 
His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers  fly : 
Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 
The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  plate. 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 
The  liveried  army,  and  tlie  menial  lord. 
With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppressed, 
He  seeks  a  refuge  of  monastic  rest; 
Grief  aids  disease,  remembered  folly  stings. 
And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 
Speak   thou,  whose   thoughts    at   humble   peace 
repine, 
Shall  Wolsey's  wealth,  witli  Wolsey's  end,  be  thine  ? 
Or  liv'st  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  conte.nt, 
The  wisest  justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 
For  why  did  Wolsey,  near  the  steeps  of  fate. 
On  weak  foundations  raise  tlr'  enormous  weight  ? 
Wliy  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 
With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below? 


NOR   DEEM  RELIGION   VAIN. 

Where,  then,  shall   Hope   and   Fear   their   objects 

find? 
Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 
^lust  helidess  man,  in  ignorance  sedate. 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise. 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies? 
Inquirer,  cease  ;   petitions  yet  remain 
Whicli  Heaven  may  hear,  uor  deem  religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice. 
But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice. 
Safe  in  his  power,  Avliose  ejes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer. 
Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest, 
Secure  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 


Yet  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires. 
Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  pa.ssions,  and  a  will  resigned  ; 
For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 
For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  transmuted  ill; 
For  faith,  that  panting  for  a  hapi)icr  seat, 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  rt^treat : 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  ordain, 
These  goods  he  grants,who  grants  the  power  to  gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind. 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  lind. 


ON  CLAUDE   PHILLIPS,  AN   ITINERANT 
MUSICIAN  IN   WALES. 

Phillips !   whose  touch  harmonious  could  remove 
The  pangs  of  guilty  power  and  hapless  love. 
Rest  here,  distressed  by  povertj"  no  more, 
Find  here  that  calm  thou  gavest  so  oft  before; 
Sleep  undisturbed  within  this  peaceful  shrine. 
Till  angels  wake  thee  with  a  note  like  thine. 


Uicljari)  ©loner. 


Glover  (1712-178.5),  the  son  of  a  London  merchant,  ;uul 
himself  a  mei'cliant,  published  two  elaborate  poems  in 
blank  verse — "  Leonidas,"  and  "  The  Athenaid."  He  was 
a  member  of  Parliament  for  several  years,  and  was  es- 
teemed eloquent,  intrepid,  and  incorruptible.  He  wrote 
two  or  three  tragedies,  but  they  were  not  successful  on 
the  stage.  He  edited  the  poems  of  Matthew  Green,  and 
seems  to  have  appreciated  the  peculiar  genius  of  that 
neglected  poet.  The  ballad  which  we  publish  from 
Glover's  pen  is  likely  to  outlast  all  his  epics  and  plays. 


ADMIRAL   HOSIER'S   GHOST. 

Ill  1727  the  English  admir.il.  Hosier,  blockaded  Porto-Bello 
wilh  twenty  ships,  but  was  not  allowed  to  attack  it,  war  not 
having  actually  broken  out  between  England  and  Spain  ;  and 
a  peace  being  patched  up,  his  squadron  was  withdrawn.  In 
1T40,  Admiral  Vernou  (after  whom  Washington's  "Mount  Ver- 
non "  was  named)  took  Porto-Bello  with  six  ships.  It  was  ap- 
parently a  very  creditable  exploit ;  but  Vernon  being  an  enemy 
of  Walpole's,  and  a  member  of  the  Opposition,  it  was  glorified 
by  them  beyond  its  merits.  Glpver  is  here  the  mouth-piece  of 
the  Oi)position,  who,  while  they  exalted  Veruon,  aflected  to  pity 
Hosier,  who  had  died,  as  they  declared,  of  a  broken  heart,  and 
of  whose  losses  by  disease  during  the  blockade  they  did  not 
fail  to  make  the  most. 

As  near  Porto-Bello  lying. 
On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 

At  inidiiight,  with  strciuners  flying, 
Our  triiimiihaiit  navy  rode; 


180 


CYCLOVAiDIA    UF  JiniTlSll  AM)  AMEIUCAX  rOETIlY. 


Tlicrc,  while  Veriion  eat,  all  glorious 
From  the  Spaniards'  late  defeat, 

And  his  crews  with  shouts  vietorions 
l)nink  success  to  Enghuurs  tleet ; — 

On  a  sudden,  shrilly  sounding, 

Hideous  yells  and  shrieks  were  heard; 
Then,  each  heart  with  fear  confounding, 

A  sad  troop  of  ghosts  appeared  ; 
All  in  dreary  hammocks  shrouded, 

■\Vhich  for  winding-sheets  they  wore, 
And  with  looks  by  sorrow  clouded 

Frowning  on  that  hostile  shore. 

On  fhem  gleamed  the  moon's  wan  lustre. 

When  the  shade  of  Hosier  bravo 
His  pale  bands  was  seen  to  muster, 

Eisiug  from  their  watery  grave. 
O'er  the  glinnncring  wave  ho  hied  liiui 

■\Vhere  the  Burford  reared  her  sail, 
"With  three  thousand  ghosts  be^side  him, 

And  in  groans  did  Vernon  hail  : 

"Heed,  oh  heed,  our  fatal  story, — 

I  am  Hosier's  injured  ghost, — 
You  who  now  have  purchased  glory 

At  this  place  where  I  was  lost : 
Though  in  Porto-Bello's  ruin 

You  now  triumph  free  from  fears, 
When  yon  think  on  our  undoing, 

You  will  mix  your  joy  with  tears. 

"  See  these  mournful  spectres,  sweeping 

Ghastlj'  o'er  this  hated  Avavc, 
Whose  wan  cheeks  are  stained  with  weeping 

'J'hese  were  English  captains  brave. 
Mark  those  numbers  pale  and  horrid  ; 

Those  were  once  my  sailors  Ixdd  : 
Lo !   each  hangs  his  drooping  forehead 

AYhile  his  dismal  tale  is  told. 

"  I,  by  twenty  sail  attended, 

Did  this  Spanish  town  attVight ; 
Nothing  then  its  wealth  defended 

But  my  orders  not  to  light. 
Oil  tliat  in  tills  rolling  ocean 

I  had  cast  them  with  disdain, 
And  obeyed  my  heart's  warm  motion 

'I'd  liave  (]Ucn<'(l  tlie  ]iil(Ie  of  Spain  ! 

"For  resistance  I  could  fear  none. 
But  with  twenty  ships  had  done 


What  thou,  brave  and  happy  Vernon, 
Hast  achieved  with  six  alone. 

Then  the  basllmentos'  never 
Had  our  foul  dishonor  seen. 

Nor  the  sea  the  sad  receiver 
Of  this  gallant  train  had  been. 

"Thus,  like  thee,  proud  Spain  dismaying. 

And  her  galleons  leading  home, 
Tliough,  condemned  for  disobeying, 

I  had  met  a  traitor's  doom. 
To  have  fallen,  my  country  crying, 

'  He  has  played  an  English  jiart !' 
Had  been  better  far  than  dying 

Of  a  grieved  and  broken  heart. 

"Unrcpining  at  thy  glory, 

Tliy  successful  arms  we  hail ! 
But  remember  our  sad  storj^. 

And  let  Hosier's  wrongs  prevail. 
Sent  in  this  foul  clime  to  languish. 

Think  what  thousands  fell  in  vain. 
Wasted  with  disease  and  anguish, 

Not  in  glorious  battle  slain! 

"Hence,  with  all  my  train  attending 

From  their  oozy  tombs  below. 
Through  the  hoary  foam  ascending, 

Here  I  feed  my  constant  woe ; 
Here  the  bastimentos  viewing, 

AVe  recall  our  shameful  doom, 
And  our  plaintive  cries  renewing. 

Wander  through  the  midnight  gloom. 

"O'er  these  Avaves  forever  mourning 

Shall  we  roam,  deprived  of  rest, 
If,  to  Britain's  shores  returning. 

You  neglect  my  just  request. 
After  this  proud  foe  subduing. 

When  your  patriot  friends  you  see. 
Think  on  vengeance  for  my  ruin. 

And  for  England  shamed  in  me!'' 


lUilliam  SljcuGtonc. 

Sheustonc  (ITl-i-lTOo)  was  born  at  Leasowcs,  in  Shrop- 
shire. He  received  his  liiglicr  education  at  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford,  but  did  not  take  a  degree.  In  174.5  the 
paternal  estate  fell  to  liis  care,  aiul,  as  Jolinson  charac- 
teristically describes  it,  he  began  "  to   pohit  his  pros- 

>  Bastimento  (Italian),  a  gbip. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTOXE. 


181 


pects,  to  diversif)'  his  surfocc,  to  cntanolc  liis  walks,  and 
to  wind  liis  waters."  Descriptions  of  tiic  Leasowes  liavc 
been  written  bj'  Dodsley  and  Goldsinitli.  Tlic  property 
was  altogx'tlier  not  wortli  more  tlian  £300  per  annum, 
and  Slienstouc  had  devoted  so  mucli  of  liis  means  to  ex- 
ternal embellishment,  tliat  he  had  to  live  in  a  dilapidated- 
iioiise  hardly  rain-proof.  He  had  wasted  his  substance 
in  temples,  inscriptions,  and  artificial  walks.  At  every 
turn  tliere  was  a  bust  or  a  seat  witli  an  inscription. 

Among  the  inscriptions,  that  to  Miss  Dolman  is  mem- 
orable because  of  a  felicitous  sentiment  in  Latin,  often 
quoted:  "  Peramabili  su;c  consobrinae  M.  D.  Ah  !  Maria  ! 
puellarum  elegantissima  1  ab  flore  vcnustatis  abrepta, 
vale  !  Heu  qiianio  minus  est  cum  rdiquis  versari,  quam  tui 
rneminisse r^  In  English:  "Sacred  to  the  memory  of  a 
most  amiable  kinswoman,  M.  D.  Ah !  Maria !  most  ele- 
gant of  nymphs !  snatched  from  us  in  the  bloom  of 
beaut}' — ah!  farewell!  Alas!  how  much  less  precious  is 
it  to  converse  ivith  others  titan  to  remember  iheeP^ 

Shenstone's  highest  ellbrt  is  "The  School-mistress," 
said  to  have  been  written  at  college  iu  1736.  It  is  still 
read  with  pleasure.  It  is  in  imitation  of  Spenser,  and 
"so  delightfully  quaint  and  ludicrous,  yet  true  to  nat- 
ure, tliat  it  has  all  the  force  and  vividness  of  a  painting 
by  Teniers  or  Wilkic."  Of  his  other  poems,  comprising 
odes,  elegies,  and  pastorals,  few  of  them  are  likely  to 
endure  in  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 


FEOM  "THE    SCHOOL-MISTRESS." 

Ix  Imitation  of  Spenser. 

Ah  me !   full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 
To  think  liovr  modest  worth  neglected  lies, 
While  partial  Fame  doth  with  lier  blasts  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise  ; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  cmprize  : 
Lend  me  tliy  clarion,  goddess !   let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit  ere  it  dies, 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chaucM  to  espy 
Lost  iu  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  marked  with  little  spire, 
Embowered  iu  trees,  and  Lai-dly  known  to  fame, 
There  dwells,  iu  lowly  shades  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron  old,  whom  we  School-mistress  name  ; 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame  ; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame. 
And  ofttimes,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
For   unkempt   hair,  or   task   uneonned,  are   sorely 
sheiit. 

And  all  in  siglit  doth  rise  a  birchen-tree, 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stow. 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 
Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow; 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  niickle  woe ; 


For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 
But  their  limbs  shuddered,  and  their  pulse  beat 

low  ; 
And,  as  they  looked,  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  luimd  a  patch  so  green. 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display. 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is  seen. 
Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray. 
Eager,  jierdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 
The  noises  intermixed,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  learning's  little  tenement  betray ; 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  iirofound. 
And  eyes  her  fairy   throng,  and   turns  her  Avheel 
around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driv'en  snow. 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield ; 
Her  apron,  dyed  iu  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow, 
As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field ; 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway   birchen    sjirays ;    with    anxious   fear   en- 
twined, 
With  dark  mistrust  and  sad  repentance  filled  ; 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  joined. 
And  ftuy  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed. 
The  plodding  x^^^ttern  of  the  busy  dame. 
Which  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need. 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came  ; 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim  : 
And  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same ; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she 
found. 

if  #  *  #  *  » 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry ; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise; 
Some  with  vile  copper  prize  exalt  on  high. 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  snuill  of  praise ; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays  : 
E'en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 
While   with    quaint    arts   the   giddy   crowd   she 

sways  ; 
Forewarned,  if  little  bird  their  jjranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  tlie  scene  unfold. 

Lo !   now"  with  state  she  utters  the  command ! 
Effsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair. 
Their  books,  of  stature  small,  they  take  iu  hand, 


182 


CYCLOPJUDIA    OF  BRITISH  JM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Which  with  pollncid  horn  secnr<5(l  are, 
To  savi'  from  linger  Avet  liio  letters  fair; 
The  work  so  gay,  tliat  on  their  l)ack  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  acliievenicnts  does  (h'elare, 
On   whiili  tiiilk  wighl   lliat  lias  y-gazing  l)cen, 
Ki'ns  tiu-  forth-eoiniiig  roil,  unpleasing  sigiit,  I  ween. 


WRITTEN   AT   AX   ]NX   AT   HENLEY. 

To  tliee,  fair  I'reedoni,  I  retire 

From  Ihittery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din  ; 
Nor  art  (hon  fonnd  in  man.sions  liigher 

Tliiin  tiie  low  cot  or  hnndjle  inn. 

'Tis  Lere   with  Ixnindless  power  I  reign. 
And  every  health  Avhich  I  begin 

Converts  dnll  port  to  bright  champagne; 
Snch  freedom  crowns  it  at  an   inn. 

I  fly  from  i»onip,  I  lly  from  plate, 
I  fly  from  falsehood's  specions  grin  ; 

Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate, 
And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter!   take  my  sordid  ore. 

Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win  ; 

It  bnys  what  courts  have  not  in  store. 
It  buys  mo  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dnll  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 


(TIjOinaG     <^Xi\\). 


The  son  of  a  London  scrivener  in  noisy  Cornliill,  Gi-ay 
(171G-1771)  was  unfortunate  in  his  ixUernai  relations. 
His  father  was  of  a  harsh,  despotic  disposition  ;  and 
Mrs.  Gray  was  obliged  to  separate  from  him,  and  open  a 
niiHinery  shop  for  her  maintenance.  To  the  love  of  tliis 
good  mother,  wlio  lived  to  witness  the  eminence  of  her 
son,  Thomas  owed  his  superior  education.  Ilcr  brotlicr 
being  a  master  at  Eton,  the  lad  went  there  to  school,  and 
found  among  his  classmates  young  Horace  Walpole,  witli 
wliom  he  became  intimate,  and  afterward  travelled  on 
the  Continent.  At  Cambridge  Gray  seems  to  have  found 
college-life  irksome.  He  hated  mathematics  and  meta- 
physics. He  passed  bis  time  jirinci pally  in  the  study  of 
languages  and  lustory,  leaving  in  ITIJS  without  taking  a 
degree.  He  lixed  his  residence  at  Cambridge.  Severe 
as  a  student,  he  was  indolent  as  an  author.     His  charm- 


ing letters,  and  his  splendid  but  scanty  poetry,  leave  the 
world  to  regret  his  lack  of  proilnetive  industry.  He  was 
a  nam  of  ardent  affections,  of  sincere  piety,  and  practical 
benevolence  ;  but  his  sequestered  student-life,  and  an  af- 
fectation of  the  character  of  a  gentleman  who  studied 
from  choice,  gave  a  tinge  of  elfeminaey  and  Jiedaniry  to 
his  numners  llnxt  incurred  the  ridicule  of  the  wilder  spir- 
its of  Candiridge. 

Tiie  scenei'y  of  the  (irande  Chartreuse  in  Dauphin<5 
awakened  all  his  entiiusiasm.  He  wiote  of  it:  "Not  u 
l)recipice,  not  a  torrent,  not  a  eli-ff,  but  is  pregnant  with 
religion  and  poetry.  There  are  certain  scenes  tliat  would 
awe  an  atheist  into  belief,  without  the  help  of  other  ar- 
gument. One  need  not  liave  a  very  fantastic  imagina- 
tion to  see  spirits  there  at  noonday." 

Cliailes  Dickens  remarked  of  Gra}'  that  no  poet  ever 
gained  a  place  amoug  tlie  immortals  with  so  small  a  vol- 
ume under  his  arm.  Gray's  first  public  appearance  as 
a  poet  was  in  1747,  when  his  "Ode  to  Eton  College" 
(written  in  1742)  was  published  by  Dodsley.  In  1751  his 
"  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church-yard  "  was  printed, 
and  immediately  attained  a  popularity  winch  has  gone 
on  increasing  up  to  tlic  present  time.  The  "Pindaric 
Odes"  appeared  in  17.57,  but  met  with  little  success. 
Gray  was  offered  the  appointment  of  poet-laureate,  va- 
cant by  the  death  of  Colley  Cibber,  but  declined  it,  and 
accepted  tlie  lucrative  situation  of  Professor  of  Modern 
History,  which  brought  him  in  about  £400  per  annum. 
He  died  of  gout  in  tlie  stomach,  in  the  lifty-lifth  year  of 
his  age. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN    IN   A   COUNTRY    CHURCH- 
YARD. 

In  a  letter  to  his  publisher  (1751),  Gray  requested  that  the 
Elegy  should  be  "jirinted  without  any  iutei'val  between  the 
stanzas,  because  the  sense  is  in  some  places  continued  beyond 
tlieni."  In  those  stanzas  to  which  he  refers  we  have  here  eu- 
deavorecl  to  confonn  to  his  wish  by  not  dividing  them. 

Tlie  cnrfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  Avhero  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 

And  drowsj'  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 
Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  do(>s  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 

M(dest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 

Where   heaves   the   turf  in   many  a   mouldering 
heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laiil, 

ihe  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


THOMAS   GRAY. 


183 


The  breezy  ciill  of  iucoiise-brcatliiiii;'  inorii, 

The    swallow   twittering   from    (lie    straw  -  l)nilt 
shed, 

The  eock's  shrill  elaiiou.  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  tlieir  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft   did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Tiieir  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  : 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-lield  I 
How    bowed    the    woods    beneath    their    sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  aud  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  o'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  iucjvitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  yon,  yc  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  throngli  the  long-drawn   aisle   aud  fretted 
vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  nrn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 
Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 
But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page. 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  nnroll  ; 
Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfatliomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  ou  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 


Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  couimand, 

The  threats  of  pain  aud  ruin   to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

Aiul  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 
Their  lot  forljade  :    nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; — 
The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame.' 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  uoiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With    uncouth    rhymes    and    shapeless    sculpture 
decked. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 

And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who.  to  dumlj  Forgetfulness  a  pi'ey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 


1  Between  this  stanza  and  that  beginninir,  "Far  from  the 
macliliiig  crowd's  ignoble  strife,"  came,  in  Gray's  earlier  MS. 
draft,  these  fonr  stanzas  marked  at  the  side  for  omission,  of 
which  one  is  used,  in  an  altered  form,  lower  down  : 

"The  thoughtless  World  to  Majesty  may  bow, 
Exalt  the  brave,  and  idolize  snccess: 
Bnt  more  to  Innocence  their  safety  owe 
Than  Power  and  Genius  e'er  conspired  to  bless. 

"And  thou  who,  mindful  of  th'  nuhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  notes  their  artless  tale  relate, 
By  Night  and  lonely  Contemplation  led 
To  linger  in  the  gloomy  wallis  of  Fate, 

"Ilark  how  the  sacred  calm  that  broods  around 
Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease. 
In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground 
A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace. 

"No  more,  with  Reason  and  thyself  at  strife, 
Give  anxious  cares  aud  endless  wishes  room  ; 
But  through  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
Pursue  the  silent  tenor  of  thy  doom."' 


184 


CYCLOl'.EDIA    OF  JilllTISII  AXD   AMKRICAX  rOETllT. 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  tlie  closing  eye  reqnires ; 

Even  Irom  the  tomb  tlio  voice  of  Natnre  cries, 
Even  in  onr  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  wlio,  iiiiiult'iil  nf  tlu^  uiilionnrcd  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 
If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate. 
Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

*'  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  uodding  beech, 
That  Avreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  .it  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove. 

Now  drooping  wofnl-wau,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or    crazed    with    care,  or    crossed    in    hopeless 
love. 

"One  morn  I  nussed  him  on  the  'customed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  uear  his  favorite  tree; 

Auother  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he. 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beucath  you  aged  thorn." 

Till-:   KPITAPII. 

Hero  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  lnniil)l('  birth. 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Largo  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  ho  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a 
frieiul. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ODE   ON  A   DISTAN'I'   I'KOSPECT   Ol''   ETON 
COLLEGE. 

' Ai-C/juTTOi'   iKaiJ/  ■npii(}>aait  civ  to  ivanxcTv. — MenANDER. 

Ye  distant  spires,  yo  antique  towers. 

That  crown  the  watery  glade. 
Where  grateful  Scitnicc  still  adores 

Her  Henry's'  holy  shade ! 
And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 
Whose  turf,  who.se  shade,  who.se  flowers  anu)ug 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  Avay  : 

Ah,  liai)])y  hills!    ah,  pleasing  shade! 

Ah,  lields  behjved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  jet  to  j)ain! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

xVs,  waving  fresh  their  glad.some  wing. 
My  Aveary  st)ul  they  seem  to  soothe. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames, — for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race. 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, — 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  f 

The  captive  linnet  which  inthrall  ? 
What  idle  i»rogeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed. 

Or  urge  the  tlyiug  ball? 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent. 

Their  nuirmnring  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty, — 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  liniits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wiu<l. 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  Fancy  fed. 

Less  .pleasing  when  possessi'd  ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 

The  snushinc  of  the  breast; 


1  Kin^'  Ik'iii-y  VI.,  fonuder  of  the  college. 


THOMAS  G BAT.— JAMES  MERRICK. 


185 


Tlioirs  huxom  health,  of  rosy  hue ; 
Wild  wit,  iuventiou  evei-  new. 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born  ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
Th<^  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

Tliat  lly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas  !    regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  seuse  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyoud  to-day. 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train  ! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  nuird'rons  band ! 

Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind — • 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame,  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  piuing  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  Jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inlj^  gnaws  the  secret  heart. 
And  Euvy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high. 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try, 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Eemorse,  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness,  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo !   in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  ai'e  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
Tliat  every  laboring  sinew  strains. 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That  numbs  the  soul  \\ith  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  :   all  are  men, 
Condemned  alike  to  groan  : 


The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Tlie  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet  ah!    why  should  they  know  liu'ir  fate. 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  f 
Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise. 
No  more  :   where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  bo  wise. 


James  iUcrricK'. 

Merrick  (1720-170',))  was  a  clergyman,  as  well  as  a 
writer  of  verse.  He  produced  a  version  of  the  Psalms, 
a  Collection  of  Hymns,  and  a  few  miscellaneous  poems. 
His  "Chameleon"  is  still  buoyant  among  the  produc- 
tions that  the  world  does  not  willingly  let  die.  At  Ox- 
ford, Merrick  was  tutor  to  Lord  Noitli.  Owing  to  in- 
cessant pains  in  the  head,  he  was  obliged  to  abandon 
his  vocation  of  elergynuui. 


THE   CHAMELEON. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark. 
With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post ; 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  beau, 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 
Eetnrning  from  his  finished  tour. 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before, — 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 
The  travelled  fool  your  mouth  will  stop: 
"  Sir,  if  mj'  judgment  you'll  allow — 
I've  seen — and  sure  I  ought  to  know." — 
So  begs  you'd  pay  a  due  submission. 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast. 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat. 
Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that. 
Discoursed  awhile,  'mongst  other  matter. 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"  Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun  : 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue. 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind ! 
How  slow  its  pace !   and  then  its  hue — 
Wlio  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue !" 

"Hold,  there  I"  the  other  quick  replies: 
"'Tis  green;   I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 


186 


CYCLOP JEDI A   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


As  Into  with  open  nioutb  it  laj', 
And  wtirmetl  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Stietclied  at  its  ease  the  hcast  I  viewed, 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  ior  Idod." 

"I've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  yon, 
And  mnst  ajjain  alliiin  it  hhie. 
At  IcisJire  I  tlie  boast  surveyed. 
Extended  in  the  cooling  sliade." 

"  'Tis  green,  'tis  green,  sir,  I  assure  yc." — 
"  Green  ?"  cries  the  other,  in  a  fury  ; 
"  Why,  sir,  d'ye  think  I've  lost  my  eyes  ?" — 
"  'Twero  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  replies ; 
"For  if  they  always  use  you  thus, 
Yon'U  find  them  hut  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose. 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows : 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third  : 
To  him  the  question  they  referred; 
And  begged  he'd  tell  them,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  Avas  green  or  blue. 

"  Sirs,"  cries  the  umpire,  "  cease  your  pother, 
The  creature's  neither  one  nor  t'other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candle-light : 
I  marked  it  well — 'twas  black  as  jet. 
You  stare  ;    but,  sirs,  I've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it." — "  Pray,  sir,  do  ; 
ril  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." — 
"And  ril  be  sworn  that  when  you've  seen 
The  reptile,  you'll  prouonuce  him  green." — 
"Well,  then,  at  once  to  end  the  doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  "  I'll  turn  him  out ; 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set  him, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I'll  eat  him." 

lie  said  :    then  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast;   and  lo !  'twas  white. 

IJoth  stared;  the  man  looked  wondrous  wise. 
"My  ehihlren,"  the  clianu'leon  cries 
(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong. 
When  next  yon  talk  of  what  you  view, 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you, 
Nor  wonder  if  yon  lind  that  none 
Prefers  youi'  eyesight  to  his  own." 


fllark  ^kcnsilic. 

The  author  of  "  Pleasures  of  Imnirination"  (1721-1770) 
was  tlic  son  of  a  bulclicr  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  An 
accident  in  liis  early  years — the  fall  of  one  of  his  father's 
cleavers  on  his  foot — rendered  hitn  lame  f(M-  life.  His 
parents  were  Dissenters,  and  .Mark  was  sent  to  tlic  Uni- 


versity of  Edinburgli  to  be  educated  for  the  Presbyterian 
ministry.  He  entered,  however,  the  ranks  of  medicine, 
and  received  in  1744  the  degree  of  M.D.  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Leydcn.  As  a  boy  of  sixteen,  lie  had  con- 
tributed pieces  of  some  merit  to  the  Genllcnin)i\'<  Mtuja- 
zine.  His  "  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  pul)lislied  when 
he  was  twenty-three  years  old,  placed  him  in  the  list  ol' 
eons])icuous  poets.  Instead  of  pressing  forward  to  bet- 
ter things,  he  passed  several  years  in  altering  and  re- 
modelling his  first  successful  iioem  ;  but  he  gained  noth- 
ing in  reijutation  by  the  attempt,  and  died  before  it  was 
completed.  His  Hymns  and  Odes  are  deservedly  for- 
gotten. 

Removing  to  London,  Akensidc  took  a  liouse  in 
Bloomshury  Square,  where  he  resided  till  his  death.  As 
a  physician,  he  never  rose  to  eminence.  His  manner  in 
a  siek-room  was  depressing  and  unsympathetic.  His 
chief  means  of  support  were  derived  from  the  liberality 
of  his  friend  Jeremiah  Dyson,  a  man  of  fortune,  who  se- 
cured to  liim  an  income  of  £300  a  year.  As  a  poet, 
Akensidc  may  not  have  reached  the  highest  mark ;  but 
his  "Pleasures  of  Imagination  "  Avill  always  be  regarded 
as  a  remarkable  production  for  a  youth  of  twenty-three. 
In  our  extracts  we  have  preferred  the  original  text.  Few 
of  the  author's  subsequent  alterations  are  improvements. 
Gray  censures  the  tone  of  false  philosophy  which  he 
found  in  the  work. 


THE  SOUL'S  TENDENCIES  TO  THE  INFINITE. 

FiiOM  "  The  Pleasciies  of  Imagination." 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised 

Amid  the  vast  creation  ;  why  ordained 

Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his  piercing  eye, 

With  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of  his  frame; — 

But  that  the  Omnipotent  might  send  him  fiu'th 

In  sight  of  mortal  and  immortal  powers,^ 

As  on  a  boundless  theatre,  to  run 

The  great  career  of  justice;   to  exalt 

Ilis  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds; 

To  chase  each  i)artial  purpose  IVom  his  breast: 

And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and  of  sense. 

And  through  the  tossing  tide  of  chance  and  pain, 

To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while  the  voice 

Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  steep  ascent 

Of  Nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  reward, 

Tlie  applauding  smile  of  Heaven?     Ehse  wherefore 

burns 
III  nn)rtal  ])o.soms  this  uminenehed  hope, 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  snblimer  things, 
And  mocks  po.sse.ssion  ?  wherefore  darts  the  mind. 
With  such  resistless  ardor  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms;   impatient  to  bo  free, 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful  might ; 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  her  toils; 
Proud  to  br  daring?  *  *  * 


J/J  7/ A"     IKK.WSIJJK. 


187 


THE   HIGH-BORN   SOUL. 

From  "  The   Pleasihes   of   Imagination." 

*  *  *  Tlic  liigh-boni  soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  beaven-aspiriiig  w'lw^ 
Bciieatli  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  Enrtli 
And  tins  diiirual  scene,  slio  springs  alolt 
Through  fields  of  air;  pursues  tlie  Hying  storm  ; 
liides     ou    tho    volleyed    lightning     through     the 

Heavens ; 
Or,  yoked  with  -u-hirlwinds  and  tho  nortliern  blast, 
Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day.     Then  high  she  soars 
The  blue  profound,  and,  hovering  round  the  sun, 
Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 
Of  light ;   beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 
Beud  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The  fated  rounds  of  Time.     Thence  far  eifused 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 
Of  devious  comets ;   through  its  burning  sigus 
Exulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  Xature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars, 
Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milkj--  zone. 
Invests  the  orient.     Now  amazed  she  views 
The  empyreal  waste,  where  happy  spirits  hold. 
Beyond  this  concave  Heaven,  their  calm  abode ; 
And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
Has  travelled  the  profound  six  thousand  years. 
Nor  yet  arrives  in  sight  of  mortal  thiugs. 
Even  on  the  barriers  of  tho  world  uutired 
She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below  ; 
Till  half  recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 
She  plunges;  soon  o'erwhelmed  and  swallowed  up 
In  that  immense  of  being.     There  her  hopes 
Rest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said, 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight. 
Not  iu  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery-  lap, 
The  soul  should  find  enjoyment ;  but  from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  erjual  good. 
Through  all  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  her  view. 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear. 
And  infinite  perfection  close  tho  scene. 


MIXD,  THE   FOUNT   OF   BEAUTY. 
From  "  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination." 

*  *  *  Thus  doth  Beauty  dwell 
There  most  conspicuous,  even  in  outward  shape. 
Where  dawns  the  high  expression  of  a  mind  : 
By  steps  conducting  our  enraptured  search 
To  that  eternal  origin,  whose  power, 


Through  all  the  unbounded  symmetry  of  thiugs, 

Like  rays  effulgiug  from  the  jiarc  nt  .sun, 

This  endless  inixtui'e  of  her  charms  dillused. 

Mind,  mind  alone  (bear  Avitness,  Earth  and  Heaven) 

The  living  fountains  in  itself  contains 

Of  beauteous  and  sublime  :   here,  hand  in  hand. 

Sit  paramount  the  Graces;   here  enthroned, 

Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 

Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 

Look  then  abroad  through  Nature,  to  the  range 

Of  iilanets,  suns,  and  adamantine  sphere.^. 

Wheeling  unshaken  through  tho  void  immense ; 

And  speak,  O  man  !   does  this  capacious  scene 

With  half  that  kiudling  majestj"  dilate 

Thy  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 

Refulgent  from  tho  stroke  of  CiEsar's  fate, 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots  ;   and  his  arm 

Aloffc  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 

When  guilt  brings  down  tlie  thunder,  called  aloud 

Ou  Tally's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel. 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  ? 

For  lo !  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust. 

And  Rome  acain  is  free !  *  *  * 


THE   ASCENT   OF   BEING. 

From  "  The   Pleasures   of   Imagination." 

*  *  *  Through  every  age, 
Through  every  moment  up  the  tract  of  time. 
His  parent-hand,  with  ever-new  increase 
Of  happiness  and  virtue,  has  adorned 
The  vast  harmonious  frame:   his  parent-hand, 
From  the  mute  shell-fish  gasping  on  the  shore, 
To  men,  to  angels,  to  celestial  minds, 
Forever  leads  the  generations  on 
To  higher  scenes  of  being;  while,  supplied 
From  day  to  day  with  his  enlivening  breath, 
Inferior  orders  in  succession  rise 
To  fill  the  void  below.     As  flame  ascends, 
As  bodies  to  their  proper  centre  move. 
As  the  poised  ocean  to  the  attracting  Moon 
Obedient  swells,  and  every  headlong  stream 
Devolves  its  winding  Avaters  to  the  main  ; — 
So  all  things  which  have  life  aspire  to  God, 
The  Sun  of  being,  boundless,  unimpaired. 
Centre  of  souls !     Nor  does  the  faithful  voice 
Of  Nature  cease  to  prompt  their  eager  steps 
Aright ;  nor  is  the  care  of  Heaven  withheld 
From  granting  to  tho  task  proportioned  aid  ; 
That  in  their  stations  all  may  persevere 
To  climb  the  a.scent  of  being,  and  approach 
Forever  nearer  to  tho  Life  Divine. 


188 


cicLurjJDU  or  nnrnsu  asd  amkuicax  voetuy. 


THROUGH  NATURE  UP  TO  NATURE'S  GOD. 

l'"«0M  "  The  I'leasiiiks  of  Imagination." 

Oh  Llcsfc  of  Heaven  !  -wlioiii  not  the  luiii^nid  songs 

Of  Luxury,  the  siren  !   not  the  bribes 

Of  sordiil  Wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 

Of  pageant  Honor,  can  scduco  to  leave 

Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 

Of  Nature  fair  Imagination  culls 

To  charm  the  enliveucd  soul!     AVhat  though   not 

all 
Of  mortal  otlspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life;   though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state  ; — 
Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state, 
Endows  at  largo  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 
The  rural  honors  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  colnniu  and  the  arch, 
The  breathing  marbles  and  the  sculptured  gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds;   for  him,  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  Avings, 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
Aud  loves  uufeU  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  Sun's  eft'ulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh     pleasure,    uni-eproved.       Nor    thence     par- 
takes 
Fresh  jdeasuro  only;    for  the  attentive  mind. 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious :   wont  so  oft 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  homo 
To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 
This  fair  inspired  delight :   her  tempered  powers 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

*  *   *  Thus  the   men 
Whom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  with   (lod  him- 
self 
H<dd  converse ;   grow  familiar,  day  by  day, 
AVith  his  ctniceptions,  act  upon  his  plan  ; 
And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls. 


llHlliam  Collins. 

Four  years  younger  than  Gray,  Collins  (17:^-17.5!))  died 
insane  at  the  age  of  thirty-mne.  The  son  of  a  hatter,  lie 
was  born  at  Chichester  on  Cliristmas-day,  was  educated 
at  Winchester  and  Oxford,  and  gave  early  proofs  of  poet- 
ical ability.  He  went  to  London  full  of  high  hopes  and 
niagnilicent  schemes.  Ambitious  and  well-educated,  he 
wanted  tliat  steadiness  of  application  by  which  a  man 
of  genius  may  hope  to  rise.  In  1746  he  published  his 
"Odes,"  wliich  liad  been  bought  by  Millar,  the  book- 
seller. Tiicy  failed  to  attract  attention.  Collins  sank 
inuler  the  disappoiutment.  lie  is  said  to  liave  purchased 
the  unsold  copies  of  the  edition,  and  burnt  them,  lie 
became  still  more  indolent  and  dissipated.  In  1750  his 
reason  began  to  fail,  and  in  1754  he  had  become  hope- 
lessly insane. 

Residing  for  a  time  at  Richmond,  Collins  knew  and 
loved  Thomson,  who  is  supposed  to  have  sketched  his 
friend  in  the  Ibllowing  lines  from  "Tlie  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence :" 

"Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  tlie  place, 
There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark; 
A  certain  tender  gloom  o'erspread  his  face, 
Pensive,  not  sad;  'in  thought  involved,  not  dark. 

Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  buikl. 

Ten  thousand  great  ideas  filled  his  mind; 

But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  uo  trace  behind." 

Johnson  met  Collins  one  day,  carrying  with  him  an 
English  Testament.  "  I  have  but  one  book,"  said  the 
unhappy  poet,  "but  it  is  the  best."  Though  neglected 
on  their  first  appearance,  the  "Odes"  gradually  won 
their  way  to  the  reputation  of  being  the  best  things  of 
the  kind  in  the  language.  The  "Ode  on  the  Passions," 
and  that  to  "  Evening,"  are  the  finest  of  his  lyrical 
works;  but  his  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson,"  in 
its  tenderness  and  pathos,  is  worthy  of  being  associated 
with  them.  After  his  death  there  was  ibund  among  his 
papers  an  ode  on  the  "Superstitions  of  the  Highlands," 
dedicated  to  Home,  the  future  antlior  of  "Douglas." 
Either  through  fitstidiousness  or  madness,  Collins  conp 
mittcd  to  the  flames  many  impublished  pieces. 


ODE,  WRITTEN  IX  THE  YEAR   174G. 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest. 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there! 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


189 


ODE   TO   EVEXIN'G. 

If  uiiglit  of  oalou  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  owu  soloinii  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales; 

O  iiymph  reserved,  while  now  the  l)riglit-liaired  8uii 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  Avliose  clondy  skirts, 

^Yith  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed, — 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  Avhere  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short,  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'mid  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  ; — 

Xow  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose   numbers,  stealing   through   thy  darkening 

vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial,  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star,  arising,  shows 
His  paly  circlet, — at  his  warning  lamp 

Tiie  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  man}'  a  Xjmph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 

sedge. 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still. 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Tiien  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene. 
Or  hud  some  ruin  'mid  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams  ; 

Or,  if  chill,  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  niiue  the  hut 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side. 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  handets  broAvn,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 


Wliilo  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont. 
And  bathe  tliy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  wilh  leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affiights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  love  thy  favorite  name  ! 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON. 

The  scene  of  the  following  stanzas  is  supposed  to  lie  on  the 
Thames,  near  Richmond. 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, 

W^here  slowly  Minds  the  stealing  wave  : 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise, 

To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp'  shall  now  be  laid, 

That  he  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here. 
And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell. 

Shall  sadly  seem,  in  Pity's  ear. 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  Ease  and  Health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  you  whitening  spire,' 

And  'mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthly  bed. 

Ah,  what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 
Or  tears  which  Love  and  Pity  shed. 

That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail  ? 


>  The  harp  of  ^olus,  of  which  see  a  description  in  "The  Cas- 
tle of  Indolence." 
2  Mr.  Thomson  was  buried  in  Richmond  Chnrcli. 


190 


CTCL0I>J:I)IA    of  JUUTISH  AMJ   AMERICAN  J'OETliY 


Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye 

.Sliiill  scorn  thy  iiiile  shrine  ■gliiniiuriim  near 

With  him,  sweet  hard,  niiiy  Fumy  die, 
And  Joy  desert  the  blooiiiim;  year. 

lint  thou,  Utrii  stream,  wiiost^  siilicii  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  nie  from  tlie  "jreiMi  liill's  side 
W'liose  cold  tnrf  liich's  the  hnricd  friend! 

And  SCO,  the  faiiy  valleys  fade  ; 

Dnn  Nij^lit  has  veiled  tlie  solemn  view  ! 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shatle. 

Meek  Nature's  child,  again  adien  ! 

The  genial  meads'  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom  I 

Their  hinds  and  shei)herd-gii]s  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes : 

'"O  vales  and  wild  woods!''  shall  he  say, 
"  In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies !" 


THE    PASSIONS. 

AN  ODE   FOR   MUSIC. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young. 
While  yet  in  earlj'  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Po.S8essed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting. 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  tired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First,  F<>ar  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made 


'  Mr.  Thomson   rpsidcd  in  the  ncigliboihood  of  Richmond 
some  time  before  his  dciilli. 


Next  Anger  rnshcd :   bis  eyes  on  lire 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings; 

III  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled  ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air, 

'Twas  sad  by  tits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  U  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair. 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song: 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  : 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  gohlcn 

hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung, — but,  with  a  frown, 

Keveuge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  tliundor  down. 
And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denonncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe ! 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat: 
And   though   sometimes,  each   dreary  pause   be- 
tween, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien, 
AVhile  each  strained  ball  of  siglit  .seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  number.s,  Jealou.sy,  to  naught  were  fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 
Of  diti'ering  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed. 

And  now  it  courted  Love,  now,  raving,  called  on 
Hate. 

With  eyes  uprai.sed,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired, 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  .seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul  ; 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound. 
Tiirough  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  meastire 
stole  ; 


WILLIAM  COLLINS.— TOBIAS   GEOROE  SMOLLETT. 


1<J1 


Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  foud  delay, 
Eound  a  holy  calm  diftn.siiig, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing. 
In  hollow  niuiinnis  died  away. 
Uiit  oh,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
Wlien  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Ht-r  bow  across  her  shoulder  llnng. 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
lilew  an  inspiring  air  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
Tiie  hunter's  call,  to  Fanu  and  Dryad  known ! 
The  oak-crowned   Sisters   and  their  chaste-eyed 

Queen,' 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys  were  seen. 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear, 

And    Sport   leaped    up    and    seized  his    beechen 
spear. 
Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  \\o\, 

Whose  sweet,  entraneiug  voice  he  loved  tiie  best: 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempd's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amid  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing. 

While,  as  his  liying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gny,  fontastic  round : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  nnbound  ; 
And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  rei)ay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music  !   sphere-descended  maid. 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  AVisdom's  aid ! 
Why,  goddess,  whj',  to  ns  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thj^  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power. 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Xyniph  endeared. 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart. 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page. 
'Tis  said — and  I  believe  the  tale — 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age  ; 

1  The  Dryads  and  Diana. 


E'en  all  at  once  together  found 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
Oh,  bid  our  vain  endeavor  cease; 
Eevivo  the  just  designs  of  Greece; 
Keturn  in  all  thy  simple  state ; 
Conlirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 


(tobias  (Dcorgc  Smollett. 

Better  known  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet,  Smollett 
(1721-1771),  a  native  of  Cardross,  in  Scotland,  was  edu- 
cated at  Dumbarton,  and  thence  proceeded  to  Glasgow 
to  study  medicine.  Literature  and  history,  however,  be- 
came his  passion.  At  eighteen  he  wrote  a  tragedy,  en- 
titled "The  Regicide."  It  never  got  possession  of  the 
stage.  In  1741  he  sailed  as  surgeon's  mate  in  a  ship  of 
the  line  in  the  expedition  to  Carthagena,  which  he  de- 
scribes in  "Roderick  Random."  Having  quitted  the 
service,  he  resided  for  a  time  in  Jamaica,  where  he  fell 
in  love  with  Miss  Lascelles,  whom  he  married  in  1747. 
He  wrote,  in  1740,  "  The  Tears  of  Scotland,"  his  principal 
poem.  After  passing  some  time  in  France  and  Italy,  he 
established  himself  as  a  phj-sician  at  Bath.  His  health 
declining,  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Leghorn,  in  Italy, 
where  he  died,  aged  fifty. 


THE   TEAKS   OF   SCOTLAND. 

Written  on  tlie  barbarities  committed  in  the  Highlands  by 
the  English  forces  under  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  after  the 
battle  of  Culloden,  1746.  It;  is  said  that  Smollett  originally  fin- 
ished the  poem  in  six  stanzas  ;  when,  some  one  remarking  that 
such  a  diatribe  against  government  might  injure  his  prospects, 
he  sat  down  and  added  the  still  more  pointed  invective  of  the 
seventh  stanza. 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 

Th.y  banished  peace,  thy  laurels  torn ! 

Thy  sons,  for  valor  long  renowned, 

Lie  slaughtered  on  their  native  ground  ; 

Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 

Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door; 

In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie. 

The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

Tiie  wretched  owner  sees  nfar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war ; 
Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife, 
Tlien  smites  his  bi'east,  and  curses  life. 
Thy  swains  are  famished  on  the  rocks. 
Where  once  they  fed  their  Avauton  flocks : 
Tliy  ravished  virgins  shriek  in  vain  ; 
Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

Wliat  l)Oots  it,  then,  in  every  clime, 
Tlir(Uigh  tlie  \\ide-spreading  waste  of  lime, 


id-2 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  A^D  AM  Kill  C  AX  I'OETltY. 


Thy  martial  glory,  crowned  with  praise, 
Still  shono  with  iindiiniiii.slu'd  blazo  ? 
Thy  towering  spirit  now  is  broke, 
Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 
What  foreign  arms  conld  never  qnell, 
By  civil  rago  and  rancor  lell. 

The  rural  pipe  and  merry  lay 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day  : 
No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night : 
No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  naught  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe, 
AVhilc  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Glide  nightly  o'er  the  silent  plain. 

Oh  baneful  cause,  oh  fatal  morn. 
Accursed  to  ages  yet  tmborn  ! 
The  sons  against  their  fathers  stood. 
The  parent  shed  his  children's  blood. 
Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased, 
The  victor's  soul  Avas  not  appeased  : 
The  n.ikcd  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames  and  murdering  steel ! 

The  pious  mother,  doomed  to  death, 

Forsaken  wanders  o'er  the  heath. 

The  bleak  Avind  whistles  round  her  head, 

Her  helpless  orphans  ciy  for  bread  ; 

Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend, 

She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend. 

And,  stretched  beneath  the  inclement  skies, 

Weeps  o'er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

While  the  warni  blood  bedews  my  veins, 
And  unimpaired  romembrauce  reigns, 
Resentment  of  my  country's  fate 
Within  mj-  filial  breast  shall  beat; 
And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe. 
My  sympathizing  verse  shall  flow  : 
"Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banished  peace,  thy  laurels  torn  !" 


ODE  TO  LEVEN -WATER. 

On  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove. 
And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love  ; 
I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  idain. 

Pure  stream!  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave; 


No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source ; 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course. 
That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed, 
With  white,  round,  polished  pebbles  spread; 
While,  lightly  poised,  tlic  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 
The  si>ringing  trout  in  speckled  pride; 
The  salmon,  monarch  of  the;  tide  ; 
The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war; 
The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 
By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine. 
And  hedges  flowered  with  eglantine. 
Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaylj'  green. 
May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen, 
And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds  i)ii)ing  in  the  dale ; 
xVnd  ancient  Faith  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  Industry  embrowned  with  toil ; 
And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared, 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard  I 


iJoljn  C)omc. 

Homo  (17:22-1808),  author  of  "Douglas,"  was  a  native 
of  Leith,  Scotland,  where  his  father  was  town-clerk.  He 
entered  the  Ciiureli,  and  succeeded  Blair,  nutlior  of  "The 
Grave,"  as  minister  of  Athclstancfoid.  Previous  to  this 
he  had  had  some  military  experience,  and  taken  up  arms 
as  a  volunteer  against  the  Chevalier.  After  the  defeat 
at  Falkirk,  he  was  imprisoned,  but  effected  his  escape  by 
cutting  his  blanket  into  shreds,  and  letting  himself  down 
on  the  ground.  Great  indignation  was  raised  against 
him  by  the  Scotch  Presbyterians  because  of  Ins  writing 
a  play,  and  he  was  obliged  to  resign  his  living.  Lord 
Bute  rewarded  him  with  a  sinecure  office  in  17(10,  and  he 
received  a  pension  of  £300  per  annum.  lie  wrote  other 
tragedies, which  soon  pasised  into  oblivion;  but  with  an 
income  of  about  £G00  per  annum,  and  with  an  easy, 
cheerful  disposition,  and  distinguished  friendships,  he 
lived  happily  to  the  age  of  eighty-si.\. 


THE     SOLDIER-HERMIT. 

From  "  Douglas,"  a  Thacedv. 

Beneath  a  mountain's  brow,  the  most  remote 

And  inaccessible  by  shepherds  trod. 

In  a  deep  cave,  dug  by  no  mortal  liand, 

A  hermit  lived;   a  melancholy  man, 

Who  was  the  wonder  of  our  wandering  swains. 

Austere  and  lonely,  cruel  to  himself, 

Did  they  report  him  ;  the  cold  earth  his  bed, 

Water  his  drink,  his  food  the  shci)herd's  alms. 


WILLIAM  MASOX.—MISS  J  AXE  ELLIOT. 


1U3 


I  went  to  see  him,  and  my  heart  was  tonched 

AVith  reverence  and  witli  i)iry.     Mild  he  spake; 

And,  entering  oil  discourse,  such  stories  told, 

As  made  me  oft  revisit  his  sad  cell ; 

For  ho  had  been  a  soldier  in  his  j'outh. 

And  fongbt  in  famous  battles,  -when  the  peers 

Of  Europe,  by  the  old  Godfredo  led 

Agaiust  the  usurping  infidel,  displayed 

The  bless6d  cross,  and  won  the  Holy  Land. 

Pleased  with  my  admiration  and  the  fire 

His  speech  struck  from  me,  the  old  man  would  shake 

His  years  away,  and  act  his  young  encounters. 

Then,  having  showed  his  wounds,  he'd  sit  him  down. 

And  all  the  live-long  day  discourse  of  war. 

To  help  my  fancy,  in  the  smooth  green  turf 

He  cut  the  figures  of  the  mai'shalled  hosts  ; 

Described  the  motions  and  explained  the  use 

Of  the  deep  column  and  the  lengthened  line. 

The  square,  the  crescent,  and  the  phalanx  firm  ; 

For  all  that  Saracen  or  Christian  knew 

Of  war's  vast  art,  was  to  this  hermit  known. 

"Why  this  brave  soldier  in  a  desert  hid 
Those  qualities  that  should  have  graced  a  camp. 
At  last  I  also  learued.     Unhappy  man  ! 
Returning  homeward  by  Messina's  port, 
Loaded  with  wealth  and  honors,  bravely  won, 
A  rude  and  boisterous  captain  of  the  sea 
Fastened  a. quarrel  on  him.     Fierce  they  fought: 
The  stranger  fell ;   and,  with  his  dying  breath, 
Declared  his  name  and  lineage.     "Mighty  heaven!" 
The  soldier  cried — "My  brother  I  oh,  my  brother!" 
They  exchanged  forgiveness. 
And  hapiiy,  in  my  mind,  was  he  that  died; 
For  many  deaths  has  the  survivor  sutfered. 
In  the  wild  desert,  on  a  rock,  he  sits, 
Or  on  some  nameless  stream's  untrodden  banks. 
And  ruminates  all  day  his  dreadful  fate  : 
At  times,  alas!   not  in  his  perfect  mind, 
Holds  dialogues  with  his  loved  brother's  ghost; 
And  oft,  each  night,  forsakes  his  sullen  couch, 
To  make  sad  orisons  for  him  he  slew. 


llUlliam  iHaGon. 

Masou,  a  native  of  Yorkshire  (17:^5-1797),  was  the 
friend  and  literary  executor  of  Gray,  whose  acquaint- 
ance lie  made  at  Cambridge.  He  became  chaplain  to 
the  king,  and  wrote  plays  and  odes  after  Greek  models; 
but  they  lack  vitality.  In  1781  he  published  a  didactic 
poem,  "The  English  Garden,"  in  blank  verse,  a  stiff  and 
much  padded  production.  In  one  genuine  little  poem, 
an  epitapli  on  his  wife,  he  seems  to  be  betrayed  into 
true  feeling,  and  to  escape  from  that  "  stateliness  and  as- 
13 


sumed  superiority  of  manner"  which  Aikiu  refers  to  as 
characteristic  of  Mason's  external  demeanor,  but  which 
seems  to  have  influenced  liis  interior  nature  so  far  as  to 
have  deadened  all  spontaneousncss  in  his  poetical  utter- 
ances. It  should  be  remarked  that  the  last  four  lines  of 
the  "Epitaph  on  Mrs.  ^lason "  were  supplied  by  Giay. 


EPITAPH    OX    MRS.  MASON,  IN   THE   CATHE- 
DRAL OF   BRISTOL. 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  .soul  holds  dear; 

Take  that  best  gift  which  Heaven  so  lately  gave! 
To  Bristol's  fount  I  bore  with  trembling  care 

Her  faded  form  ;    she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave, 
And  died.     Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the  line? 

Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  ? 
Speak,  dead  Maria!   breathe  a  strain  divine! 

Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to 
charm. 
Lid  them  be  chaste,  he  innocent,  like  thee; 

Bid  them  in  duty's  sphere  as  meekly  move ; 
And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free, 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love, — 
Tell  them,  though  'tis  an  awful  thing  to  die 

('Twas  even  to  thee),  yet,  the  dread  path  once 
trod. 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high, 

And  bids  the  pure  in  heart  behold  their  God. 


iUiss  Sauc  (!:iaot. 

Two  Scottish  national  ballads,  bearing  the  name  of 
"The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,"  both  the  composition  of 
ladies,  are  among  the  curiosities  of  literature.  The  first 
of  the  two  versions,  bewailing  the  losses  sustained  at 
Flodden,  was  written  by  Miss  Jane  Elliot  (1727-1805), 
daughter  of  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  of  Minto. 

The  second  song,  which  appears  to  be  on  the  same 
subject,  but  was  in  reality  suggested  (according  to 
Chambers)  by  the  bankruptcy  of  certain  gentlemen  in 
Selkirkshire,  is  by  Alicia  Rutherford,  of  Fairnalie,  who 
wag  afterward  married  to  Mr.  Patrick  Cockburn,  advo- 
cate, and  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1794.  She  foresaw  and 
proclaimed  the  promise  of  Walter  Scott. 


THE   FLOWERS   OF  THE   FOREST. 

L.VMENT   FOR   FLODDEN. 

I've  heard  them  lilting'  at  our  yowe-milking. 
Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  o'  day; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  in  ilka  green  loaning' 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


'  Singing  cheerfully. 


*  A  broad  lane. 


194 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


At  biichts'  in  tlio  moruiii<]f,  iiao  blitbo  lads  are 
scorning," 

The  lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie"  and  wm'  ; 
Nao  daffinV  "ae  gabbing  I'l't  sigliiiij^  and  sabbing; 

Ilk  ane  lifts  lier  Icglcn,"  and  hies  lief  away. 

In  liairst,  at  the  shearing,'  nao  yonths  now  are 
jeering  ; 

Tlie  bandsters"  are  lyart"  and  rnnklcd'"  and  gray; 
At  fair  or  at  preaeliing  nae  wooing,  nae  lleeehing" — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wcde  awaj'. 

At  e'en,  at  the  gloaming,  nao  swankics  are  roaming, 
'Bont  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle'*  to  play ; 

But  ilk  ano  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dule'^  and  wac  for  the  order,  sent  onr  lads  to  the 

Border ! 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  gnile  wan  the  day ; 

The  Flowers   of  the   Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the 

foremost, 

The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  claj". 

We  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  yowe-milkiug ; 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae : 
Sighing  and  moaning  in  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


iUrs.  Alicia  (Uutl)crfovb)  (Eoclxburu. 

Mrs.  Cockburn  (1712-1794)  was  a  native  of  Fairnalic,  in 
Selkirkshire.  Her  father  was  Kobert  Kutherford.  There 
seems  to  be  some  doubt  whetlier  her  one  fine  lyric  was 
not  written  prior  to  that  of  Miss  Elliot.  Sec  further 
particulars,  page  103. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

I've  seen  the  smiling 

Of  Fortune  beguiling; 
I've  felt  all  its  favors,  and  found  its  decay; 

Sweet  was  its  blessing, 

Kind  its  caressing ; 
But  now  'tis  fled — fled  far  away. 

I've  seen  the  forest 
Adorudd  the  foremost 


With  flowers  of  the  fairest,  most  pleasant  and  gay; 

Sae  bonny  was  their  blooming. 

Their  scent  the  air  iierfuming! 
But  now  they  are  withered  aud  weeded  away. 

I've  seen  the  moining 

With  gold  the  hills  adorning, 
And  loud  temi>est  storming  before  the  mid-day; 

l'\e  seen  Tweed's  silver  streams, 

Shining  in  the  sunny  beams. 
Grow  druudy  and  dark  as  he  rowed  ou  his  way. 

O  fickle  Fortune  ! 

Why  this  cruel  sporting  ? 
Oh,  why  still  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a  day  ? 

Nae  mair  your  smiles  can  cheer  me, 

Kae  mair  your  frowns  can  fear  me  ; 
For  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest  a^e  a'  wede  aw;iy. 


(Dliucr  (!?ollismitlj. 


'  Pens  for  sheep. 

*  Joking. 

'  Heaping. 
">  Wiinkled. 
"  Sorrow. 


^  Rallying. 
5  Cliafflng. 
"  Sheaf-binders. 
"  Coaxing. 


3  Drear}'. 
«  Milk-pail. 
»  Grizzled. 
'2  Ghost. 


The  son  of  a  liuinble  Irish  curate,  Goldsmith  (1728- 
1774)  was  born  in  Longford  County,  Ireland.  He  re- 
ceived his  education  at  the  universities  of  Dublin  and 
Edinburgh,  aud  i:)assed  a  winter  at  Lcydcn,  where  he 
lived  cliielly  by  teaching  English.  After  spending  near- 
ly all  tlie  money  he  had  just  borrowed  from  a  friend  in 
buying  a  parcel  of  rare  tulip-roots  for  his  mide  Conta- 
rine,  who  had  befriended  him,  he  left  Leyden,  "with  a 
guinea  in  his  pocket,  but  one  shirt  to  his  back,  and  a 
flute  in  his  hand,"  to  make  the  grand  tour  of  Europe, 
and  seek  for  his  medical  degree.  He  travelled  through 
Flanders,  France,  Germany,  Switzerland,  and  Italy — of- 
ten trudging  all  day  on  foot,  and  at  niglit  playing  merry 
tunes  on  his  flute  before  a  peasant's  cottage,  in  the  hope 
of  a  supper  and  a  bed;  for  a  time  acting  as  companion 
to  the  rich  young  nephew  of  a  pawnbroker;  and  in  Italy 
winning  a  shelter,  a  little  money,  and  a  plate  of  maca- 
roni by  disputing  in  the  universities. 

In  175(i  he  arrived  poor  in  London,  and  made  a  desper- 
ate attempt  to  gain  a  footing  in  the  medical  i)rofessiou. 
After  working  for  awhile  with  mortar  aud  ]icstle  as  an 
apothecary's  drudge,  he  commenced  practice  among  the 
poor  of  Southwark.  Here  we  catch  two  glimpses  of  his 
little  figure — once,  in  faded  green  and  gold,  talking  to  an 
old  school-fellow  in  the  street;  and  again,  in  rusty  black 
velvet,  with  second-hand  cane  and  wig,  trying  to  conceal 
a  great  patch  in  liis  coat  by  pressing  his  old  hat  fashion- 
ably against  his  side. 

In  1759  he  published  his  "  Present  State  of  Literature 
in  Europe:"  he  also  began  a  series  of  light  essays,  enti- 
tled "The  Bee;"  but  the  "Bee''  did  not  make  honey  for 
him ;  it  expired  in  eight  weeks.  At  Newberry's  book- 
store he  became  acquainted  with  Bishop  Percy,  who  in- 
troduced him  to  Dr.  Johnson,  May  31st,  1701.  About 
that  time  Goldsmith  lodged  with  a  Mrs.  Fleming.  It 
was  in  her  loduiniis  that,  being  pressed  either  to  pay 
his  bill  or  to  marry  his  landlady,  he  applied  for  help  to 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


195 


Dr.  Johnson.  On  that  occasion  the  MS.  of  "Tlic  Vicar 
of  AVakelicId"  was  produced.  Johnson  was  so  niiicli 
struck  with  it  that  he  negotiated  its  sale,  and  obtained 
£00  for  tlie  work,  whcreb}'  Goldsmitli  was  extricated 
from  his  ditlieulties,  and  from  Mrs.  Fleming. 

In  1~()5  "The  Traveller"  was  published.  Its  success 
was  immediate,  and  its  author  was  at  once  recognized  as 
a  man  of  mark  in  all  literary  circles.  The  following  j'car 
"The  Vicar  of  Wakelield,"  which  Newberrj'  had  not  j^et 
ventured  to  publish,  appeared,  and  was  welcomed  as  the 
most  delightful  of  domestic  novels.  "The  Good-natured 
Man,"  a  comedy,  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden  in 
1768 ;  and  in  1773  Goldsmith's  great  dramatic  success 
was  made  in  tlie  production  of  "  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
([uer,"  an  admirable  and  well -constructed  play,  which 
still  keeps  possession  of  the  stage.  The  year  1770  saw 
tlie  publication  of  the  most  famous  poem  from  his  pen, 
"  The  Deserted  Village." 

In  maturcr  age,  as  in  youth.  Goldsmith  was  careless, 
improvident,  and  unable  to  keep  the  money  he  earned. 
He  hung  loosely  on  society,  without  wife  or  domestic 
tie.  He  received  £850  for  "The  History  of  Animated 
Nature,"  largely  a  translation  from  Buftbn.  But  debt 
had  him  in  its  talons.  Still  he  would  give  away  to  any 
needy  person  the  last  penny  he  had  in  his  own  pocket. 
His  chambers  were  the  resort  of  a  congregation  of  poor 
people  whom  he  habitually  relieved.  At  last  Goldsmith 
grew  to  be  abrupt,  odd,  and  abstracted.  The  alarm  of 
his  friends  was  excited.  At  that  date  a  literary  associa- 
tion used  to  meet  at  St.  James's  Coffee-house.  Garrick, 
Burke,  Cumberland,  Keynokls,  and  others  were  regular 
attendants.  A  night  of  meeting  having  arrived,  and 
Goldsmith  being  late,  as  usual,  the  members  amused 
themselves  by  writing  epitaphs  on  him  as  "the  late  Dr. 
Goldsmith."  When  he  came,  these  effusions  were  read 
to  him.  On  returning  home,  he  commenced  his  poem 
entitled  "Retaliation."  It  was  never  completed,  for  fe- 
ver seized  him  at  his  work.  A  doctor  being  called  in, 
asked,  "Is  your  mind  at  ease?"  "No,  it  is  not,"  were 
the  last  M'ords  Goldsmith  uttered.  He  was  seized  with 
convulsions  on  the  morning  of  April  4th,  1774,  and  died, 
at  the  age  of  forty-six.  He  was  £2000  in  debt.  "Was 
ever  poet  so  trusted  before!"  exclaimed  Johnson. 

Goldsmith  is  described  by  a  lady  who  knew  him — the 
daughter  of  his  friend,  Lord  Clare — as  one  "who  was  a 
strong  republican  in  principle,  and  who  w'ould  have  been 
a  very  dangerous  writer  if  he  had  lived  to  the  times  of 
the  French  Revolution."  His  "  Deserted  Village  "  shows 
his  profound  sensibilities  in  behalf  of  the  poor  and  un- 
friended. The  verse  of  this  exquisite  poem  is  the  con- 
ventionally stiff  heroic  couplet;  but  it  assumes  an  ease 
and  grace  in  Goldsmith's  hands  which  relieves  it  of  all 
artitlcial  monoton}'. 

The  monument  to  Goldsmith  in  Poet's  Corner,  West- 
minster Abbe}',  bears  an  inscription  in  Latin  from  the 
pen  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which  says :  "  He  left  scarcely  any 
style  of  writing  untouched,  and  touched  notliing  that  he 
did  not  adorn;  of  all  tlie  passions  (whether  smiles  were 
to  be  moved  or  tears)  a  powerful  yet  gentle  master;  in 
genius  sublime,  vivid,  versatile  ;  iu  style  elevated,  clear, 
elegant.  The  love  of  companions,  the  lidelity  of  friends, 
and  the  veneration  of  readers,  have  by  this  monument 
honored  his  memory." 


THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Aubnra  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  ! 
Where    bealtU    and   plenty   cheered    the    laboring 

swain  ; 
Where  smiling-  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  Summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed ! 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  everj'  charm — 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  A'illage  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beueath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 
And   sleights   of  art   and   feats   of  strength   went 

round  ; 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired. 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove  : 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like 

these. 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 
These   round  thy  bowers  their   cheerful  influence 

shed. 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are 

lied. 
Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn  ! 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  'withdrawn ; 
Amid  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen. 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  oidy  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  tliy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  gla.ssy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weary  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  gnest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amid  thy  desert-walks  the  lapwing  flies. 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  nnv.iried  cries. 


196 


CICLOI'JWIA    OF  BRITISH  ASD  AMERICAN  I'OETRY. 


Sunk  aro  thy  bowers  iu  Hbapcless  ruin  all, 
Aucl  the  long  grass  o'crtops  tlio  nionldt'ring  wall  ; 
And,  tvpnibliiig,  shrinking  from  the  spoikM-'s  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening-  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accnninlates  and  men  deeay. 
Princes  and  lords  niiiy  Ihinrisii  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made: 
Bnt  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  ouco  destroyed,  can  never  be  snp])]ied. 

A  time  there  Avas,  e'er  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  grouud  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  bnt  gave  no  more  ; 
His  best  companions  innocence  and  health. 
And  his  best  riches  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered :    trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  laud,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  Avealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  jdenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  bnt  little  romn, 
Those    healthful    sports    that    graced    the   peaceful 

scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green  ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  siiore, 
Aud  rural  niirtli  and  manners  are  no  more- 
Sweet  Auburn!   parent  of  the  blissful  hour' 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  i)o\ver. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amid  thy  tangling  -walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
Aud  keep  the  tlame  from  wasting,  by  repose  ; 
1  still  had  hopes  (for  pride  attends  us  still) 
Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill; 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw  : 
Aud,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  linrns  imrsue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  lirst  she  Hew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  hmg  vexations  i)ast. 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  homo  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement!   friend  to  life's  decline! 
Retreats  from  care  that  never  must  be  mine! 


How  blest  is  ho  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  ago  of  ease ! 
Who  rpiits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  Hy! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  snrlj-  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  : 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  liis  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  drcay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  Avay  ; 
Aud,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 
Sweet    was   the    sound,  when    oft    at    evening's 
close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  cai'cless  steps  and  slow, 
Tlie  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  : 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  jiocd. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  Avhispering 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  tlio  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  iu  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
Bnt  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled  : 
All  bnt  yon  Avidowed.  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  : 
She  only  li'ft  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  gardeu-flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
xV  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towus  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er   had   changed,  nor  wished  to   change,  his 

jdace ; 
Unskilful  ho  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fa.shioued  to  tlie  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


197 


His  lumsc  was  kuo\Yn  to  all  the  vagrant  train — 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  ag6d  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  niglit  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouklered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to 

glow. 
And  quite  forgot  tlieir  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pit  J'  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thns,  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride ; 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt,  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all: 
And,  as  a  T)ird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  ]iain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unafl'ected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  jilace ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  witk  double  sway, 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  jiious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  eacli  honest  rustic  ran  : 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his   gown   to   share   the   good  man's 

smile  ; 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed — 
Their    welfare   jileased   him,  and    their    cares   dis- 
tressed : 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though   round   its   breast   the   rolling   clouds   are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  nnprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 


A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  Avell  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes  (for  many  a  joke  had  he) ; 
Full  well  the  busj"^  whisper,  circling  round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  Avhen  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  ho  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault: 
The  village  all  declared  liow  much  he  knew — 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lauds  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For  e'en,  though  A-anquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While   words   of   learned   length    and   thundering- 
sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that   house   where   nut-brown   draughts 

inspired. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired  ; 
Where   village    statesmen    talked   with  looks  pro- 
found. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  : 
Tiie  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay — 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  daj' ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
AVith  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendors!   could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fiill ! 
Obscure  it  siuks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart : 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  Ijallad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 


198 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  IIRITISII  AM)   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  host  liiiuself  uo  longer  shall  be  foniul, 
Caiefnl  to  see  the  inanlliiig  Itliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cnp  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!   let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
0:ie  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art; 
t?l)ontaueons  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  lirst-born  sway  ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  ])omp,  the  midnight  masijnerade, 
"With  all  the  freaks  of  -wanton  Avealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  trillers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  tliis  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  Avish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around; 
Yet  count  our  gains :   this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the    neighboring   iickls   of  half  their 

growth  ; 
His  scat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Ai'ound  the  world  each  needful  product  Hies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
While  thus  the  laud  adorned  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  jdain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 
Slights    every    borrowed    charm    that    dress    sup- 
plies. 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past  (for  charms  are 

frail). 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress : 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed  ; 


But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

While,  scourged  by  famines,  from  the  smiling  land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  oue  arm  to  save. 

The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave ! 

Where,  then,  ah,  where  shall  Poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed. 
Ho  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  teu  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  ^ileasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  tiicir  long-drawn  pomp  dis- 
play. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way ; 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square. 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Suie,  scenes  like  these- no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure,  these  denote  one  luiiversal  joy! 
Ai"o  these  thy  serious  thoughts?     Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless,  shivering  female  lies: 
She,  once  perhaps  in  village  jflenty  blessed. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed  ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  : 
Now  lost  to  all  ;   her  friends,  her  virtue,  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head  ; 
And,  pinched   with  cold,  and  shrinking  from   the 

shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When  idly  flrst,  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Uo  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'eu  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 

Ah  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between. 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go. 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


199 


'I'liose  bhiziiig  suns  that  dart  a.  down  ward  ray, 
And  liiTcely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  Avhere  birds  forget  to  sing, 
IJnt  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 
Those  poisouons  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  deatli  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wako 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
W^here  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  more  murd'rous  still  than  they; 
•While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  ditforeut  these  from  everj'  former  scene  — 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  part- 
ing day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away, 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondlj'  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main, 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Eeturned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  iu  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  iu  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes. 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose  ; 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear. 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury!   thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Dirtuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms,  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own  : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  nnwieldy  woe  ; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  ever^'  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 


Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail. 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care. 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there  ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  I 
Unlit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame. 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
;My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe. 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nni'se  of  every  virtue,  fiire  thee  Avell ; 
Farewell !   and  oh,  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno's  clifls,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Eedress  the  rigors  of  th'  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  Truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain. 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him  that  states,  of  native  strength  possessed, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  enii)ire  hastes  to  swift  decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


FEOM  "THE  TRAVELLER;    OR,  A  PROSPECT 
OF   SOCIETY." 

Of  the  plan  of  this  poem,  IMncaulay  says:  "An  English  wan- 
derer, seated  on  a  ciag  among  the  Alps  near  the  point  where 
three  great  countries  meet,  looks  down  on  the  boundless  pros- 
pect, reviews  his  long  pilgrimage,  recalls  the  variations  of 
scenery,  of  climate,  of  government,  of  religion,  of  national  char- 
acter which  he  has  observed,  and  comes  to  the  conclusion,  just 
or  unjust,  that  our  hajjpiness  depends  little  on  political  insti- 
tutions, and  much  on  the  temper  and  regulation  of  our  own 
minds."  Johnson  is  said  to  have  contributed  the  last  ten  lines 
of  the  poem,  excepting  the  last  couplet  but  one. 

Remote,  unfriended,  nielancholj',  slow. 
Or  by  the  lazy  Schcld,  or  wandering  Po  ; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies ; 
AVhere'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see. 
My  heart,  untravcllcd,  fondly  turns  to  thee: 


200 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BlllTlSH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  ilraj^s  at  each  reuiDVO  a  lengthening?  cliain. 

Eternal  blessin<j;s  crown  my  earliest  Irieud, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend; 
151est  be  that  spot,  where  eiii'erful  guests  retire 
To  pause  IVoni  toil,  and  trim  tlirir  evening  fire; 
Hlest  that  abode,  where  want   and  jiain  repair. 
And  every  stranger  linds  a  ready  chair; 
IJlest  be  those  leasts  with  simple  plenty  crowned, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share. 
My  prime  of  life  in  waml«i"i»g  spent  and  care; 
Impelled  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  nu;  with  the  view 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 
Even  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  mo  down  a  pcusive  hour  to  spend; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amid  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That    good    which    makes    each    humbler    bosom 

vain  ? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  nuiu  ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  .sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye    glittering    towns,   with    wealth    and    splendor 

crowned  ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round ; 
Ye  lakes,  whose  ves.sels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  llowery  vale. 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine; 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  miue. 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  .store. 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er, 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  lill. 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  arc  wanting  still ; " 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  sup- 

idles ; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall. 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small; 


And  oft  I  wish,  ami<l  the  scene  to  lind 

Si>nie  spot  to  real  happiness  eonsigne<l, 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss,  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  ha])piest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  i)reti'nd  to  know  ? 

Vf  #  7t  7f  *  # 

Vail),  very  \ain,  my  weary  search  to  lind 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repo.se, 
To  seek  a  good  each  goverumeut  bestows  f 
In  every  goverumeut,  though  terrors  reign. 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  eiulure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure! 
Still  to  nurstlves  in  every  place  consigned. 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find: 
With  secret  cour.se,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel,' 
To  meu  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known. 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience  all  our  own. 


KETALIATION  : 

INCLUDING  EPIT.\PIIS   OX  TllK   MOST   DISTINGUISHED 
WITS   OF   THE    METUOrOI.IS. 

Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited. 
Each   guest   brought  his  dish,  and   the  feast   was 

united  ; 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  lish. 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the 

best  dish  : 
Our  dean^   shall  bo   venison,  just   fresh   from  the 

plains ; 
Our  Ihirke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  braius; 
Our  Will'  shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent  flavor, 
And  Dick*  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their  .savor; 
Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain. 
And  Douglas^  is  pudding,  substautial  and  plain  ; 
Our  Garrick's  a  salad  ;   for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  .saltuess  agree  ; 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am. 
That  Ridge"  is  anchovy,  anil  Eeyuolds  is  lamb ; 

'  Georjre  niul  Luke  Dosa  were  two  brothers  who  headed  a 
revolt  afr.•>ill^<t  the  IIini<:;u'ian  nobles  in  1.514;  and  George,  not 
Luke,  underwent  the  tenure  of  the  red-hot  iron  crown  as  a 
pnni.slnnent  for  allowing;  himself  lo  be  proclaimed  King  of 
Hungary  by  the  rebels.    Uoswell  gives  Zeck  as  their  name. 

Damiens  (Uobeit  Franjois)  was  put  to  death  with  frightful 
tortures,  in  IT.')",  for  an  attempt  to  assassinate  Louis  XV. 

-  Doctor  Barnard  of  Deny.  ^  William  Burke. 

■•  Kichard  Burke.      '  Canou  of  Windsor.     «  Au  Irish  lawyer. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


201 


That  Hickey's'  a  capon  ;   and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  bo  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  (lie  last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine!  let  mo  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  J  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,  reunited  to  earth. 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth  : 
If  he  had  auy  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  iu  six  Avceks,  I  could  not  find  'em  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  bo  denied  'em. 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,"  whose  genius  was 

such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  nuich; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  iiarty  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind  ; 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 

throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Towushend  to  lend  him  a  vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining. 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 

dining  ; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit; 
For  a  iiatriot  too  cool,  for  a  drudge  disobedient, 
And  too  fond  of  the  riglit  to  iiursue  the  cspulicHf. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed,  or  iu  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 
Here   lies   honest   William,  whose   heart   was   a 

mint,  [was  in't : 

While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along. 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong; 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam  — 
The  coachman  was  tips3-,  the  chariot  drove  home. 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits?  alas!  he  had  none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous ;   his  faults  were 

his  own.  [at ; 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet! 
What  spirits  were  his!  what  wit  and  what  wliira! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb  ; 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball; 
Xow  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old 

Nick  ; 


'  An  emiueut  .ittorney. 


■•'  Edmuiiil  Burke. 


But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein. 
As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  i)arts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 
A  flattering  i)ainter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  tiiey  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine. 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizeued  her  out. 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud  ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  Avithout  fault  ? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires,  from  his  toils  to  relax, — 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks. 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divine.s. 
Come,  and  dance   on  the   spot  where   your  tyrant 

reclines ! 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  feared  for  jour  safety,  I  feared  for  mj"  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector ; 
Our  Dodds  shall  bo  pious,  our  Keuricks  shall  lecture, 
Macpherson  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Towushend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile ! 
New  Landers  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over. 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the 

dark. 
Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can. 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  : 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart. 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beautj',  his  colors  he  spread 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  afiecting  ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  ho  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day. 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  \>y  finessing  and  trick  ; 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he   knew   when   he  jdeased  he   could  whistle 

them  back. 


202 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRIT  IS  II  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  be  swallowed  what  came, 
And  the  putt'  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  pepiiered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  bo  candid,  and  spealc  out  our  mind. 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  lliom  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  ye  Woodfalls  so  grave. 
What  a   conimorco  was  yours  Avhile  you  got  and 

you  gave, 
llow  did  (Jrub  Street  re-echo  the  sliouts  that  you 

raised, 
While    lie    was   be  -  Rpsciused,  and   you    were   be- 

juaisod ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  whei'cver  it  llios, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  witli  the  skies : 
Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  liis  skill, 
Shall  still  bo  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will; 
Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  jiraise  and  with 

love. 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 
Here    Hickey    reclines,   a    most    blunt,  pleasant 

creature. 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  ; 
He  cherished  his  friend,  and  he  relished  a  bumper; 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 
I  answer.  No,  no — for  be  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go. 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest?     Ab  no! 
Theu    what    was    his   fiiiling  ?    come,  tell    it,  and 

burn  ye ! 
He  was — could  he  help  it  ? — a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  : 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard 

(if  hearing  ; 
When   they  talked   of  their   Raphaels,  Correggios, 

and  stud". 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 
By  flattery  unspoiled — 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Hero  Whitefoord  reclines,  and,  deny  it  who  can. 
Though  ho  mcrrihi  lived,  bo  is  now  a  <jruvc  man. 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  ! 
Who  relished  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun  ; 


Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere ; 
A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear; 
Who  scattered  around  wit  and  linmor  at  will  ; 
Whoso  daily  hons-mots  half  a  column  might  fill  ; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas!   that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined  ; 
Who  perhaps  to  the  sununit  of  science  could  soar. 
Yet  content  "if  the  table  be  set  on  a  roar  j" 
Whose  talents  to  till  any  station  were  fit, 
Y'et  hapi)y  if  Woodfall  confessed  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspai)er  witlings!  ye  pert  scribbling  folks! 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes! 
Ye  tixmc  imitator's !   ye  servile  herd !   come. 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb. 
To  deck  it  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 
Then  strew  all  around  it — you  can  do  no  less — 
Cross-readiiifjs,  sh'qy-uews,  aiul  mistakes  of  the  prens. 

IMerry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humor;  I  had  almost  said  wit: 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 
"Thou  best-humored  man,  with  the  worst-humored 
muse.'" 


(iiljoinas  ycrcij. 


Percy,  bishop  of  Droniore  (1728-1811),  was  the  son  of 
a  grocer,  and  a  native  of  Bridgnorth,  in  Shropshire.  He 
was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  luiving  taken  liol^-  orders,  be- 
came successively  chaplain  to  the  king,  a  dean,  and  then 
a  bishop.  In  17G5  he  published  his  "Keliqucs  of  English 
Poetry,"  the  woi-k  by  which  he  is  chiefly  known.  It  wns 
largely  intluential  in  awakening  a  taste  for  natural  de- 
scriptions, simplicity,  and  true  passion,  in  opposition  to 
tiio  coldly  correct  and  falsely  sentimental  style  which 
was  then  predominant  in  English  literature.  Percy  al- 
tered and  supplemented  many  of  these  old  pieces,  copied 
as  they  were  mostly  from  illiterate  transcripts  or  the 
imperfect  recitation  of  itinerant  ballad-singers. 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY.'' 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads. 

And  be  met  with  a  lady  fair, 
Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar, 
I  praj'  thee  tell  to  me, 


'  C.-ilcb  Wliiteroord,  a  writer  for  the  Advertinn: 

2  Composed  mostly  of  fragmeuts  of  ancient  ballads. 


THOMAS  PERCY. 


203 


If  ever  at  yon  holy  slirine 
My  true  love  tbou  didst  see." 

"And  liow  sbould  I  know  your  true  love 

From  many  another  one  V 
'•  Oh,  by  his  cockle  hat  and  staflF, 

And  by  his  saudal  shoon  : 

'•  But  chiefly  bj'  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view  ; 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"  O  lady,  ho  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he's  dead  and  gone  ! 
At  his  head  a  green-grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

"  Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 

He  languished,  and  he  died, 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love, 

And  'plaining  of  her  pride. 

"  Here  bore  him  barefaced  ou  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall ; 
And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirk -yard  wall." 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth? 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  !" 

"  Oh,  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so. 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"  Oh,  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar. 

My  sorrow  now  reprove  ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

"And  now,  alas!   for  thy  sad  loss 
I'll  evermore  weep  and  sigh  ; 

For  thee  I  only  wished  to  Uac, 
For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 

"  Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  ; 
For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  shower 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 


"  Our  joys  as  wingM  dreams  do  fly  ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last  ? 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss, 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"Oh  say"  not  so,  thou  holy  friar! 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 
For  since  my  true  love  died  for  me, 

'Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

"And  will  he  never  come  again  ? 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah !   no,  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Forever  to  remain. 

"  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  I'ose  ; 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he  ; 
But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave ; 

Alas,  and  woe  is  me !" 

"  Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more ; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land. 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 

And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 
For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"  Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart — 

Oh,  he  was  ever  true! 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth. 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 
Then  farewell,  home  ;   for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be. 

"  But  first  upon  my  true  love's  grave 

My  weary  limbs  I'll  lay. 
And  thrice  I'll  kiss  the  green-grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  awhile 
■    Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 
The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blows. 
And  drizzly  rain  dotli  fall." 

"  Oh,  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 
Oh,  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 


204 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  nillTISH  AND  AMERICAX  POETRY. 


No  drizzly  laiii  that  falls  on  iiic 

Can  wash  my  I'aull  away." 

"Yet  stay,  lair  lady,  fiuii  :i<:;ain, 

And  dry  those  jjcarly  tears  ; 
For  sec,  bcnoatli  ti)is  jjown  of  j;ray 

Thy  own  trne  love  appears. 

"  Here,  forced  hy  grief  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  I  songht, 
And  here  amid  these  lonely  walls 

To  end  my  dnys  I  thon<;lit. 

"  But  haply,  for  my  year  of  jjrace 

Is  not  yet  passed  away, 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"Now  farewell  grief,  and  Avclcome  joy 

Once  more  nnto  my  heart ! 
For  since  I've  found  (hee,  lovely  youth, 

We  never  more  will  part." 


(iljomas  lUarton. 

Thomas  Warton,  the  liistorian  of  English  poetry  (1728- 
1790),  was  the  second  son  of  Dr.  Warton,  of  Magdalen 
College,  Oxford,  who  was  twice  chosen  Professor  of 
Poetry  by  his  university,  and  who  himself  wrote  verses 
now  happily  consigned  to  oblivion.  Joseph  (1733-1800), 
the  elder  brother  of  Thomas,  was  also  a  poet  in  a  small 
way,  and  wrote  an  "  Ode  to  Fancy,"  hardly  up  to  the 
standard  of  a  modern  school-boy.  Thomas  began  early 
to  write  verses.  His  "  Progress  of  Discontent,"  written 
before  he  was  twenty,  and  in  the  style  of  Swift,  is  a  re- 
markably clever  production.  It  gave  promise  of  achieve- 
ments which  he  never  fulfillecl.  He  was  made  poetry- 
professor  at  Oxford  in  1757,  and,  on  the  death  of 'White- 
head in  178.5,  was  appointed  poet-laureate.  His  "  His- 
tory of  English  Poetry"  (1774-1778)  forms  the  basis  of 
his  reputation,  and  is  a  valuable  storehouse  of  facts  and 
criticisms.  Ilazlitt  considered  some  of  Wartou's  sonnets 
"the  linest  in  the  language;"  but  this  is  wholly  un- 
merited praise.  Coleridge  and  Bowles  also  commended 
tliem.     We  select  out  of  his  nine  sonnets  the  two  best. 


TO   MK.  GKAY. 

Not  that  her  blooms  are  marked  with  beauty's  hue, 
Mj'  rustic  Muse  her  votive  chaplet  brings; 
Un.seen,  nidieard,  O  Gray,  to  thee  she  sings! — 
While  slowly  pacing  through  the  church-yard  dew. 
At  curfew-time,  beneath  the  dark-green  yew. 
Thy  pensive  genius  strikes  the  moral  strings ; 
Or  borne  sublime  on  Inspiration's  wings, 


Hears  Cambria's  bards  devote  the  dreadful  clew 
Of  Edward's  race,  witli  murders  foul  defd(Ml  ; 
Can  aught  my  pipe  to  reach  thine  ear  essay? 
No,  bard  divine!     For  many  a  care  beguiled 
By  the  sweet  magic  of  thy  soothing  lay, 
For  many  a  raptured  thought,  and  vision  wild, 
To  thee  this  strain  of  gratitude  I  pay. 


TO   THE   RIVER   LODOX. 

Miss  Mitford,  in  "Om-  Village,"  says  of  the  Lodon :  "Is  it 
not  a  beaiUiful  river?  rising  level  with  its  banks,  so  clear,  and 
smooth,  and  jteaccfnl,  giving  back  the  verdant  landsca))e  and 
the  blight  bine  sky,  and  bearing  on  its  pellucid  stream  tlie 
snowy  water-lily,  tlie  purest  of  flowers,  which  sits  enthroned 
on  its  own  cool  leaves,  looking  chastity  itself,  like  the  lady  in 
'  Conuis.'  " 

Ah  !   what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run. 
Since  lirst  I  trod  thy  banks  with  tilders  crowned. 
And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  ground, 
Beneath  thy  azure  sky,  and  g(dden  sun  : 
Where  lirst  my  Muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 
While  pensive  Memory  traces  back  the  round. 
Which  tills  the  varied  interval  between  ; 
Much  i>le;isure,  more  of  sorrow,  jnarks  the  scene. 
Sweet  native  stream!  those  skies  and  suus  so  pure 
No  more  return,  to  cheer  my  evening  road ! 
Yet  still  one  joy  renniins,  that  not  obscure. 
Nor  useless  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed, 
From  youth's  gay  dtiwn  to  manhood's  ])rime  nniture; 
Nor  with  tlie  JInse's  laurel  nnbestowed. 


3ol)u  (rnnuintjljam. 


Cunningham  (1739-1773),  the  son  of  a  wine-cooper  in 
Dublin,  was  an  actor  by  profession.  "  His  pieces,"  says 
Cbambcrs,  "are  full  of  i>astoral  simplicity  and  lyrical 
melody.    He  aiiued  at  nothing  high,  and  seldom  failed." 


MAY-EYE;    OR,  KATE   OF  ABERDEEN. 

The  silver  moon's  enamored  beam 

Steals  softly  through  the  night. 
To  wanton   with  the  winding  stream. 

And  kiss  rellected  light. 
To  beds  of  state,  go,  balmy  sleep — 

'Tis  where  you've  seldom  been — 
May's  vigil  while  the  shepherds  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait, 
In  ro.sy  chaplets  gay. 


JOUX  SCOTT.— WILLIAM  FALCOXEU.—ErxASMUS  DAEWIX. 


205 


Till  iiioiii  unbars  her  golden  gate, 
And  gives  the  promised  May. 

■Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare 
The  promised  May,  wlieu  seen, 

Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair. 
As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes. 

We'll  rouse  tlie  nodding  grove  ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats 

And  hail  the  maid  I  love. 
And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes. 

He  qnits  the  tufted  green  : 
Fond  bird !  'tis  not  the  morning  breaks, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead, 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove. 
Like  them  the  jocund  dance  ue'U  lead. 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love  : 
For  see,  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh  ; 

She  claims  a,  virgin  queen  ; 
And  hark  !  the  happy  shepherds  cry, — 

"  'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen  !" 


iJolju  Scott. 


Scott  (1T30-17S3),  of  Quaker  descent,  was  the  son  of 
a  draper  in  London,  who  retired  to  Amwell,  where  the 
jioct  spent  liis  days  in  literary  ease.  He  fondly  hoped 
t"o  immortalize  his  native  village,  on  which  he  wrote  a 
poem,  "  Amweir'  (1776);  but  of  all  his  works  only  the 
subjoined  lines  are  remembered. 


ODE   ON  HEARING  THE   DRUM. 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound, 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round: 
To  thoughtless  youth  it  x>leasnre  yields. 
And  lures  from  cities  and  from  lields, 
To  sell  their  liberty  for  charms 
Of  tawdry  lace  and  glittering  arms; 
And  when  Ambition's  voice  commands 
To  march,  and  fight,  and  fall  in  foreign  lands. 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound, 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  rouiul; 
To  me  it  talks  of  ravaged  plains, 
And  burning  towns,  and  ruined  swains. 
And  mangled  limbs,  and  dying  groans, 
And  widows'  tears,  and  orphans'  moa::s  ; 
And  all  that  Misery's  hand  bestows 
To  fill  the  catalogue  of  human  woes. 


llVilliam  i'aUoucr. 


Falconer  (1732-17(39),  a  native  of  Ediiiburgli,  was  the 
sou  of  a  poor  barber,  who  had  two  other  children,  both 
of  whom  were  deaf  and  dumb.  When  very  young,  Wil- 
liam was  apprenticed  to  the  merchant-service,  aud  after- 
ward went  as  second  mate  in  a  vessel  whicli  was  wreck- 
ed on  the  coast  of  Africa;  he  and  two  others  being  tiie 
sole  survivors.  This  led  to  his  t;\mous  poem  of  "The 
Shipwreck,"  which  he  published  in  17G3.  The  Duke  of 
York,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  procured  for  him  the 
following  year  the  appointment  of  midshipman  on  board 
the  lioyal  George.  Ho  eventually  became  purser  in  the 
frigate  Aurora^nwA  was  lost  in  hei',  on  the  outward  voy- 
age to  India,  in  1769.  "The  Shipwreck"  has  the  rare 
merit  of  being  a  pleasing  and  interesting  poem,  and  ap- 
proved by  all  experienced  mariners  for  the  accuracy  of 
its  nautical  rules  and  descriptions. 


FROM  "THE   SHIPWRECK." 

And  miw,  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe. 
With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near : 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death, 
Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared, 

For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard; 

High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 

And  o'er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 

Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies. 

Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies, 

Then  headlong  plunging,  thunders  on  the  ground; 

Earth  groans!  air  trembles!  and  the  deeps  resound! 

Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 

And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels; 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes. 

The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows; — 

Again  she  plunges!   hark!   a  second  .shock 

Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock : 

Down  on  the  vale  of  Death,  with  dismal  cries. 

The  fated  victims,  shuddering,  roll  their  eyes 

In  wild  despair;    while  yet  another  stroke. 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak: 

Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 

The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 

At  length  asunder  torn,  her  frame  divides, 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 


(J:rasmus  Parwin. 

Darwin,  the  grandsire  of  the  more  renowned  Charles 
Darwin,  identified  with  what  is  known  as  the  Darwinian 
theory  of  natural  selection  in  biology,  was  born  in  Elton, 


206 


CYCLOrJEDIA    OF  BUITISII  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Enslond,  in  1731,  und  died  in  1802.  He  studied  at  Cam- 
bri(l<!;e  and  Edinburgh,  and  establislied  liiniselCas  a  pliy- 
sieian  at  Lichfield.  lie  was  an  early  advocate  of  the 
temiierance  cause.  As  the  author  of  "The  Botanic  Gar- 
den," a  poem  in  two  parts— Part  I.,  The  Economy  of 
Vegetation;  Part  II.,  The  Loves  of  the  Plants— also  of 
"The  Temple  of  Nature,"  a  poem,  he  obtained  distinc- 
tion in  literature.  Of  an  original  turn  of  mind,  he  seems 
to  liave  had  glimpses  of  the  theories  afterward  expanded 
and  illustrated  by  the  labor  and  learning  of  his  grand- 
son. Byron  speaks  of  Darwin's  "  pompous  rhyme."  His 
poems  were  very  popular  in  their  day,  and  he  received 
£900  for  his  "Botanic  Garden."  In  it  he  predicts  the 
triumi^hs  of  steam  in  these  prescient  lines  : 

"  Soon  sliall  thy  arm,  uiiconqncred  Steam  !  afar 
Drag  the  slow  barge,  or  drive  the  rapid  car; 
Or  on  wide  waving  wiiig.s  expanded  bear 
The  flying  chariot  through  the  field  of  air." 

By  his  command  of  poetical  diction  and  sonorous  ver- 
sification, he  gave  an  imposing  effect  to  niueli  that  he 
wrote,  and  his  verses  found  enthusiastic  admirers.  The 
effect  of  the  whole,  however,  is  artificial,  and  his  verses, 
though  metrically  correct  and  often  beautiful  in  con- 
struction, fatigue  by  the  monotony  of  the  cadence. 

"  Tiierc  is  a  fashion  in  poetry,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
"which,  without  increasing  or  diminishing  the  real  value 
of  the  materials  moulded  upon  it,  does  wonders  in  facili- 
tating its  currency  while  it  has  novelty,  and  is  often 
found  to  impede  its  reception  when  the  mode  has  passed 
away."  The  transitorincss  of  fashion  seems  to  account 
for  the  fate  of  Darwin's  poetry.  The  form  was  novel, 
the  substance  ephemeral.  As  a  philosopher,  he  was 
charged  with  being  too  fond  of  tracing  analogies  be- 
tween dissimilar  objects,  and  of  too  readily  adopting 
the  ingenious  views  of  others  without  sufHcient  inquiry. 
He  was  married  twice,  and  had  three  sons  by  his  first 
wife.  A  biography  of  Darwin,  from  the  German  of  Ernst 
Krause,  was  published,  18S0,  in  New  York.  Darwin  was 
on  the  side  of  the  American  colonists  in  their  war  for 
independence. 


THE   GODDESS   OF   BOTANY. 

Fkom  "  The  Uotaxic  Garden." 

"  ^Vin(ls  of  tlio  north  !   vestrnin  your  icy  gales, 

Nor  chill  the  ho.soin  of  these  happy  vales! 

llencc  in  dark  heaps,  ye  gathering  clonds,  revolve! 

Di.sperse,  ye  lightnings,  and  ye  mists,  di.ssolve! 

Hither,  emerging  from  yon  orient  skies, 

Botanic  goddess,  bend  thy  radiant  eyes ; 

O'er  these  soft  scenes  assume  thy  gentle  reign, 

I'oniona,  Ceres,  Flora,  in  thy  train  ; 

O'er  the  still  dawn  thy  placid  smile  eflfnse. 

And  ■with  thy  silver  sandals  print  the  dews; 

In  noon's  bright  blaze  thy  vermeil  vest  nnfold, 

And  wave  <hy  emerald  banner  starred  with  gold." 

Thus  sjjoke  the  Genius  as  he  stepped  along, 
And  bade  these  lawns  to  peace  and  triitii  lielung; 


Down  the  steep  slopes  he  led  with  modest  skill 
The  willing  pathway  and  the  truant  rill  ; 
Stretched  o'er  the  marshy  vale  you  willowy  mound, 
Where  shines  the  lake  amid  the  tufted  ground  ; 
Raised  the   young   woodland,  smoothed  the   wavy 

green, 
And  gave  to  beauty  all  the  quiet  scene. 
She  conies!   the  godde-ss !   through  the  Avhispering 

air, 
Bright  as  the  morn  descends  her  blushing  car ; 
Each  circling  wheel  a  wreath  of  flowers  eutwiues, 
And,   gemmed    Avith     flowers,  the    silken    harness 

shines ; 
The  goldeu  bits  with  flowery  studs  are  decked, 
And  knots  of  flowers  the  crimson  reins  counect. 
And  now  on  earth  the  silver  axle  rings, 
And  the  shell  sinks  upon  its  slender  springs ; 
Light  from  her  airy  scat  the  goddess  bounds. 
And  steps  celestial  press  the  pansied  grounds. 
Fair  Spring  advancing,  calls  her  feathered  quire, 
And  tunes  to  softer  notes  her  laughing  lyre ; 
Bids  her  gay  hours  on  purple  pinions  move, 
And  arms  her  zephyrs  with  the  shafts  of  love. 


ELIZA  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  MINDEN. 

FnoM  "  The  Botanic  Garden." 

Now  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crowned  height. 
O'er  Minden's  plain,  spectatress  of  the  fight; 
Sought  with  bold  eye  amid  the  bloody  strife 
Her  dearer  self,  the  partner  of  her  life; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  rushing  host  pursued. 
And  viewed  his  banner,  or  believed  she  viewed. 
Pleased  with  the  distant  roar,  witli  quicker  tread, 
Fast  by  his  hand  one  lisping  boy  she  led  ; 
And  one  fair  girl  amid  the  loud  alarm 
Slept  on  her  kerchief,  cradled  l)y  her  arm  ; 
While  round  her  brows  bright  beams  of  honor  dart, 
And  love's  warm  eddies  circle  round  her  heart. 
— Near  and  more  near  the  intrepid  beauty  prc.s.sed. 
Saw  through  the  driving  smoke  his  dancing  crest ; 
Saw  ou  his  helm,  her  virgin  hands  inwove, 
Bright  stars  of  gold,  and  mystic  knots  of  love ; 
Heard  the  exulting  shout,  "They  run  ! — they  run  !" 
"  He's  safe !"  she  cried,  "  he's  safe !  the  battle's  won  I" 
— A  ball  now  hisses  through  the  airy  tides 
(Sonn^  Fury  wings  it,  and  some  demon  guides), 
Parts  the  tine  locks  her  graceful  head  that  deck, 
Wounds  her  fair  ear,  and  sinks  into  her  neck  : 
The  red  stream  i.ssning  from  her  azure  veins, 
Dyes  her  white  veil,  her  ivory  bosom  stains. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


207 


"All  me!"  slie  cried;   and,  sinking  on  tbo  ground, 
Kissed  Ler  dear  babes,  regardless  of  tbe  ^vol^ld  : 
"  Ob  cease  not  yet  to  beat,  tbou  vital  urn, 
Wait,  gusbiug  life,  ob  wait  my  love's  return !" — 
Hoarse  barks  tbe  wolf,  tbe  vulture  screams  from  far, 
Tbe  angel  Pity  sbuus  tbe  walks  of  war ! — 
"  Ob  spare,  ye  war-bounds,  spare  tbeir  tender  age  ! 
On  me,  on  me,"  sbe  cried,  "  exbaust  your  rage !" 
Tben  witb  weak  arms  ber  weeping  babes  caressed, 
And  sigbing,  bid  tbem  in  ber  blood-stained  vest. 
Fi'ora  tent  to  tent  tbe  impatient  warrior  flies. 
Fear  in  bis  beavt,  and  frenzy  in  bis  eyes : 
Eliza's  name  along  tbe  camp  be  calls, 
"Eliza"  ecboes  tbrongb  tbe  canvas  walls; 
Quick  tbrougb  tbe  murmuring  gloom  bis  footsteps 

tread, 
O'er  groaning  beaps,  tbe  dying  and  tbe  dead, 
Vault  o'er  tbe  idaiu,  and  in  tbe  tangled  wood, — 
Lo !   dead  Eliza  weltering  in  ber  blood ! 
Soon  bears  bis  listening  son  tbe  welcome  sounds, 
Witb  open  arms  and  sparkling  eye  be  bounds. 
"Speak  low,"  be  cries,  and  gives  bis  little  band; 
"  Manmia's  asleep  upon  tbe  dew-cold  sand." 
Poor  Aveeping  babe,  witb  bloody  fingers  pressed. 
And  tried  witb  pouting  lips  ber  milkless  breast. 
"Alas!   we  botb  witb  cold  and  bnnger  quake: 
Wliy  do  you  weep  ?     Mamma  Avill  soon  awake." 
— ••  Sbe'll  wake  no  more !"  tbe  bapless  mourner  cried. 
Upturned   bis    ej^es,  and    clasped   bis    bands,  and 

sigbed ; 
Stretcbed  on  tbe  ground,  awbile  entranced  be  lay, 
And  pressed  warm  kisses  on  tbe  lifeless  clay  ; 
And  tben  upsprung  witb  wild,  convulsive  start. 
And  all  tbe  father  kindled  in  bis  beart ; 
"  Ob  heavens !"  be  cried,  "ray  first  rash  vow  forgive ! 
These  bind  to  earth,  for  these  I  pray  to  live !" 
Round  bis  chill  babes  be  wrapped  his  crimson  vest. 
And  clasped  them  sobbing  to  bis  aching  breast. 


CljarUs  Cl)urcljill. 


The  son  of  a  clergyman  in  Westminster,  Churchill 
.(1731-1764)  was  educated  at  Cambridge.  His  father  died 
in  1758,  and  Charles  was  appointed  his  successor  in  the 
curacy  and  lectureship  of  St.  John's  at  Westminster. 
He  now  launched  into  a  career  of  dissipation  and  ex- 
travagance, and  was  compelled  to  resign  liis  situation. 
He  assisted  Wilkes  in  editing  the  North  Briton,  and  wrote 
a  somewhat  forcible  satire  directed  against  the  Scottisli 
nation,  and  entitled  "The  Prophecy  of  Famine."  But 
his  satirical  poem,  "The  Rosciad,"  gave  him  his  princi- 
pal fame.  In  this  work,  criticising  the  leading  actors  of 
the  day,  he  evinced  great  vigor  and  facility  of  versifica- 
tion, and  a  breadth  and  boldness  of  personal  invective 


that  drew  instant  attention.  Hazlitt  saj-s :  "Churclnll 
is  a  fine  rough  satirist.  He  had  sense,  wit,  eloquence, 
and  honesty."  This  praise  must  be  qualified  somewhat, 
for  the  satirist  docs  not  seem  to  liave  been  actuated  liy 
high  principle  in  Ins  attacks.  He  led  a  discreditable 
life,  and  died  at  Boulogne,  of  fever,  in  the  thirty-fourtii 
year  of  liis  age.  So  popular  had  his  satires  been  that  the 
sale  of  them  had  placed  liim  in  easy  circumstances.  He 
liad  oiTered  "The  Rosciad  "  for  five  guineas.  It  was  re- 
fused, and  he  published  it  at  his  own  risk,  its  success 
surpassing  his  most  extravagant  hopes. 


REMORSE. 

FR05I  "The  Conference"  (1763). 

That  ChniTliill  felt  compunction  for  m.any  of  liis  errors  is  ev- 
ident from  the  following  lines,  which  wonld  seem  to  have  come 
from  the  heart. 

Look  back !   a  thowght  which  borders  on  despair. 

Which  human  nature  must,  yet  cannot,  bear! 

'Tis  not  the  babbling  of  a  bnsj'  world, 

Where  praise  and  censure  are  at  random  burled. 

Which  can  tbe  meanest  of  my  thoughts  control. 

Or  shake  one  settled  purpose  of  my  soul : 

Free  and  at  large  might  their  wild  curses  roam, 

If  all,  if  all,  alas !   were  well  at  home. 

No !   'tis  tbe  tale  which  angry  Conscience  tells. 

When  sbe,  witb  more  than  tragic  horror,  swells 

Each  circumstance  of  guilt ;  when  stern,  but  true, 

Slie  brings  bad  actions  forth  into  review. 

And,  like  the  dread  handwriting  on  the  wall, 

Bids  late  Remorse  awake  at  Reason's  call  ; 

Armed  at  all  points,  bids  scorpion  Yengeauce  pass. 

And  to  the  mind  holds  up  Reflection's  glass — 

The    mind    which,  starting,  heaves    the    heartfelt 

groan, 
And  bates  that  form  she  knows  to  be  ber  own. 


YATES,  THE   ACTOR. 


From  "The  Kosciad." 


Lo,  Yates ! — ^Vithont  the  least  finesse  of  art. 
He  gets  applause — I  wish  he'd  get  his  part. 
When  hot  Impatience  is  in  full  career. 
How  vilely  "  Hark'e  !   Hark'e  !"  grates  the  ear  ! 
When  active  Fancy  from  tbo  brain  is  sent. 
And  stands  on  tiptoe  for  some  wished  event, 
I  hate  those  careless  blunders  which  recall 
Suspended  sense,  and  prove  it  fiction  all. 

In  characters  of  low  and  vulgar  mould. 
Where  Nature's  coarsest  features  we  behold ; 
Where,  destitute  of  every  decent  grace, 
Unmannered  jests  are  blurted  in  your  face, — 


208 


CYCLOrjEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


There  Yates  with  justice  strict  attention  draws, 
Acts  truly  from  himself,  and  gains  apjdanse. 
But  when,  to  please  liimsclf  <u-  ciiarm  his  wife, 
He  aims  at  something  in  ])i)llfL'r  life; 
AVluMi,  blindly  thwarting  nature's  stubborn  plan, 
lie  treads  the  stage  by  way  of  gentleman, — 
The  clown,  who  no  one  toucii  of  breeding  knows, 
Looks    like    Tom    Errand    dressed    in    Clincher's 

clothes. 
Fond  of  his  dress,  fond  of  his  person,  grown, 
Laughed  at  by  all,  and  to  himself  unknown, 
Fi'oni  side  to  side  he  struts,  he  smiles,  he  prates. 
And  seems  to  wonder  w  hat's  become  of  Yates ! 


FOOTE. 

From  "  The  I!oici,^D." 

By  turns  transformed  into  all  kinds  of  shapes. 
Constant  to  none,  Foote   laughs,  cries,  struts,  and 
scrapes ; 

*  *  *  i*  *•  * 

His  strokes  of  humor,  and  his  burst  of  sport 
Arc  all  contained  in  this  one  word— distort. 

Doth  a  man  stutter,  hudc  a-squiiit,  or  halt  ? 
Mimics  dr.aw  humor  out  of  nature's  fault, 
With  personal  defects  their  mirth  adorn, 
And  hang  misfortunes  out  to  public  scorn. 
Even  I,  whom  Nature  cast  in  hideous  mould, 
Whom,  having  made,  she  trembled  to  liehold, 
Beneath  the  load  of  mimicry  m;iy  groan. 
And  iind  that  Nature's  errors  are  niv  own. 


MUEPIIY. 

Fkom  "The  RosriAD." 

How-  few  are  found  with  real  talents  blessed! 
Fewer  with  nature's  gifts  contented  rest. 
Man  from  his  sphere  eccentric  starts  astray ; 
All  hunt  for  fame,  but  most  mistake  the  way. 
Bred  at  iSt.  Omer's  to  the  shutlling  trade, 
Tiie  hopeful  youth  a  Jesuit  might  have,  made. 
With  various  readings  stored  his  empty  skull, 
Learned  without  sense,  and  venerably  dull  ; 
Or,  at  some  banker's  desk,  like  nniny  more, 
Content  to  tell  that  two  and  two  make  tour. 
His  name  had  stood  in  city  annals  fail-, 
And  prudent  Dulness  marked  him  for  a  mayor. 
What,  then,  could  tempt  thee,  in  a  critic  age. 
Such  blooming  hopes  to  forfeit  on  a  stage  ? 
Could  it  be  Avorth  thy  wondrous  waste  of  pains 
To  publish  to  the  world  thy  lack  of  brains? 


Or  might  not  reason  even  to  theo  have  shown 
Thj'  greatest  praise  had  been  to  live  unknown  ? 
Yft  let  not  vanity  like  thine  desjiair : 
Fortune  makes  Folly  her  peculiar  care. 

A  vacant  throne  high  placed  in  Smithfield  view. 
To  sacred  Dulness  and  her  lirst-born  due  ; 
Thither  with  haste  in  happy  hcmr  repair, 
Thy  birthright  claim,  nor  fear  a  rival  there. 
Shuter  himself  shall  own  thy  juster  claim, 
Aiut  venal  ledgers  pulY  their  Murphy's  name ; 
While   Vaughan   or   Dapper,  call    him    what    you 

will. 
Shall  blow  the  trumpet  and  give  out  the  bill. 

There  rule  secure  from  critics  and  from  sense, 
Nor  once  shall  genins  rise  to  give  offence ; 
Eternal  peace  shall  bless  the  happy  shore, 
And  little  factious  break  thv  rest  no  more. 


MRS.  CLIVE  AND  MRS.  TOPE. 

Fnoji  "The  Rosciad." 

In  siiite  of  outward  blemishes,  she  shone 

For  humor  famed,  and  humor  all  her  own. 

Easj',  as  if  at  home,  the  stage  she  trod, 

Nor  sought  the  critic's  praise,  \wv  feared  his  rod. 

Original  in  spirit  and  in  ease. 

She  pleased  by  hiding  all  attempts  to  please: 

No  comic  actress  ever  yet  could  raise. 

On  Humor's  base,  more  merit  or  more  praise. 

With  all  the  native  vigor  of  sixteen. 
Among  the  merry  troop  conspicuous  seen, 
See  lively  Pope  advance  in  jig  and  trip, 
Corinna,  Cherry,  Honeycomb,  and  Snip. 
Not  without  art,  but  yet  to  nature  true. 
She  charms  the  town  with  humor,  just  yet  new: 
Cheered  by  her  promise,  we  the  less  deplore 
The  fatal  time  when  Clive  shall  be  no  more. 


QUIN. 
From  "The  Kosciad." 

No  actor  ever  greater  heights  could  reach 
III  all  the  labored  artifice  of  speech. 

Speech  !     Is  that  all  ?     And  shall  an  actor  found 
A  universal  fame  on  partial  ground? 
Parrots  themselves  speak  properly  by  rote, 
And,  in  six  mouths,  my  dog  shall  howl  bj'  note. 
I  laugh  at  those  -who,  when  the  stage  they  tread. 
Neglect  the  heart  to  compliment  the  head  ; 
With  strict  propriety  their  cares  confined 
To  weigh  out  words,  while  passion  halts  behind. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL.^WILLIAM  COWFEIi. 


2UD 


To  syllable-dissectors  they  appeal ; 

Allow  tlieiu  accent,  cadence, — fools  may  feel ; 

IJiit,  spite  of  all  the  criticising  elves, 

Tliose  Avho  would  make  us  feel  must  feel  themselves. 


GARRICK. 

FnoM  "  The  IIosciad." 

Last,  Garrick  came :   behind  him  throng  a  train 
Of  snarling  critics,  ignorant  as  vain. 

One  finds  out, — "  He's  of  stature  somewhat  low, — 
Your  hero  always  should  be  tall,  you  know  : 
True  natural  greatness  all  consists  .in  height." 
Produce  your  voucher,  critic. — "  Sergeant  Kite.'' 

Another  can't  forgive  the  paltry  arts 
By  which  he  makes  his  way  to  shallow  hearts : 
Mere  pieces  of  finesse,  traps  for  applause — 
"Avaunt,  unnatural  start,  affected  pause!" 

For  me,  by  nature  formed  to  judge  with  phlegm, 
I  can't  acquit  bj'  wholesale,  nor  condemn. 
The  best  things,  carried  to  excess,  are  wrong: 
The  start  may  be  too  frequent,  pause  too  loug ; 
But,  only  used  in  proper  time  and  place, 
Severest  judgment  must  allow  them  grace. 

If  bunglers,  formed  on  Imitation's  plan. 
Just  in  the  way  that  monkeys  mimic  man, 
Tlieir  copied  scene  with  mangled  arts  disgrace. 
And  pause  and  start  with  the  same  vacant  face, — 
We  join  the  critic  laugh  ;   whose  tricks  we  scorn, 
Which  spoil  the  scene  they  mean  them  to  adorn. 
But  when  from  Nature's  pure  and  geuuiue  source 
These  strokes  of  acting  flow  with  generous  force ; 
When  in  tlie  features  all  the  soul's  portrayed, 
Aiul  passions  such  as  Garrick's  are  displayed, — ■ 
To  me  they  seem  from  quickest  feelings  caught; 
Each  start  is  Nature,  and  each  pause  is  Thought. 

Let  wits,  like  spiders,  from  the  tortured  ])raiu 
Fine-draw  the  critic-web  with  curious  pain  ; 
The  gods — a  kindness  I  with  thanks  must  pay — 
Have  formed  me  of  a  coarser  kind  of  clay ; 
Nor  stung  with  envy,  nor  Avith  spleen  diseased, 
A  poor  dull  creature,  still  with  nature  pleased  : 
Hence,  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree, 
And,  pleased  with  Natui^e,  must  be  jileased  with  thee. 

The  judges,  as  the  several  parties  came. 

With  temper  heard,  with  judgment  weighed,  each 

claim. 

And  in  their  sentence  happily  agreed  ; 

In  name  of  both  great  Shakspeare  thus  decreed  : 
U 


"If  manly  sense,  if  Nature  linked  with  Art, 
If  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 
If  powers  of  acting  vast  and  unconfined. 
If  fewest  faults  with  greatest  beauties  joined  ; 
If  strong  expression,  and  strange  powers  wiiieh  lie 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye  ; 
If  feelings  which  few  hearts  like  his  can  know, 
And  Avhich  no  face  so  well  as  his  can  show, — 
Deserve  the  preference, — Garrick,  take  the  chair. 
Nor  quit  it — till  tliou  place  an  equal  there." 


lllilliam  Coiu^cr. 


Cowpcr  (1731-lSOO),  the  son  of  Dr.  Cowper,  cliaplain 
to  George  II.,  was  born  at  the  rectory  of  Great  Berk- 
hamstead,  Hertfordshire.  His  father's  family  was  an- 
cient, and  his  mother's  distantly  of  royal  descent.  His 
grandfather,  Spencer  Cowper,  was  Chief-justice  of  the 
Common  Pleas,  and  his  grand- uncle  was  Lord  High 
Chancellor  of  England.  When  about  six  years  old,  Cow- 
per lost  his  mother,  whom  he  always  remembered  with 
the  teuderest  affection.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  was  re- 
moved from  a  country  school  to  Westminster,  where,  be- 
ing constitutionally  timid  and  delicate,  the  rough  usage 
he  experienced  at  the  hands  of  the  elder  boys  had  a  sad 
effect  upon  him. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  was  articled  to  an  attorney, 
and  in  17.54  was  called  to  the  bar :  he,  however,  never 
made  the  law  his  study.  Receiving  the  appointment  of 
Clerk  of  Journals  of  the  House  of  Lords,  his  nervous- 
ness was  such  that  he  was  plunged  into  the  deepest 
misery,  and  even  attempted  suicide.  The  seeds  of  in- 
sanity soon  appeared  ;  he  resigned  his  appointment,  and 
was  placed  in  a  private  mad-house  kept  by  Dr.  Nathaniel 
Cotton,  the  poet.  Here,  by  kind  attention,  Cowper's 
shattered  mind  was  gradually  restored  for  a  time.  On 
his  recovery,  renouncing  all  London  prospects,  he  set- 
tled in  Huntingdon  :  solitude  was  bringing  back  his 
melancholy,  when  he  M'as  received  into  the  Rev.  Mr.  Un- 
win's  house  as  a  boarder,  and,  in  the  society  of  an  amiable 
circle  of  friends,  the  "wind  was  tempered  to  tlic  shorn 
lamb."  On  her  husband's  death  in  1707,  the  poet  retired, 
with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  daughter,  to  Olney.  He  found 
a  new  friend  in  the  Rev.  John  Newton,  the  curate.  But 
in  1773  his  spirit  was  again,  for  about  five  years,  envel- 
oped in  the  shadows  of  his  malady  ;  and  he  again  at- 
tempted suicide.  The  unwearied  cares  of  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  of  Mr.  Newton  slowly  emancipated  him  from  his 
darkness  of  horror.  A  deep  religious  melancholy  was 
the  form  of  his  mental  disease.  An  awful  terror  that  his 
soul  was  lost  forever,  beyond  the  power  of  redemption, 
hung  in  a  thick  idglit-cloud  upon  Ins  life.  Three  times 
after  the  first  attack  the  madness  returned. 

While  his  convalescence  was  advancing,  he  amused  his 
mind  with  the  taming  of  hares,  the  construction  of  bird- 
cages, and  gardening;  be  even  attempted  to  become  a 
painter.  At  length,  at  the  age  of  nearly  fifty,  the  foun- 
tain of  his  poetry,  which  had  been  all  but  sealed,  was  re- 
opened.    The  result  was  the  publication  of  a  volume  of 


210 


CYCLOP JEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


poems  in  1783.  Tlic  sale  of  the  work  was  slow,  but  Cow- 
pcr's  friends  were  caajcr  in  its  praise;  and  Samuel  John- 
son and  Benjamin  Franklin  reeojjnized  in  him  a  true 
poet.  At  Olney  he  formed  a  elose  friendship  with  Lady 
Austen.  To  her  he  owed  the  origin  of  his  "Jolni  Gil- 
pin ;"  also  that  of  his  greatest  work,  "The  Task."  She 
asked  him  to  write  some  blank  verse,  and  playfully  gave 
liim  the  "Sofa"  as  a  subject.  Beginning  a  poem  on 
this  homely  theme,  he  produced  the  six  books  of  "  The 
Task."  In  it  he  puts  forth  his  power  both  as  an  ethical 
and  a  rural  poet.  Mrs.  Unwin  became  jealous  of  Lady 
Austen's  cheerful  influence  over  her  friend,  and,  to  please 
her,  Cowper  had  to  ask  Lady  Austen  not  to  return  to 
Olney. 

Dissatisfied  with  Pope's  version  of  the  Greek  epics, 
Cowper  now  undertook  to  translate  Homer  into  Eng- 
lish blank  verse;  and,  by  working  regularly  at  the  rate 
of  forty  lines  a  day,  he  accomplished  the  undertaking  in 
a  few  years,  and  it  appeared  in  1701.  It  is  a  noble  trans- 
lation, but  has  never  had  the  reputation  it  deserves.  A 
pension  of  £300  from  the  king  comforted  the  poet's  de- 
clining days.  But  the  last  and  thickest  cloud  was  dark- 
ening down  on  his  mind,  and  only  for  brief  intervals  was 
tlicrc  any  light,  until  the  ineffable  brilliance  of  a  higher 
life  broke  upon  his  gaze.  His  last  poem  was  "  The  Cast- 
away," wliich,  while  it  shows  a  morbid  anxiety  about 
his  soul,  indicates  no  decline  in  his  mental  powers. 

Cowper  was  constitutionally  prone -to  insanity;  but 
the  predisposing  causes  were  aggravated  by  his  strict, 
secluded  mode  of  life,  and  the  influences  to  which  he 
was  subjected.  His  cousin,  Lady  Heskcth,  was  a  more 
wholesome  companion  for  him  than  the  curate,  John 
Newton;  for  cheerfulness  was  inspired  by  the  one,  and 
terror  by  the  other.  Newton  was  an  energetic  man, 
who  had  once  commanded  a  vessel  in  the  slave-trade, 
and,  after  a  life  full  of  adventure,  liad  become  intensely 
religious  in  a  form  not  likely  to  have  a  sanative  eflect 
upon  a  sensitive  and  sympathetic  nature. 

The  success  of  Cowper's  "John  Gilpin"  was  helped 
by  John  Henderson,  the  actor,  who  chose  it  for  recita- 
tion before  it  became  Amious.  Mrs.  Siddons  heard  it 
with  delight;  and  in  the  spring  of  1775  its  success  was 
tlic  event  of  the  season.  Prints  of  John  Gilpin  filled  the 
shop- windows ;  and  Cowper,  who  was  finishing  "The 
Task,"  felt  tliat  his  serious  work  would  be  helped  if  it 
were  published  with  his  "John  Gilpin,"  of  which  he 
says :  "  I  little  thought,  wlicn  I  mounted  him  upon  my 
Pegasus,  that  he  would  become  so  famous." 


RUKAL   SOUNDS. 
From  "The  Task,"  Hook  I. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounil.s, 
Exbilarato  tlie  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  M-inds, 
Tliat  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far  spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  mnsic  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind; 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the;  blast, 


And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 

Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 

Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 

Of  neighltoring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 

Tiirougb  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 

Upon  loo.se  pebbles,  lose  tbeinselves  at  length 

III  matted  grass,  that  witli  a  livelier  green 

Betrays  the  secret  of  linir  silent  course. 

Nature  iiianiinate  employs  sweet  sounds, 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  car. 

T(ni  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 

The  livelong  night :   nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 

Nice-fingered  Art  must  emulate  in  vain  ; 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud  ; 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl, 

Tliat  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 

Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves,  and  harsh, 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigns. 

And  only  there,  i)lease  highly  for  their  sake. 


AFFECTATION. 

From  "The  Task,"  Book  II. 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  aff'cctation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn ! 
Object  of  my  implacable  di.sgust ! 
\Yhat!   will  a  man  play  tricks?   will  he  indulge 
A  silly,  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form. 
And  ju.st  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  jiretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand. 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 
When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
lie  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  ofiQce,  and,  instead  of  truth. 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Tliereforo,  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare. 
And  start  theatric,  practised  at  the  glass! 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;    and  all  besides. 
Though  learned  with  labor,  and  though  much   ad- 
mired 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-informed. 
To  mo  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men. 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Tlirough  the  pressed  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 


WILLIAM  COWPEB. 


211 


INDUSTRY   IN   EEPOSE. 

From  "The  Task,"  Book  III. 

How  various  Lis  employments  whom  tlio  ■world 

Calls  idle,  and  who  justly  iu  return 

Esteems  that  busy  ■world  au  idler  too ! 

Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perbaiis  bis  pen, — 

Deliglitful  industry  enjoyed  at  borne, 

And  Nature  in  lier  cultivated  trim 

Dressed  to  bis  taste,  iuvitiug  bira  abroad — 

Can  bo  want  occupation  wbo  bas  tbese  ? 

Will  be  be  idle  wbo  bas  mucb  to  enjoy  ? 

Me,  tberefore,  studious  of  laborious  ease, 

Not  slotbful ;   bappy  to  deceive  tbe  time, 

Not  waste  it ;    and  aware  tbat  bumau  life 

Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  witb  use, 

Wbeu  He  sball  call  bis  debtors  to  accouut 

From  wboni  are  all  our  blessings, — business  finds 

Even  bere !  wbile  sedulous  I  seek  to  improve. 

At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemployed, 

Tbe  mind  be  gave  me  ;   driving  it,  tbougb  slack 

Too  oft,  and  mucb  impeded  iu  its  work 

By  causes  not  to  be  divulged  iu  vain, 

To  its  just  point — tbe  service  of  mankind. 

He  tbat  attends  to  bis  interior  self; 

Tbat  bas  a  beart,  and  keeps  it ;   bas  a  mind 

Tbat  buugers,  and  supplies  it ;   and  wbo  seeks 

A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life, — 

Has  business ;   feels  bimself  engaged  to  acbieve 

No  unimportant,  tbougb  a  silent,  task. 

A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem. 

To  bim  tbat  leads  it,  wise,  and  to  be  praised  ; 

But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  witb  most  success 

Sougbt  in  still  water  and  beueatb  clear  skies  : 

He  that  is  ever  occujiied  in  storms. 

Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 

Vaiuly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize  ! 


WELCOME   TO  EVENING. 

From  "The  Task,"  Book  IV. 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace! 

Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long ! 

Metbinks  I  see  tbee  in  tbe  streakj'  west, 

AVitb  matron  step  slow  moving,  wbile  tbe  Nigbt 

Ti-eads  on  tby  sweeping  train  ;  one  baud  employed 

In  letting  fall  tbe  curtain  of  repose 

On  bird  and  beast,  tbe  otber  cbarged  for  man 

Witb  sweet  oblivion  of  tbe  cares  of  day  : 

Not  sumptuously  adorned,  not  needing  aid, 

Like  bomely-featured  Nigbt,  of  clustering  gems  ; 


A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  tby  brow, 
Suffices  tboe ;   save  tbat  tbe  Moon  is  tbine 
No  less  than  hers ;   not  worn,  indeed,  on  bigb 
Witb  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
Witb  modest  grandeur  iu  tby  purple  zone, 
Resiileudent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come,  tben,  and  tbou  slialt  find  tby  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  tby  gift : 
And,  wbetber  I  devote  tby  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  tbe  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 
When    tbey   command   whom    man    was    boru    to 

please, — 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  tbee  welcome  still. 


AN  ODE  :    BOADICEA. 

Wbeu  tbe  British  warrior-queen, 
Bleeding  from  tbe  Roman  rods, 

Sought,  witb  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beueatb  tbe  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Di'uid,  hoary  chief; 

Every  burning  word  be  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess  !   if  our  agM  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"  Rome  sball  perisb — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  bas  spilt — 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred. 
Deep  iu  ruin  as  iu  guilt ! 

"  Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states : 

Soon  her  jiride  sball  kiss  the  ground — 
Hark !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

"  Otber  Romans  sball  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"  Tben  the  progeny  that  sy)rings 
From  the  forests  of  our  land. 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 


212 


CYCLOl'JU)IA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Regions  Csesar  never  kue\v 
Thy  posterity  sliall  sway  ; 

Wlicro  his  ea<;:h-a  never  lii-w, 
None  invincibh'.  as  tlicy." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  ; 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died ; 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

"Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud! 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed. 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  yon." 


A  WINTER  EVENING  IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

'Tis  winter,  cold  and  rude  ; 

Heap,  heap  the  warming  wood  ! 
The  wild  wind  hums  his  snllon  song  to-night; 

Oh,  hear  that  pattering  shower! 

Haste,  boy  ! — this  gloomy  hour 
Demands  relief;   the  cheerful  tapers  light. 

Though  now  my  home  around 

Still  roars  the  wintry  sound, 
Methinks  'tis  summer  by  this  festive  blaze  ! 

My  books,  companions  de.ar, 

In  seemly  ranks  appear, 
And  glisten  to  my  fire's  far-flashing  rays. 

*#***■* 
Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast; 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wlieel  the  sofa  round! 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  lond-liissing  urn 
Tiirows  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
Which  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,  Avait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 


ON   THE    RECEIPT   OF    MY   MOTHER'S    PICT- 
URE  OUT   OF   NORFOLK, 
Tin-:  r.irr  oi"  my  cou.sin,  ann  dodiiam. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 


Voice  only  fails — else  how  distinct  they  say 
"Grieve  not,  my  child^ehaso  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
'J'he  art  tliat  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  (|iiench  it!)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear! 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidst  mo  honor  witli  an  artless  song, 
Atl'ecfioniite,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey — not  willingly  alone, 

But  glaiUy,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  nujther!  Avhen  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  tny  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son — 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  matei-nal  smile!   it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day; 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  Avas  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown; 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Tiiy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return ; 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived — 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus,  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more — 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way — 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap — 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  <nice  wo  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !    but  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  eftaced 
A  thousand  other  themes,  less  deeply  traced: 


WILLIAM   con  PEL'. 


21:? 


Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  cliaiiiber  made, 

That  thou  niightst  know  uie  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ero  I  left  my  home — 

The  biscnit,  or  confectionery  plnm  ; 

riic  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 

15y.tliy  own  hand, till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed: 

All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  tliat  knew  no  fall  — 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this,  still  legible  in  Memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  mj'  latest  age. 

Adds  joj-  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Xot  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 
Wlien,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine, 
1  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wonldst  softly  speak, and  stroke  my  head  and  smile). 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  ap^iear, 
flight   one   wish  bring   them,  would  I  wish   them 

here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  mnch. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Tliy  nuboinid  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark,  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed). 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haveued  isle. 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay. 
So   thou,  with  sails  how  swift !   hast  reached  the 

shore, 
••  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar ;'" 
And  thy  loved  consort,  on  the  daiigerons  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
Hut  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed. 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost ; 

1  Slightly  misqaoted  fioni  "The  Dispensary"  (1699),  a  satiri- 
Ciil  pnem  by  Sir  Samuel  Gaith  (16T0-1T1S),  iu  which  occurs  the 
lollowing  couplet : 

"To  die,  is  landing  on  some  silent  shore. 
Where  billows  uever  break,  nor  tempests  roar." 


And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  inoro  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  : 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell ! — Time,  unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course ;   yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  Contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


LOSS   OF   THE   "ROYAL  GEORGE.'" 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

The  brave  tiiat  are  no  more  ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 

Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
AVhose  courage  Avell  was  tried. 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Eoyal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-flght  is  fought. 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

Ifc  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock: 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 

She  ran  u|)on  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath. 
His  Augers  held  the  pen. 


'  The  Royal  George,  of  108  guns,  while  undergoing  a  partial 
careening  in  Portsmonth  harbor,  was  overset  al)out  10  a.m., 
August  2'Jth,  17S2.  The  total  loss  was  believed  to  be  near  one 
thousand  souls. 


S14 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Wlicn  Keiupenftjlt  went  down 
"With  twice  four  Imiitlrcd  iiion. 

■\Vt'ifih  tlie  vessel  up 

Ouco  dreaded  by  our  IdcsI 

And  luinglo  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  Eughiud  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  arc  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main  : 

But  Keiupcnfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


TO   MARY   UNWIN. 

Mary!   I  want  a  lyre  ■with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they 

drew. 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  uudebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 
That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honor  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true. 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings : — 
But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light. 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  ^lary,  shine ; 
And,  since  thou  own'st   that  i)rai.se,  I   spare  thee 

mine. 


CHARACTER  OE  LORD  CHATHAM. 

FnoM  "  Table  Talk." 

In  him  DtMuostlienos  Avas  hoard  again  ; 

Liberty  tauglit  him  her  Athenian  strain; 

She  clothed  him  Avith  authority  and  awe. 

Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law. 

His  speech,  his  form,  his  action  full  of  grace, 

And  all  his  country  beaming  iu  his  face, 

He  stood  as  some  inimitable  hand 

Would  strive  to  make  a  Paul  or  Tiilly  stand. 

No  sycopiiant  or  slave,  that  dared  op])oso 

Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose ; 

And  every  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke 

Felt  himself  crushed  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN: 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FAUTHER  THAN  HE  INTENDED, 
ANIJ  CAME  SAIK  HOME  AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  ho 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 

Those  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  Avill  then  rcjiair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  aud  pair. 

"My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child. 

Myself,  and  children  three. 
Will  till  the  ciiaise ;   so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know. 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said; 

Aud,  for  that  wine  is  dear. 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own. 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  Avife; 

O'erjoyed  was  ho  to  find. 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

Siie  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morniug  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  iu  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  aud  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 


WILLIAM  COWPEIl. 


215 


Smack  Avent  the  whip,  rouutl  went  the  ■wheels, 

Were  never  fi)lk  so  glad  ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  iiowiug  mane ; 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again. 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;   for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

AVould  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
AYheu  Betty  screaming  came  down-stairs, 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

"Good  lack!"  quoth  he — "yet  briug  it  me. 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword, 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  he  loved. 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat. 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones. 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  tinding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well  shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 


So  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried. 

But  John  ho  cried  in  vain  ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright. 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands. 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught ; 

Away  went  hat  and  Avig ; 
He  little  dreamed,  when  he  set  out. 

Of  ruuuing  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both. 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side. 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

\j]}  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "  Well  done !" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around ; 
"He  carries  weight!   he  rides  a  race! 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound !" 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view. 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  Avide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen. 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke, 

As  thev  had  basted  been. 


216 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BBITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  still  he  seemed  to  cnrry  weight, 

With  ](>!itluMii  girdle  braced; 
For  all  mij^lit  sec  the  ])ottle-iieck3 

Still  dangling;  at  his  waist. 

Tims  all  through  merry  Islington 

Tliese  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  niito  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  abonfc 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Jnst  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  I — Here's  the  house — " 

They  .all  at  once  did  cry! 
"The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired:" 

Said  Gilpin,  "  So  am  I !" 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why? — his  owner  had  a  honse 

Full  ten  miles  oft",  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  .strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath. 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim. 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate. 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Or  whj'  you  come  at  all  ?" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 


"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come : 

And,  if  I  well  furbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin. 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

I?u'   to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wij 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit : 
"My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away. 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  sto^)  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  .John,  "It  is  my  wedding-day, 
And  all  tlic  world  would  stare. 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

Vou  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 

For  Avliich  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  ho 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Xow  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away. 

She  pulled  out  half  a  crown  ; 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


217 


And  tliiis  unto  tlio  youth  sbo  said 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  bo  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  Avell." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ; 
Whom  in  a  trico  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But  not  performing  what  ho  meant. 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Sis  gentlemen  upon  the  road. 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear. 

They  raised  the  hue-and-cry  : — 

"Stop  thief!   stop  thief! — a  highwayman!" 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  tollmen  thinking,  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too. 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing.  Long  live  the  King! 

And  Gilpin  long  live  he  ! 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see ! 


llVilliam  Julius  illicklc. 

Mickle  (1734-1788)  was  the  son  of  the  nihiistcr  of 
Langholm,  in  Dumfriesshire.  Not  succeeding  in  trade 
as  a  brewer,  he  went  to  London  in  1764.  Here  he  pub- 
lished "The  Concubine,"  a  moral  poem  in  the  Spense- 
rian stanza.  He  also  translated,  though  not  very  faith- 
fully, the  "Lusiad"  of  Camoens.     Mickle's  ballad  of 


"Cumnor  Hall,"  which  suggested  to  Scott  the  ground- 
work of  his  romance  of  "  Keuihvorth,"  is  a  tame  pro- 
duction comi)ared  with  the  charming  little  poem  of 
"The  Mariner's  Wife,"  in  regard  to  which  doubt  has 
been  expressed  whether  Micklc  was  really  its  author. 
It  first  appeared  as  a  broad-sheet,  sold  in  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh.  MIckle  did  not  include  it  in  an  edition  of 
liis  poems,  published  by  himself;  but  Allan  Cunningham 
claims  it  for  him  on  the  ground  that  a  copy  of  the  poem, 
with  alterations  marking  the  text  as  in  process  of  for- 
mation, was  found  among  Mickle's  papers,  and  in  his 
handwriting;  also,  that  his  Avidow  declared  that  he  said 
the  song  was  his.  Beattie  added  a  stanza,  which  mars 
its  flow,  and  is  omitted  in  our  version.  The  poem  was 
claimed  by  Jean  Adams,  a  poor  school -mistress,  who 
died  in  1765.  Chambers  thinks  that  it  must,  on  the 
whole,  be  credited  to  Mickle.  Dean  Trench  does  not 
feel  at  liberty  to  disturb  the  ascription  of  this  "exqui- 
site domestic  lyric"  to  Mickle.  Burns,  not  too  strongly, 
characterized  it  as  "one  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  in 
the  Scotch  or  any  other  language." 


THE   MARINER'S  W^IFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true, 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jades,  fling  by  your  wheel. 
Is  this  a  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Coliu's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay. 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
When  our  gude-mau's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's-satin  gown  ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Coliu's  iu  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockings  pearly  blue ; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gude-man, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  etc. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak'  a  clean  lireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown. 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes. 

Their  hose  as  white  as  suaw  ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gude-man, 

For  he's  been  lang  awa'. 

For  there's  ncae  luck  about  the  house,  etc. 


218 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


There's  twa  fat  liens  npo'  the  coop, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  niair; 
Mak'  haste  and  tlnaw  tlieir  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  faro  : 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thins  look  braw; 
For  who  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'. 

For  there's  nac  luck  about  the  house,  etc. 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair; — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet ! 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  etc. 

If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  ha'e  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  Avill  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet ! 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  etc. 


iFoljn  Caucjljornc. 


Langhorne  (17;i5-1779)  was  a  native  of  Westmoreland, 
and  became  a  preacher  in  London.  Amiable  and  highly 
beloved  in  his  day,  be  is  now  chiefly  known  as  the  trans- 
lator of  "Phitarch's  Lives."  Ho  seems  to  have  antici- 
pated Crabbe  in  painting  the  rural  life  of  England  in  true 
colors.  He  wrote  "Owen  of  Carron,"  a  baUad,  praised 
by  Campbell;  also,  "Country  Justice,"  both  giving  evi- 
dences of  a  refined  poetical  taste. 


FROM  "OWEN  OF  CARRON." 

On  Carron's  side  the  primro.so  pale, 
Why  does  it  wear  a  purple  hue  ? 

Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale, 

Why  stream  your  eyes  with  pity's  dew  ? 

'Tis  all  with  gentle  Owen's  blood 

That  purple  grows  the  primrose  pale ; 

That  pity  pours  the  tender  flood 
From  each  fair  eye  in  Marlivale. 


The  evening  star  sat  in  his  eye. 
The  sun  his  golden  tresses  gave, 

Tlie  north's  pure  morn  her  orient  dye, 
To  him  who  rests  in  yonder  grave! 

Beneath  no  high,  historic  stone, 
Tliongh  nobly  born,  is  Owen  laid  ; 

Stretched  on  the  greenwood's  lap  alone, 
He  sleeps  beneath  the  waving  shade. 

There  many  a  flowery  race  hath  sprung, 
And  fled  before  the  mountain  gale, 

Since  first  his  simple  dirge  ye  sung; 
Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale! 

Yet  still,  when  May  with  fragrant  feet 
Hath  wandered  o'er  your  meads  of  gold, 

Tiiat  dirge  I  hear  so  simply  sweet 
Far  echoed  from  each  evening  fold. 


Raines  Bcattic. 

The  son  of  a  small  farmer  residing  at  Laurenee-kirk, 
in  Scotland,  Beattie  (17o.5-1803)  was  educated  at  Mari- 
schal  College,  Aberdeen,  where  in  1700  he  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  and  Logic.  His  principal 
prose  work,  "The  Essay  on  Truth,"  made  some  noise 
in  its  dav',  but  is  now  little  esteemed  by  philosophical 
critics.  George  IIL  conferred  on  him  a  pension  of  £'200. 
Bcattie's  fame  as  a  poet  rests  upon  "The  Minstrel,"  the 
first  part  of  which  was  published  in  1771.  Written  in 
the  Spenserian  stanza,  it  gracefully  depicts  the  opening 
character  of  Edwin,  a  young  village  poet.  Some  of  the 
stanzas  rise  to  a  strain  of  true  lyric  grandeur,  but  the 
general  level  of  the  poem  is  not  above  tlie  comniou- 
place.  It  gave  Beattie,  however,  a  liigli  literary  reputa- 
tion, lie  had  alrcadj'  corresponded  with  Gray.  He  now 
became  the  associate  of  Johnson,  Reynolds,  (joldsmith, 
and  Garrick.  In  his  domestic  relations  Beattie  was  nn- 
foitnnatc;  his  wife  becoming  insane,  and  his  two  sons 
dying  at  an  early  age.  Shattered  by  a  train  of  nervous 
complaints,  the  unhappy  poet  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis 
in  170'.),  and  died  in  1803.  By  nature  he  had  quick  and 
tender  sensibilities.  A  fine  landscape  or  strain  of  music 
would  all'ect  him  even  to  tears. 


NATURE  AND  HER  VOTARY. 

FnoM  "  The  Minstrel." 

Oh  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields ! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields ; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


219 


And  all  that  echoes  to  the  soug  of  even, 
All  that  the  monntain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  nuigniftcenco  of  Heaven, 
Oh  how  eanst  thou  renonnee,  and  hope  to  be  for- 
given ! 

These  charms  shall  work  thy  sonl's  eternal  health, 
And  love,  and  gentleness,  and  joy  impart. 
Bnt  these  thou  must  renounce,  if  lust  of  wealth 
E'er  ■win  its  way  to  thy  corrupted  heart: 
For  ah  !   it  poisons  like  a  scorpion's  dart ; 
Prompting  the  ungenerous  wish,  the  seltish  scheme. 
The  stern  resolve  unmoved  by  pity's  smart, 
Tlie  troublous  day,  and  long  distressful  dream  : 
Return,  my    roving    Muse,  resume    thy    purposed 
theme. 


LIFE   AND   IMMORTALITY. 

From  "  The  Minstrel." 

Oh  ye  wild  groves,  oh  where  is  now  your  bloom  ! 
(The  Muse  interprets  thus  his  teuder  thought). 
Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy  gloom, 
Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought! 
Why  do  the  birds,  that  song  and  rapture  brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  forsake  ? 
Ah!   why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought? 
For   now  the   storm  howls   mournful  through    the 

brake, 
And   the  dead  foliage   flies   iu   many   a   shapeless 

flake. 

Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure,  and  cool. 
And    meads,  with     life,   and     mirth,   and    beauty 

crowned  ? 
Ah  !   see,  the  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish  pool, 
Have  all  the  solitary  vale  embrowned; 
Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  melting  sound, 
The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray  : 
And  hark  !   tlie  river,  bursting  every  mound, 
Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with  wasteful  sway 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the   shattered  rocks 

away. 

Y'et  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  Earth  : 

So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  Man. 

Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  fortli, 

Aiul  fostering  gales  awhile  the  nursling  fan. 

Oh  smile,  ye  heavens  serene  ;   ye  mildews  wan, 

Y'e  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his  balmy  prime, 

Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span  ! 

Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent,  wings  of  Time, 

Old  age  comes  on  apace,  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 


Ami  be  it  so.     Let  those  deplore  their  doom, 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn: 
]5nt  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  tlic  tomb, 
Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  Avouder  how  they  mourn. 
Shall  Spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no  more  return  ? 
Is  youder  wave  the  sun's  eternal  bed  ? 
Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lustre  burn, 
And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed, 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 

Shall  I  be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
Wheu  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive  ? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 
Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish,  hope  to  live? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  paiu  ? 
No  :   Heaven's  immortal  Spring  shall  yet  arrive, 
And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright  through  the   eternal  year  of  Love's  trium- 
phant reign. 


MORNING  MELODIES. 


FiioM  "  The  Minstrel." 


But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain-side ; 

The  lowing  herd ;   the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 

The  iiipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 

In  the  lone  valley ;   echoing  far  and  wide 

The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above  ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 

The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love. 

And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail,  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield;  and,  hark ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings; 
Througk  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  at'rial  tour. 

O  Nature,  how  in  every  charm  supreme! 

Wiiose  votaries  feast  on  raptures  ever  uew ! 

Oh  for  the  voice  and  fire  of  seraphim. 

To  sing  thy  glories  with  devotion  due ! 

Blessed  bo  the  day  I  'scaped  the  wrangling  crew, 

From  Pyrrho's  maze,  and  Epipurus'  sty  ; 

And  held  high  converse  with  the  godlike  few, 

Who  to  the  enraptured  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 

Teach  beauty,  virtue,  truth,  and  love,  and  melody. 


220 


CYCL0P2EDIA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMIJltlCAX  POETRY. 


ARRAIGNMENT  OF  PROVIDENCE. 

l-HOM    "Tin;    MiNSTllEL." 

Shall  lie,  whoso  birth,  inattirity,  and  age 
Scarce  till  the  circle  of  one  sumuior  day, 
Shall  the  poor  gnat,  with  iliscoutent  and  rage, 
Exclaim  that  Nature  hastens  to  decay, 
If  but  a  cloud  obstruct  the  solar  ray, 
If  but  a  momentary  shower  descend  ? 
Or  shall  frail  man  Heaven's  dread  decree  gainsay, 
Which  bade  the  series  of  events  extend 
Wide  through  unnumbered  worlds,  and  ages  with- 
out end  ? 

One  part,  one  little  part,  we  dimly  scan 

Through  the  dark  medium  of  life's  feverish  dream; 

Yet  dare  arraign  the  whole  stupendous  plan. 

If  but  that  little  part  incongruous  seem. 

Nor  is  that  part,  perhaps,  what  mortals  deem  ; 

Oft  from  apparent  ill  our  bk-ssings  rise. 

Oh  then  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem. 

That  aims  to  tlace  the  secrets  of  the  skies ! 

For  thou  art  but  of  dust;  be  humble,  and  be  wise. 


Cainj  Caroline  luppcl. 

Born  in  Scotland  abo\it  the  year  173.5,  Lady  Caroline 
Kei)pel  was  a  daughter  of  the  second  Earl  of  Albemarle. 
Robin  Adair  was  an  Iiish  surgeon,  whom  she  married  in 
spite  of  the  opposition  of  her  friends.  He  became  a  fa- 
vorite of  George  III.,  and  was  made  surgeon -general. 
He  died  at  an  advanced  age,  not  having  married  a  second 
time.  Lady  Caroline's  life  was  short  but  happj-.  She 
left  three  cliildren,  one  of  tliem  a  son,  Sir  Robert  Adair, 
G.C.B.,who  died  in  18.5.5,  aged  ninety-two.  There  is  a 
miivete  in  the  style  of  her  song  which  makes  credible  her 
authorship.  Beautiful  as  it  is,  from  the  unstudied  art, 
it  is  evidently  not  the  work  of  a  practised  writer.  It 
was  set  to  a  plaintive  Irish  air. 


ROBIN   ADAIR. 

What's  this  dull  town  to  me? 

Robin's  not  near, — 
He  whom  I  wished  to  see. 

Wished  for  to  hear! 
Where's  all  the  joy  and  mirth 
Made  life  a  heaven  on  earth  ? 
Oh,  they're  all  lied  with  thee, 

Rc)bii\  Adair! 

Wiiat  made  the  assembly  shine  ? 
Robin  Adair. 


What  matle  the  ball  so  tine  f 

Robin  was  there ! 
What,  when  the  iday  was  o'er, 
WJiat  made  my  heart  so  sore? 
Oh,  it  was  parting  with 

Robin  Adair ! 

But  now  thou'rt  far  from  me, 

Robin  Adair; 
But  now  I  never  see 

Robin  Adair  ; 
Yet  ho  I  loved  so  well 
Still  in  my  heart  shall  dwell : 
Oh,  I  can  ne'er  forget 

Robin  Adair! 

Welcome  on  shore  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 
Welcome  once  more  again, 

Robin  Adair! 
I  feel  thy  trembling  hand  ; 
Tears  in  thy  eyelids  stand, 
To  greet  thy  native  land, 

Robin  Adair. 

Long  I  ne'er  saw  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair ; 
Still  I  prayed  for  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair. 
When  thou  wert  far  at  sea, 
3Iany  made  love  to  me ; 
But  still  I  thought  on  thee, 

Robin  Adair. 

Come  to  my  heart  again, 

Robin  Adair ; 
NoA'er  to  part  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 
And  if  tiion  still  art  true, 
I  will  be  constant  too, 
And  will  wed  none  but  yon, 

Robin  Adair! 


i?oljii  lHolfot. 

Dr.  John  Wolcot  (17:38-1819),  who,  under  the  name  of 
Peter  Pindar,  gained  much  notoriety  as  a  satirist,  was  a 
native  of  Dodbrookc,  in  Devonshire,  studied  medicine, 
and  became  a  practitioner.  While  residing  at  Truro  he 
detected  the  talents  of  the  self-taught  artist,  Opie,  whom 
he  brougiit  to  London  in  1780.  Woleot  had  now  re- 
course to  his  pen  for  his  support.  His  "Lyric  Odes  to 
the  Koval  Academicians"  took  the  town  by  surprise. 


JOHX   WOLCOT. 


221 


The  justice  of  many  of  his  criticisms,  tlie  daring  person- 
alities, and  tlie  qnaintness  of  the  style,  were  something 
SI)  new  that  the  work  was  liighly  successful.  lie  now 
benan  to  launch  his  ridicule  at  the  king,  ministers,  op- 
jiosition  leaders,  and  authors,  among  which  last  were 
(iitford,  Boswell,  and  Johnson.  His  popularity  lasted 
for  nearly  forty  years.  lu  1795  ho  got  from  his  book- 
sellers an  annuity  of  £250,  payable  half-yearly,  for  the 
copyright  of  his  works  —  a  contract  which  resulted  in 
lieav3'  loss  to  the  booksellers.  Ephemeral  in  their  nat- 
ure, and  lacking  the  vitality  of  moral  purpose,  most  of 
his  writings  have  sunk  into  oblivion.  After  all  his  sat- 
ires on  George  III.  and  Pitt,  he  accepted  a  pension  from 
the  administration  of  which  Pitt  was  the  head. 


OX  DR.  JOHNSON. 

I  owu  I  like  not  Johnson's  turgid  style, 
That  gives  an  inch  the  imi)oitance  of  a  mile  ; 
Casts  of  manure  a  wagon-load  around 
To  raise  a  simple  daisy  from  the  ground  ; 
I'plifts  the  club  of  Hercules — for  what? 
To  crush  a  butterfly,  or  brain  a  gnat ! 
Creates  a  whirlwind,  from  the  earth  to  draw 
A  goose's  feather,  or  exalt  a  straw  ; 
Sets  wheels  on  wheels  in  motion — such  a  clatter  !- 
To  force  up  one  poor  uipperkin  of  water; 
Bids  ocean  labor  witli  tremendous  roar 
To  heave  a  cockle-shell  upon  the  shore  : 
Alike  in  every  theme  his  i)ompous  art — 
Heaven's  awful  thunder  or  a  rumbling  cart ! 


EPIGRAM   ON  SLEEP. 

Thomas  Warton  wrote  the  followiug  Latin  epigram,  to  be 
placed  under  the  ."tatue  of  Somnns,  in  the  garden  of  Harris,  the 
philologist.  In  Wolcot's  translation,  the  beauty  and  felicity 
of  the  original  are  well  conveyed. 

"Somne  levis,  qnnnquam  certissima  mortis  imago 
Consortem  cupio  te  tamen  esse  tori ; 
Alma  quics,  optata,  veni,  nam  sic  sine  vitii 
Vlvere  qiiuni  suave  est ;   sic  sine  morte  mori !" 

Come,  gentle  Sleep  !  attend  thy  votary's  prayer, 
And,  though  Death's  image,  to  my  couch  repair ! 
How  sweet,  tliough  lifeless,  yet  with  Life  to  lie ! 
And,  without  dyiug,  oh  how  sweet  to  die  ! 


THE   PILGRIMS  AND  THE   PEASE. 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine, 
Who  at  Loretto  dwelt,  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 

And,  in  a  fair  white  wig,  looked  wondrous  fine. 


Fifty  long  miles  had  these  sad  rogues  to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes   much   worse    tluui 

gravel ; 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse, 
The  priest  had  ordered  pease  into  their  shoes : 
A  nostrum  famous,  in  old  Popish  times. 
For  purifying  souls  when  foul  with  criuu-s ; 
A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 
That  iiopish  parsons  ft)r  its  powers  exalt, 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet. 
Just  as  our  kitchen-salt  keeps  meat. 
The  knaves  set  oflf  on  the  same  day. 
Pease  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray ; 

But  ver3'  different  was  their  speed, *I  wot: 
Oue  of  the  sinners  galloped  on, 
Light  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  other  limped  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
One  saw  the  Virgin  soon,  "Peccavi"  cried, 

Had  his  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever; 
When  homo  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  forever. 
In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 
He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half-way, 
Hobbling,  with    outstretclied    hams    and    bending 

knees. 
Cursing  the  sonls  and  bodies  of  the  pease  ; 
His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in  sweat, 
And  sympathizing  with  his  achiug  feet.^ 
"  How  now  ?"  the  light-toed,  whitewashed  pilgrim 
broke  : 

"  You  lazy  lubber ! — " 
"Confouud  it!"  cried  the  other,  "'tis  no  jol'e .' 
My  feet,  once  hard  us  any  rock. 

Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber! 
Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear ! 
As  for  Loretto,  I  shall  not  get  there  : 
No !   to  the  devil  mj^  sinful  soul  must  go ; 
For,  hang  me,  if  I  ha'n't  lost  every  toe. 
But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain  ; 

What   power   hath   worked   a    wonder   for   your 
toes, 
While  I  just  like  a  snail  am  crawling, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling. 

While  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 
How  is't  that  yon  can  like  a  greyhound  go. 

Merry,  as    if  that    naught    had    happened,  burn 
ye  ?"— 
"Why,"    cried    the     other,    grinning,    "you    must 
know. 

That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey. 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  pease." 


222 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


i?amcs  illacpljcvGon. 

A  native  of  Kingussie,  Scotland,  Macpliei-son  (1738- 
179C)  was  intended  lor  tlic  Cluircii,  and  received  liis  ed- 
ucation tlurefor  at  Aberdeen.  In  1758  lie  iniblishcd  a 
very  ambitious  but  very  worthless  poem,  entitled  "The 
Highlander."  The  next  year  he  pul)lislied  a  volume  of 
sixty  pages,  entitled  "Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetrj' ; 
translated  from  the  Gaelic  or  Erse  language."  It  at- 
tracted attention,  and  a  subscription  was  raised  to  ena- 
ble him  to  travel  in  the  Highlands  and  collect  other 
pieces.  He  claimed  that  his  journe}-  was  successful. 
In  176;i  he  presented  the  world  with  "Fingal,"  an  an- 
cient epic  poem  in  six  books  ;  and,  in  1703,  "Temora," 
another  epic  poem  in  eight  books.  The  sale  of  these 
productions  was  immense.  That  they  should  have  been 
handed  down  by  tradition  through  many  centuries,  among 
rude  tribes,  excited  much  astonishment.  One  Ossian  was 
the  reputed  author.  Many  critics  doubted;  others  dis- 
believed ;  and  a  tierce  controversy  raged  for  some  time 
as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  poems.  How  much  of  them 
is  ancient  and  genuine,  and  how  much  fabricated  cannot 
now  be  ascertained.  The  Highland  Society  were  unable 
to  obtain  any  one  poem  the  same  in  title  and  tenor  with 
the  poems  published.  Macpherson  went  to  London,  be- 
came a  successful  politician,  made  a  fortune,  and  obtain- 
ed a  seat  in  Parliament.  He  retired  to  his  native  parish, 
and  lived  about  six  years  to  enjoy  his  wealth.  Gray, 
Hume,  Home,  and  other  eminent  men  believed  in  "Os- 
sian," and  even  the  great  Napoleon  was  an  admirer  of 
it  in  its  translated  form. 


OSSIAN'S   ADDRESS   TO   THE   SUN. 

O  thoix  that  rollost  above, 

Round  as  tlio  shield  of  my  fathers! 

Whence  are  thy  beams,  O  sun  ! 

Thy  everlasting  light? 

Thou  conie.st  forth  in  tbine  awful  beauty  ; 

The  stars  bide  tbcniselves  in  the  sky; 

The    moon,  eolil    and   iialc,  sinks    in    tlic    western 

wave  ; 
But  thou  tby.self  niovest  alone. 
Who  can  be  companion  of  thy  course  ? 
The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall ; 
The  mountains  themselves  decay  with  j'ears ; 
Tlio  ocean  sluinks  and  grows  again  ; 
The  moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven, 
But  thou  avt  forever  the  same, 
Rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  thy  course. 
AVlien  the  world  is  dark  MJtb  tempests, 
When  thunder  rolls  and  lightning  Hies, 
Thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from  tlic  clouds 
And  langhest  at  the  storm. 
But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest  in  vain. 
For  he  belndds  thy  beams  no  more, 


Whether  thy   yellow   hair   floats   ou   the    eastern 

clouds, 
Or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of  the  west. 
But  tliou  art  perhaps  like  me  for  a  season  ; 
Thy  years  will  have  an  end. 
Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds, 
Careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning. 
Exult  then,  O  sun,  iu  the  strength  of  thy  youth ! 


THE   SONG   OF   COLMA. 

It  is  night :   I  am  alone, 
Forlorn  on  the  liill  of  storms! 
The  wind  is  heard  in  the  mountain  ; 
The  torrent  pours  dowu  the  rock ; 
No  hut  receives  me  from  the  rain. 
Forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds! 

Rise,  moon !   from  behind  thy  clouds. 
Stars  of  the  night,  arise ! 
Lend  me  some  light  to  the  place 
Where  my  Love  rests  from  the  chase  aloue- 
His  bow  near  him  unstrung ; 
His  dogs  panting  around  him  ? 
But  here  I  must  sit  alone 
By  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream. 
The  stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud ; 
I  hear  not  the  voice  of  my  love. 
Why  delays  my  Salgar, 
Why  the  chief  of  the  bill  his  promise  ? 
Here  is  the  rock,  and  here  the  tree, 
And  here  is  the  roaring  stream  ! 
Thou  didst  promise  with  night  to  bo  here. 
Ah  !   whither  is  my  Salgar  gone  ? 
With  thee  I  would  liy  from  my  father ; 
With  thee  from  my  brother  of  pride. 
Long  have  our  race  been  foes ; 
We  are  not  foes,  O  Salgar ! 

Cease  a  little  while,  O  wind ! 
Stream,  be  thou  silent  awhile ! 
Let  my  voice  bo  heard  around  ; 
Let  my  wanderer  hear  me. 
Salgar,  it  is  Colnia  who  calls! 
Here  is  the  tree  and  the  rock ; 
Salgar,  my  Love,  I  am  here  ; 
Wliy  delajest  thou  thy  coming? 
I^o !  the  calm  moon  comes  forth; 
The  Hood  is  bright  in  the  A-ale  ; 
The  rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep  : 
I  see  him  not  on  the  brow ; 
His  dogs  come  not  before  him 
With  tidings  of  his  near  approach, 
Here  I  must  sit  alone! 


NATHANIEL  NILES.— AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE   TOI'LADY. 


22^ 


^'atljanicl  ^'ilcs. 


AMERICAN. 

Xiles  (1739-1828)  was  a  grandson  of  Samuel  Niles,  the 
minister  of  Braintree,  Mass.,who  was  an  author  of  some 
little  note.  Nathaniel  was  a  ijraduatc  of  Princeton  Col- 
lege in  1776,  and  Master  of  Arts  of  Harvard  in  1773.  IFe 
settled  in  West  Fairlee,  Vermont,  where  he  became  Dis- 
trict Judge  of  the  United  States.  He  preached  occa- 
sionally as  a  Presbyterian  minister,  at  Norwich,  Conn., 
during  the  Revolution.  He  wrote  several  theological 
treatises,  but  will  be  remembered  chiefly  by  his  patriotic 
Ode  in  Sapphic  and  Adonic  verse.  It  is  superior  to  much 
that  was  current  as  poetry  in  his  day.  He  died  at  the 
advanced  age  of  eighty-nine. 


THE   AMERICAN   HERO. 

Au  Ode,  written  at  the  time  of  the  Aruericau  Revolatiou,  at 
Norwich,  Coun.,  October,  1TT5. 

Why  should  vaiu  mortals  tremble  at  the  sight  of 
Death  and  destruction  iu  the  field  of  battle, 
Where   blood   and   carnage   clothe   the   ground  in 
crimson, 

Sounding  with  death-groans  ? 

Death  Tvill  invade  us  by  the  means  appointed, 
And  TVS  must  all  bow  to  the  king  of  terrors  ; 
Nor  am  I  anxious,  if  I  am  prepared, 
What  shape  he  conies  iu. 

Infinite  Goodness  teaches  us  submission. 
Bids  us  be  quiet  under  all  his  dealings; 
Never  repining,  but  forever  praising 
God,  our  Creator. 

"Well  may  we  praise  him  :  all  his  waj's  are  perfect; 
Though  a  resplendence,  infinitely  glowing. 
Dazzles  in  glory  on  the  sight  of  mortals, 
Struck  blind  bj-  lustre. 

Good  is  Jehovah  in  bestowing  sunshine, 
Nor  less  his  goodness  iu  the  storm  and  thunder, 
Mercies  and  judgment  both  proceed  from  kindness, 
Infinite  kiuduess. 

Oh,  then,  exult  that  God  forever  reigneth  ; 
Clouds  which  aronnd  him  hinder  our  perception. 
Bind  us  the  stronger  to  exalt  his  name,  and 
Shout  louder  praises. 

Then  to  the  wisdom  of  my  Lord  and  Master 
I  will  commit  all  that  I  have  or  wish  for, 
Sweetly  as  babes  sleep  will  I  give  my  life  up, 
"When  called  to  viekl  it. 


Now,  Mars,  I  dare  thee,  clad  in  smoky  pillars. 
Bursting  from  bond)-shells,  roaring  from  the  cannon. 
Rattling  in  grape-shot  like  a  storm  of  hailstones. 
Torturing  ether. 

Up  the  bleak  heavens  let  the  spreading  flames  rise. 
Breaking,  like  Etna,  through  the  sundry  columns, 
Lowering,  like  Egypt,  o'er  the  falling  city, 
Wantonly  burut  down.' 

While  all  their  hearts  qtiick  palpitate  for  havoc. 
Let  slip  your  blood-hounds,  nanted  the  British  lions ; 
Dauntless  as  death  stares,  nimble  as  the  Avhirhvind, 
Dreadful  as  demons ! 

Let  oceans  waft  on  all  your  floating  castles. 
Fraught  with  destructiou,  horrible  to  nature; 
Then,  with  your  sails  filled  by  a  storm  of  vengeance, 
Bear  down  to  battle. 

From  the  dire  caverns,  made  by  ghostly  miners. 
Let  the  explosion,  dreadful  as  volcanoes, 
Heave   the   broad  town,  with   all   its    wealth   and 
lieople, 

Quick  to  destruction. 

Still  shall  the  banner  of  the  King  of  Heaven 
Never  advance  where  I'm  afraid  to  follow ; 
AVhile  that  precedes  me,  Avith  au  open  bosom, 
War,  I  defy  thee  ! 

Fame  and  de.ar  freedom  lure  me  on  to  battle, 
W^hile  a  fell  despot,  grimmer  than  a  death's-head, 
Stings  me  with  serpents,  fiercer  than  Medusa's, 
To  the  encounter. 

Life,  for  my  country  and  the  cause  of  freedom. 
Is  but  a  trifle  for  a  worm  to  i)art  with  ; 
And,  if  i)reserved  in  so  great  a  contest, 
Life  is  redoubled. 


;3lugustuG  iUoutiiciiic  ulopltxtiii. 

Toplad}',  a  zealous  advocate  of  Calvinism,  was  born  at 
Farnham,  in  Surrey,  1740,  and  died  1778.  He  Avas  edu- 
cated at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  became  vicar  of 
Broad  Hcubury,  iu  Devonshire.  He  was  a  strenuous 
opponent  of  Wesley.  His  tlicological  works  foi-m  six 
volumes ;  but  his  memory  is  kept  green  less  by  them 
than  by  a  few  popular  hymns. 


'  A  reference  to  the  burning  of  Charlestown,  near  Boston, 
by  the  British. 


224 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETL'T. 


DEATHLESS  PRINCIPLE,  ARISE! 

Deathlt'sa  i)iiiiti|il<',  aiisc ! 
Soar,  Ihoii  native  of  the  skies  ! 
Pearl  of  priee,  by  Jesus  bought, 
To  Ills  glorious  likeness  wrought  I 
Go,  to  sliino  before  his  throne, 
Deck  his  mediatorial  crown  ; 
Go,  iiis  triuninhs  to  adorn — 
Made  for  God,  to  God  return  ! 

Lo,  ho  beckons  from  on  high! 
Fearless  to  his  presence  Hy : 
Tliine  the  merit  of  his  blood, 
Tiiine  tiie  righteousness  of  God! 
Angels,  joyful  to  attend, 
Hovering,  round  thy  pillow  bend; 
Wait  to  catch  tlie  signal  given, 
And  escort  thee  quick  to  heaven. 

Ls  thy  earthly  house  distressed, 
Willing  to  retain  its  guest  ? 
'Tis  not  Ihou,  but  she,  must  die- 
Fly,  celestial  tenant,  lly ! 
Burst  thy  shackles,  drop  thy  clay, 
Sweetly  breathe  thyself  away; — 
Singing,  to  thy  crown  remove. 
Swift  of  wing,  and  tired  witli  love! 

Shudder  not  to  pass  the  stream, 
Venture  all  thy  care  on  Him  ; 
Him  whose  dying  love  and  power 
Stilled  its  tossing,  hushed  its  roar: 
Safe  is  the  expanded  wave. 
Gentle  as  a  summer's  eve  ; 
Not  one  object  of  his  care 
Ever  suffei'cd  shipwreck  there. 

See  the  haven  full  in  view; 
Love  divine  shall  bear  thee  through  : 
Trust  to  that  propitious  gale. 
Weigh  thy  anchor,  spread  thy  sail! 
Saints,  in  glory  perfect  made, 
Wait  thy  passage  through  the  shade 
Ardent  for  thy  coming  o'er, 
See,  they  throng  the  blissful  shore  ! 

Mount,  their  transports  to  improve  ; 
Join  the  longing  choir  above  ! 
Swiflly  to  their  wish  bo  given; 
Kindle  higher  joy  in  heaven  ! 
Such  the  prospects  that  arise 
To  the  dying  Christian's  eyes! 


Such  the  glorious  vista  faith 
Opens  through  the  shades  of  death  ! 


ROCK  OF  AGES,  CLEFT  FOR  ME. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  tiiee  ! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood 

From  thy  riven  side  wliich  llowed. 

Bo  of  sin  the  double  cure. 

Cleanse  me  froni  its  guilt  and  power. 

Not  the  labor  of  my  hands 
Can  fultil  tliy  law's  demands  : 
Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know. 
Could  my  tears  forever  flow, 
All  for  sin  could  not  atone ; 
Thou  must  save,  and  thou  alone ! 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring ; 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling  : 
Naked,  come  to  tliee  for  dress ; 
Helpless,  look  to  thee  for  grace  ; 
Foul,  I  to  the  Fountain  fly — 
Wash  me,  Saviour,  or  I  die ! 

Wliile  I  draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
AVhen  my  eye-strings  break  in  death, 
W^heii  I  soar  through  tracts  unknown. 
See  thee  on  thj^  judgment-throne, — 
Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee ! 


3olju  (Pivcn. 


Ewen  was  born  at  Montrose,  Scotland,  in  1741,  and 
died  at  Aberdeen  in  18:21.  Bums  says  of  this  song: 
"It  is  u  cliarniiiig  display  of  womanly  atlection  minglinn' 
with  the  concerns  and  occupations  of  life.  It  is  nearly 
e(niul  to  'There's  nae  luck  about  the  house.'" 


O   WEEL   MAY  THE   BOATIE   ROW. 

O  weel  may  tho  boatie  row, 

And  better  may  she  speed! 
And  weel  may  tho  boatie  row 

Tiiat  wins  the  bairnies'  bread! 
Tlie  boatie  rows,  tlie  boatie  rows, 

Tiie  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
An<l  bapi)y  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That    wishes  her  to  speed! 


JOHN  EWEX.—MES.  ANNE  HUNTER.— MRS.  GRANT  OF  CARROX. 


225 


I  cnist  my  liuo  iu  Largo  Bay, 

Aiul  fishes  I  caught  niuo  ; 
There's  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  fry, 

Anil  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wishes  her  to  speed! 

Oh  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel,' 
And  cleads  us  a'  frae  head  to  feet. 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed! 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  would  be  mine. 

And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 
Oh  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel ! 

He  swore  we'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

Tlie  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  lade 

When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 

My  kurtch  I  put  upon  my  head, 

Aud  dressed  mysel'  fu'  braw ; 
I  trow  my  heart  was  dowf "  and  wae 

When  Jamie  gaed  awa' : 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  lucky  be  her  part ; 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart ! 

When  Sawnie,  Jock,  and  Janetie 

Are  up,  and  gotten  lear,^ 
They'll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row. 

And  lighten  all  our  care. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fn'  weel ; 
And  lightsome  be  her  heart  that  bears 

The  mnrlain  aud  the  creel ! 

And  -when  wi'  age  we  are  -worn  down, 
And  hirpling  ronnd  the  door. 

They'll  row  to  keep  us  hale  aud  warm, 
As  'we  did  them  before  : 

Then  weel  may  the  boatie  row 
That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread  ; 


And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  Avish  the  boat  to  speed! 


illrs.  ^nnc  C)uuter. 

Mrs.  Hunter  (174;2-1821)  was  the  sister  of  Sir  Everard 
Home,  and  wife  of  John  Hunter,  celebrated  as  "  the 
greatest  man  who  ever  practised  surgery."  She  wrote 
sougs  that  Haydn  set  to  music,  and  in  1806  published  a 
volume  of  her  poems. 


»  Basket. 


2  Sad. 
15 


3  Learnin;'. 


INDIAN  DEATH-SONG. 

The  sun  sets  iu  night,  aud  the  s(:ars  shun  the  day, 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away : 
Begin,  you  tormentors !   your  threats  are  in  vain. 
For  the  son  of  Alkuoniook  will  never  complain. 

Remember  the  arrows  ho  shot  from  his  l)ow, 
Kemeraber  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low  : 
W^hy  so  slow  ?     Do  you  wait  till  I  shrink  from  the 

pain  ? 
No ;   the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

Eemember  the  wood  where  iu  ambush  we  lay, 
Aud  the  scalps  which  wo  bore  from  your  nation 

away : 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast ;   you  exult  iu  my  pain  ; 
But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

I  go  to  the  laud  -where  my  father  is  gone. 
His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son  ; 
Death  comes  like  a  friend  to  relieve  me  from  pain ; 
And  thy  son,  O  Alknomook !   has  scorned  to  com- 
plain. 


illrs.  ©rant  of  (Earron. 

Mrs.  Grant  (circa  1743-1814),  the  author  of  a  song  still 
popular,  was  born  in  Ireland,  of  Scottish  parents.  She 
married,  first  her  cousin,  Mr.  Grant  of  Carron,  about  the 
year  1763 ;  and,  secondly,  Dr.  Murray,  a  physician  iu 
Bath.     The  song  we  quote  was  a  favorite  witli  Burns. 


EOY'S  WIFE   OF  ALDIVALLOCH. 

Roy's  wife  of  Aldivallocli, 

Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch, 

Wat  ye  how  she  cheated  mo 

As  I  cam'  o'er  the  braes  o'  Balloch  ? 

She  vowed,  she  swore  she  wad  be  mine. 
She  said  she  lo'ed  me  best  o'  onie  ; 


226 


CYCLOl'.JiDIA    OF  lUHTI.Sll  AM)  AMEUICAN  I'DETRY. 


But,  all !   the  fickle,  faithless  (lucaii, 

She's  ta'en  the  carl,  and  left  licr  Johnnie. 
Koy's  wife  of  Ahlivalloch,  etc. 

Oil,  she  ^vas  a  canty  (lueaii, 

An'  wcel  could  dance  the  Ilieland  wallocli ! 
How  happy  I  had  she  been  mine, 

Or  I  been  Roy  of  Ahlivalloch  ! 

Roy's  ■wife  of  Ahlivalloch,  etc. 

Her  hair  sao  fair,  her  eeu  sae  clear, 

Her  wee  hit  luou'  sae  sweet  and  boniiic ! 

To  mo  she  ever  will  be  dear, 

Thonj^h  she's  forever  left  her  Johnnie. 
Koy's  wife  of  Ahlivalloch,  etc. 


^mia  Cctitia  (^ikiu)  I3arbaulL). 

Mrs.  BarbauUl  (1743-1835)  was  a  native  of  Kibwortli, 
Leiccstersliire.  Her  fatlier,  Mr.  Aikin,  kept  a  seminary 
for  the  education  of  boys;  and  Anna,  under  his  guidance, 
became  a  classical  scholar.  In  17T3  she  published  a  vol- 
ume of  poems,  which  went  through  four  editions  in  one 
year.  Ilcr  often  quoted  "Ode  to  Spring"  would  be  ad- 
mirable were  it  not  too  much  an  echo  of  Collins's  "Ode 
to  Evening,"  the  measure  of  wliich  it  reproduces.  In 
1774  she  married  the  Kev.  Mr.  Barbauld,  a  French  Prot- 
estant, and  in  1770  they  establislicd  themselves  at  Hamp- 
stead.  "Evenings  at  Home,"  the  joint  production  of 
herself  and  her  brother.  Dr.  John  Aikin,  is  still  a  favorite 
work  for  children  and  j'outh.  Jolinson,  wlio  hated  Dis- 
senters, is  credited  by  Boswell  with  a  remark  he  per- 
haps regretted :  "  Jliss  Aikin  was  an  instance  of  early 
cultivation ;  but  how  did  it  terminate  ?  In  marrying  a 
little  Presbyterian  parson,  who  keeps  an  infant  boarding- 
school,  so  that  all  lier  employment  now  is  '  to  suckle 
fools  and  chronicle  small-beer!'"  To  wliieh,  if  good 
nature  permitted,  it  might  be  retorted  that  this  same 
lady's  "early  cultivation"  had  not  terminated  even  in 
her  eighty -second  year,  when  she  wrote  a  little  poem 
worth  all  the  verse  that  Johnson  ever  i)roduced  in  his 
prime.  Of  the  poem  entitled  "Life,"  Wordsworth  re- 
marked to  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  "  Well,  I  am  not 
given  to  envy  other  people  their  good  things ;  but  I  do 
wish  I  had  written  thaty  But  even  Wordsworth,  like 
Johnson,  was  not  without  a  flaw  of  bigotry ;  for  in  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Dyce  he  says  of  Mrs.  Barbauld:  "She  was 
spoiled  as  a  poetess  by  being  a  Dissenter,  and  concerned 
with  a  Dissenting  academy."  Poor  liuman  prejudice  ! 
A  memoir  of  Mrs.  Barbauld  by  her  grandnicce,  Anna  Le 
Breton,  was  published  in  Boston  in  1878. 


LIFE. 


"Animcla,  Vagcla,  Blandvla." 

Life!   I  know  not  what  tliou  art, 

But  know  tliat  thou  and  I  must  part; 


And  when,  or  how,  or  wliero  wo  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 
But  tliis  I  know :    wlieu  thou  art  fled, 
Where'er  they  lay  these  liinb.s,  tiiis  head. 
No  clod  so  valueless  shall  be 
As  all  that  then  remains  of  me. 
Oil,  whither,  wiiitlier  dost  thou  Uy, 
Where  bend  unseen  thy  trackless  course, 

And  in  this  strange  divorce. 
Ah,  tell  mo  where  I  must  seek  this  compound  I  ? 

To  the  vast  ocean  of  empyreal  flame, 
From  whence  thy  essence  came, 
Dost  tiioii  thy  flight  pursue,  when  freed 
From  matter's  base  encumbering  weed? 
Or  dost  thou,  hid  from  sight, 
Wait,  like  some  spell-bouud  knight. 

Through  blank  oblivions  years  the  appointed  hour 

To  break  thy  trance  and  rea.ssnnie  tiiy  power  ? 

Yet  canst  thou,  without  thought  or  feeling  be  ? 

Oh,  say,  what  art  thou,  when  no  more  thou'rt  thee  ? 

Life !   we've  been  long  tog<!ther 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear ; 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good-night, — but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good-morning. 


LINES   WEITTEN  AT  THE   AGE    OF   EIGHTY- 
THREE   YEARS. 

Oh,  is  there  not  a  land 
Where  the  north-wind  blows  not? 
Where  bitter  blasts  arc  felt  not? 

Oh,  is  there  not  a  land 

Between  pole  and  pole, 
Where  the  war-trumpet  sounds  not 

To  disturb  the  deep  serene  ? — 

And  can  I  go  there 

Without  or  wheel  or  sail, — 
Without  crossing  f<)rd  or  moor, 
Without  climbing  Alpine  heights, — 

Wafted  by  a  gentle  gale? 

There  is  a  land; — 
And,  without  wind  or  sail, 
Fast,  fast  thou  shalt  be  wafted, 
Which  way  ever  blows  the  galo. 

Do  the  billows  roll  between  ? 


ANXA  LETITIA   (AIKIX)   BAUBAULD. 


227 


Must  I  cross  the  stormy  main  ? — 
Green  aucl  quiet  is  the  spot. 

Tliou  ueed'st  not  quit  the  arms 
That  tenderly  eulbld  thee. 


WHAT  DO   THE   FUTUEES   SPEAK   OF? 
IN   ANSWER   TO  A  QUESTION  IN   THE   GREEK   GRAMMAR. 

They  speak  of  never-withering  shades, 

And  bowers  of  opeuiug  joy  ; 
They  promise  mines  of  fairy  gold, 

And  bliss  without  alloy. 

They  whisper  strange  enchanting  things 

"Within  Hope's  greedy  ears ; 
And  sure  this  tuneful  voice  exceeds 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

They  speak  of  pleasure  to  the  gay, 

And  -uisdom  to  the  wise  ; 
And  soothe  the  poet's  beating  heart 

With  fame  that  never  dies. 

To  virgins  languishing  iu  love, 

They  speak  the  minute  nigh; 
And  vrarm  consentiug  hearts  they  join. 

And  xiaiut  the  rapture  high. 

In  every  language,  every  tongue. 
The  same  kiud  thiugs  they  say ; 

In  gentle  slumbers  speak  by  night. 
In  waking  dreams  hj  day. 

Cassandra's  fiite  reversed  is  theirs  ; 

She,  true,  no  faith  could  gain, — 
They  every  passing  hour  deceive. 

Yet  are  believed  again. 


THE  DEATH   OF  THE   VIRTUOUS. 

Gre.it  liberties  h.ive  been  talceii  with  this  piece  by  compilers 
of  hymn-books.    We  give  the  author's  own  version. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Virtue  dies! 

When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest ; 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes ! 

How  gently  heaves  the  expiring  breast ! 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away, 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'er. 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day. 
So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 


Triumphant  smiles  the  victor  brow, 

Fanned  by  some  angel's  purple  wing; — 

Where  is,  O  Grave!   thj-  victory  now? 
And  where,  insidious  Death!   thy  sting? 

Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears. 

Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell ! 

How  bright  the  unchanging  morn  appears! 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 

Its  duty  done, — as  sinks  the  clay, 
Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies  ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say, 
"  Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Virtue  dies !" 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD. 

To  learn<5d  Athens,  led  by  fame, 
As  once  the  man  of  Tarsus  came. 

With  pity  and  surprise, 
'Midst  idol  altars  as  he  stood, 
O'er  sculptured  marble,  brass,  and  wood. 

Ho  rolled  his  awful  eyes. 

But  oue,  apart,  his  notice  caught. 

That  seemed  with  higher  meaning  fraught, 

Graved  on  the  wounded  stone ; 
Nor  form  nor  name  was  there  expressed ; 
Deep  reverence  filled  the  musing  breast. 

Perusing,  "To  the  God  unknown!" 

Age  after  ago  has  rolled  away, 
Altars  and  thrones  have  felt  decay, 

Sages  and  saints  have  risen  ; 
And,  like  a  giant  roused  from  sleep, 
Man  has  explored  the  pathless  deep, 

And  lightnings  snatched  from  heaven  ;- 

And  many  a  shrine  in  dust  is  laid, 
Where  kneeling  nations  homage  paid, 

By  rock,  or  fount,  or  grove  ; 
Ephesian  Dian  sees  no  more 
Her  workmen  fuse  the  silver  ore. 

Nor  Capitolian  Jove  ; — 

E'en  Salem's  hallowed  courts  have  ceased 
With  solemn  pomps  her  tribes  to  feast. 

No  more  the  victim  bleeds; 
To  censers  filled  with  rare  perfumes. 
And  vestments  from  Egyptian  looms, 

A  purer  rite  succeeds  : — 


228 


CYCLOP JEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AM  ERIC  AX  POETRY. 


Yet  still,  where'er  presumptous  man 
His  Maker's  essence  strives  to  scan, 

And  lifts  liis  feeble  hands, — 
Thouf^h  saint  and  Ka<;('  their  powers  unite. 
To  fathom  that  abyss  of  lij^ht, 

All!   still  that  uUar  stands. 


FOR  EASTER  SUNDAY. 

Again  the  Lord  of  life  and  light 

Awakes  the  kindling  ray; 
Unseals  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

And  ponrs  increasing  day. 

Oh  what  a  night  was  that  which  wrapped 

The  heathen  world  in  gloom  ! 
Oh  what  a  snn  which  broke  this  day. 

Triumphant  from  the  tomb! 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid, 

And  loud  hosannas  sung ; 
Let  gladness  dwell  in  every  heart, 

And  praise  on  every  tongue. 

Ten  thousand  differing  lips  shall  join 

To  hail  this  welc(mio  morn, 
Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wings. 

To  nations  yet  unborn. 


CCIjarlcs  PibLiin. 


Dibdin  (1745-1814)  was  a  native  of  Southampton,  Eng- 
laud.  He  was  bred  for  the  Church,  but  took  to  music 
and  song-writing.  He  appeared  on  the  stage,  but  did 
not  succeed  as  an  actor.  In  his  dramatic  pieces  and 
musical  compositions,  however,  he  hit  the  taste  of  his 
limes.  His  sea-songs  are  more  than  a  thousand  in  num- 
ber, and  some  of  them  are  quite  spirited.  His  sons, 
Charles  and  Thomas,  were  also  dramatists  and  song- 
writers, but  inferior  to  the  father.  Thomas  Frognall 
Dibdin,  the  eminent  English  bibliographer,  son  of  Cap- 
tain Thomas  Dibdin,  the  "Tom  Bowling"  of  Charles's 
songs,  was  a  nephew.  Charles  was  improvident  in  his 
habits,  and  died  poor. 


POOR  JACK. 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  d'yo  see? 

'Bout  danger,  and  fear,  and  the  like; 
A  tight  water-boat  and  good  sea-room  give  me, 

And  it  ain't  to  a  little  I'll  strike. 


Though  the  tempest  topgallant-masts  smack  smooth 
should  smite, 

And  shiver  each  splinter  of  wood. 
Clear  the  wreck,  stow  the  yards,  and  bouse  every- 
thing tight. 

And  under  reefed  foresail  we'll  scud. 
Avast !  nor  don't  think  me  a  milksop  so  soft 

To  be  taken  hy  trifles  aback  ; 
For  they  say  there's  a  Providence  sits  up  aloft. 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

I  heard  our  good  chaplain  palaver  one  day 

About  souls,  heaven,  mercy,  and  such  ; 
And,  my  timbers!  what  lingo  he'd  coil  and  belay! 

Why,  'twas  all  one  to  me  as  High-Dutch  : 
But  he  said  how  a  sparrow  can't  founder,  d'ye  see  ? 

Without  orders  that  come  down  below; 
And  a  many  fine  things  that  proved  clearly  to  me 

That  Providence  takes  us  in  tow  : 
For,  says    he,  Do   you   mind    me,  let    storms    e'er 
so  oft 

Take  the  top-sails  of  sailors  aback. 
There's  a  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

I  said  to  our  Poll  (for,  d'yo  sec?   she  would  cry 

When  last  we  weighed  anchor  for  sea). 
What  argufies  snivelling  and  iiipiug  your  eye  ? 

Why,  what  a  [young]  fool  you  must  be ! 
Can't  yon  see  the  world's  wide,  and  there's  room 
for  us  all. 

Both  for  seamen  and  lubbers  ashore  ? 
And  if  to  Old  Davy  I  go,  my  dear  Poll, 

Why,  you  never  will  hear  of  me  more : 
What  then  ?  all's  a  hazard — come,  don't  be  so  soft ; 

Perhaps  I  may,  laughing,  come  back  ; 
For,  d'ye  see  ?  there's  a  cherub  sits  smiling  aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

D'yo  mind  me,  a  sailor  should  bo  every  inch 

All  as  one  as  a  piece  of  the  ship, 
And  with  her  bravo  the  world,  without  offering  to 
flinch, 

From  the  moment  the  anchor's  a-trip : 
As  for  me,  in  all  weathers,  all  times,  sides,  and  ends. 

Naught's  a  trouble  from  duty  that  springs ; 
For   my   heart   is   my  Poll's,  and   my  rhino's   my 
friend's. 

And  as  for  my  life,  'tis  the  King's. 
Even  when  my  time  comes,  ne'er  believe  mo  so  soft 

As  for  grief  to  bo  taken  aback  ; 
For  the  same  little  clierub  that  sits  up  aloft 

AVill  look  out  a  good  berth  for  poor  Jack ! 


THOMAS  HOLCROFT.— HANNAH  MORE. 


321> 


(iljomas  tjoUroft. 


Ilolcroft  (1745-1809),  author  of  the  still  popular  come- 
dy of  "The  Road  to  Ruin,"  was  born  in  London,  of  very 
liiiiiible  parentage.  For  a  tune  lie  worked  at  his  father's 
trade  of  a  shoemaker;  then  he  became  a  provincial  act- 
or, and  then  a  writer  of  novels.  He  seems  to  have  found 
his  forte  in  writing  for  the  stage :  between  1778  and  1800 
he  produced  more  than  thirty  dramatic  pieces.  He  was 
a  zealous  reformer,  and  an  ardent  advocate  of  popular 
rights.  The  following  song  is  from  his  novel  of  "Hugh 
Trevor." 


GAFFER  GRAY. 

Ho !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 

Gaffer  Gray? 
And  -why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ? 
"  'Tis  the  -weather  that's  cold, 
'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old, 
And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new ;  . 
Well-a-day !" 

Then  liue  thy  worn  doublet  with  ale, 

Gafler  Graj^, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass. 
"  Nay,  but  credit  I've  none. 
And  my  money's  all  gone  ; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? 
Well-a-day !" 

Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow. 

Gaffer  Graj^, 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door. 
"  The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day !" 

The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front. 
"'  He  will  fasten  his  locks. 
And  will  threaten  the  stocks, 
Should  he  ever  more  find  mo  in  want, 
Well-a-day !" 

The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 
And  the  season  Avill  welcome  you  there. 
"His  fat  beeves,  and  his  beer, 
And  his  merry  new  year. 
Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 
Well-a-day !" 


My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 

Gaffer  Gray : 
What  then  ?     While  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live. 
"Ah!   the  poor  man  alone. 
When  lie  hears  the  poor  moan. 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day!" 


fjannalj  illorc. 


The  daughter  of  a  school -master.  Miss  More  (1745- 
1833)  was  a  native  of  Stapleton,  in  Gloucestershire.  The 
family  removed  to  Bristol ;  and  there,  in  her  seventeenth 
year,  she  published  a  pastoral  drama,  "The  Search  after 
Happiness,"  which  passed  through  three  editions,  in 
1773  she  made  her  entrance  into  London  society,  was 
domesticated  with  Garriek,  and  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Johnson  and  Burke.  In  1777  Garriek  brought  out 
her  tragedy  of  "Percy"  at  Drury  Lane,  from  which  she 
got  £750.  She  now  wrote  poems,  sacred  dramas,  a  pious 
novel,  "Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,"  etc.,  till  her  writ- 
ings filled  eleven  volumes  octavo.  Of  "Coelebs,"  ten 
editions  were  sold  in  one  year.  She  made  about  £30,000 
by  her  writings. 


THE   TWO  WEAVERS. 

As  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat, 
Beguiling  time  with  friendly  chat. 
They  tonclied  upon  the  price  of  meat, 
So  high  a  weaver  scarce  could  eat! 

"  What  with  my  babes  and  sickly  wife," 
Quoth  Dick,  "I'm  almost  tired  of  life: 
So  hard  we  work,  so  poor  we  fare, 
'Tis  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

"  How  glorious  is  the  rich  man's  state ! 
His  house  so  fine,  his  wealth  so  great! 
Heaven  is  unjust,  you  must  agree : 
Wliy  all  to  him,  and  none  to  me  ? 

"  In  spite  of  what  the  Scripture  teaches, 
In  spite  of  all  the  pulpit  preaches, 
This  world — indeed,  I've  thought  so  long- 
Is  ruled,  methinks,  extremely  wrong. 

"  Where'er  I  look,  liowe'er  I  range, 
'Tis  all  confused,  and  hard,  and  strange  ; 
The  good  are  troubled  and  oppressed, 
And  all  the  wicked  are  the  blessed." 

Quoth  John,  "  Our  ignorance  is  the  cause 
Whj-  thus  we  blain(!  our  Maker's  laws. 


230 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BKITISE  AND  AMEEICAX  POETRY. 


Parts  of  his  ways  aloiio  wo  know  ; 
'Tis  all  that  man  can  .son  below. 

"  Secst  thon  tbat  carpet,  not  half  done, 
Which  thon,  dear  Dick,  hast  well  begun  ? 
Behold  the  wild  confusion  tliere ! 
So  rude  the  mass,  it  makes  one  stare  ! 

"A  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  trade, 
"Would  saj-.  No  meaning's  there  conveyed ; 
For  Avhere's  the  middle  ?  where's  the  border  ? 
Thy  carpet  now  is  all  disorder." 

Quoth  Dick,  "My  work  is  yet  in  bits; 
But  still  in  every  part  it  fits: 
Besides,  you  reason  like  a  lout  : 
Why,  man,  that  carpet's  inside  out." 

Says  John,  "Tliou  sayst  the  thing  I  mean. 
And  now  I  hope  to  cure  thy  spleen  : 
This  world,  which  clouds  thy  soul  with  doubt, 
Is  but  a  carpet  inside  out. 

"As  when  we  view  these  shreds  and  ends. 
We  know  not  what  the  whole  intends : 
So,  when  on  earth  things  look  but  odd. 
They're  working  still  some  scheme  of  God. 

"No  plan,  no  pattern,  can  we  trace; 
All  Avaiits  proportion,  truth,  and  grace: 
The  motley  mixture  we  deride, 
Nor  see  the  beauteous  upper  side. 

"  But  when  we  reach  the  world  of  light. 
And  view  these  works  of  God  aright ; 
Then  shall  we  see  the  wlndo  design. 
And  own  the  Workman  is  Divine. 

"What  now  seem  random  strokes  will  there 
All  order  and  design  appear ; 
Then  shall  we  prai.se  what  here  we  spurned, 
For  then  the  carpet  will  be  turned." 

"Thou'rt  right,"'  <iuoth  Dick;  ''no  more  I'll  grumble 
That  this  world  is  so  strange  a  jumble  ; 
My  impious  doubts  are  put  to  tiiglit, 
For  my  own  carpet  sets  me  right." 


KINDNESS   IN   LITTLE   THINGS. 

Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things. 
And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  spriug.s,- 


Sinco  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  few  can  save  or  serve,  but  all  can  please, — 
Ob,  let  the  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence, 
A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence : 
Large  bounties  to  bestow  wo  wish  in  vain, 
But  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain. 


lllilliam  tjarjlcn. 


Ilayloy  {174.5-1820),  tlic  blognipher  of  Cowpcr,  wrote 
poeuis  very  popular  in  their  day.  His  "Triumphs  of 
Temper"  (1781),  though  now  forgotten,  had  a  large  sale. 
He  wrote  also  dramatic  pieces  and  a  "Lite  of  Milton" 
(179G).  His  over-strained  sensibility  and  romantic  tastes 
exposed  him  to  ridicule,  yet  he  was  an  amiable  and  ac- 
complished man.  His  life  of  Cowper  appeared  in  1803. 
The  few  natural  and  graceful  lines  we  quote  will  proba- 
bly outlast  all  the  other  effusions  of  this  once  much- 
praised  versifier. 


THE  DEPARTING  SWALLOWS. 

Yc  gentle  birds,  that  perch  aloof. 

And  .smooth  your  pinions  on  my  roof. 

Preparing  for  departure  hence, 

Now  AVinter's  angry  threats  commence! 

Like  you,  my  soul  would  smooth  her  plume 

For  longer  flights  beyond  the  tomb. 

May  God,  by  Avhom  are  seen  and  heard 
Departing  men  and  wandering  bird, 
In  mercy  mark  lis  for  his  own, 
And  guide  us  to  the  land  unknown  ! 


f)cftor  illarucil. 


A  native  of  Scotland,  Macneil  (174G-1S1S)  was  brought 
up  to  a  mercantile  life,  but  did  not  succeed  in  it.  He 
wrote  a  talc  in  verse,  depicting  the  evils  of  intemper- 
ance ;  also  several  Scottish  lyrics.  The  latter  years  of 
his  life  were  spent  in  comfort  at  Edinburgh. 


I^IARY   OF  CASTLE-CARY. 

"Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  aiu  thing. 
Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea  ? 

Crossed  she  the  meadow  yestreen  at  the  gloaming  ? 
Sought  she  the  buruic  where  flowers  the  haw- 
tre(>  ? 

Her  hair  it  is  lint-white,  her  skin  it  is  milk-white, 
Dark  is  the  blue  of  her  soft-rolling  ee  ; 


HECTOR  MACNEIL.— MICHAEL  BRUCE. 


231 


Red,  rod  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses — 
Where  could  my  wee  thing-  wander  tVao  rao  ?" 

"I  saw  nao  your  wee  thing,  I  saw  nac  your  aiu 
thing. 

Nor  saw  I  your  true  love  down  on  yon  lea  ; 
Cut  I  met  my  bonuie  thing  late  in  tlie  gU)amin', 

Down  by  the  buruie  where  llowcrs  the  haw-treo: 
Her  liair  it  was  lint-white,  her  skin  it  was  milk- 
white. 

Dark  was  the  blue  o'  her  soft-rolling  e'e ; 
Red  were  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses — 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  ga'e  to  me." 

"  It   was  iiae   my  wee  thing,  it   was  nao   my  ain 
thing, 

It  was  uae  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the  tree  : 
Proud  is  lier  leal  heart,  modest  her  nature  ; 

She  never  lo'ed  ony  till  auce  she  lo'ed  me. 
Her  name  it  is  Mary  ;   she's  frae  Castle-Cary ; 

Aft  has  she  sat,  when  a  bairn,  on  my  knee. 
Fair  as  your  face  is,  were't  fifty  times  fairer. 

Young  bragger,  she  ne'er  wad  gie  kisses  to  thee." 

"It  was,  then,  your  Mary;   she's  frao  Castle-Cary; 

It  was,  then,  your  true  love  I  met  by  the  tree. 
Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature, 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  slie  ga'e  to  me." — 
Sair  gloomed  his  dark  brow,  blood -red  his  cheek 
grew, 

\Ylld  flashed  the  fire  frae  his  red  rolling  e'e  : 
"  Ye's  rue  sair  this  morning,  your  boasts  and  your 
scorning : 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor!   fu'  loudly  ye  lee!" 

"Awa'  wi'  beguiling!"  cried  the  youth,  smiling — 

Aff  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint-white  locks  flee  ; 
The  belted  plaid  fa'ing,  her  white  bosom  shawing. 

Fair  stood  the  loved  maid  wi'  the  dark  rolling  e'e. 
"  Is  it  my  wee  thing,  is  it  my  ain  thing, 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I  see?" 
"  O  .Jamie,  forgi'e  me !  your  heart's  constant  to  me : 

I'll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee." 


illicljael  Bruce. 


Bruce  (1740-1707)  was  the  son  of  a  humble  Scottish 
weaver,  and  a  native  of  the  county  of  Khn-oss.  Ue  stud- 
ied at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  was  soon  distin- 
guished for  his  poetical  productions.  He  kept  school 
awhile,  but  was  attacked  by  a  pulmonary  complaint,  and 
died  before  he  was  twenty-two  years  old.     His  poems 


bear  the  marks  of  immaturity,  and  the  resemblances  in 
them  to  other  poets  are  close  and  frequent.  With  death 
full  in  his  view  he  wrote  his  "  Elegy,"  the  best  of  all  his 
productions.  It  extends  to  twenty-two  stanzas,  of  which 
we  quote  the  choicest.  After  his  death  his  Bible  was 
found  upon  his  pillow,  marked  down  at  Jcr.  xxii.  10 : 
"Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him."  His 
poems  were  first  given  to  the  world  by  his  college  friend, 
John  Logan,  in  1770.  In  1837  a  complete  edition  was 
brouiiht  out. 


FROM  AN  ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  SPRING. 

Now  Spring  returns ;   but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known  : 

Dim  in  my  breast  life's  dying  taper  burns, 

And  all  the  joys  of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

Starting  and  shivering  in  th'  inconstant  wind, 
Meagre  and  jiale,  the  ghost  of  what  I  was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I  lie  reclined. 

And  count  the  silent  uu)nients  as  they  jiass, — 

The  wing6d  moments !   whose  unstaying  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead, 
And  lay  me  down  iu  peace  with  them  that  rest. 

Oft  morning-dreams  presage  approaching  fate ; 

And  morning-dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true: 
Led  by  pale  ghosts,  I  enter  Death's  dark  gate, 

And  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 

I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  woe ; 

I  see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore. 
The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below, 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields  !   ye  cheerful  plains  ! 

Enough  for  me  the  church-yard's  lonely  mound, 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns, 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o'er  the  chcerles.s 
ground. 

There  let  mo  wander  at  the  shut  of  eve. 

When  sleep  sits  dewy  on  the  laborer's  eyes ; 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave. 

And  talk  with  Wisdom  where  my  Daphnis  lies. 

There  let  mo  sleep  forgotten  in  the  claj'. 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary,  aching  eyes' 

Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day, 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  morn 
arise ! 


232 


CYCLOP JSDI A   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY 


Sir  illilliam  loncs. 

Tlic  son  of  an  eminent  London  niatlicmatician,  Jones 
(174G-1704)  studied  at  Harrow,  and  then  at  Oxford,  where 
lie  devoted  niucii  time  to  the  Oriental  lanj^uages.  In 
1772  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  mostly  transla- 
tions. In  1774  he  was  called  to  tlie  Bar.  Tliough  op- 
posed to  tlie  American  war  and  the  slave-trade,  he  was 
knisrhted  in  178:5,  and  appointed  a  judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court  at  Fort  William,  in  Bengal.  He  married  the  daugh- 
ter of  Dr.  Shipley,  bishop  of  St.  Asaph ;  and  in  his  thirty- 
seventh  year  embarked  for  India,  never  to  return.  He 
performed  his  judicial  functions  with  the  utmost  lideli- 
ty,  but  he  overstrained  his  brain  by  intense  study ;  and 
in  1784  ills  health  began  to  fail.  His  attainments  in  the 
languages  were  various  and  profound.  lie  might  have 
won  a  conspicuous  ])lacc  among  tlic  poets,  had  he  not 
been  absorbed  in  philological  pursuits.  "  The  activity  of 
my  mind  is  too  strong  for  my  constitution,"  he  writes. 
He  died'  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  beloved  as  few  have 
been,  and  leaving  a  character  for  unalloyed  goodness, 
such  as  few  have  left.  A  collected  edition  of  his  writ- 
ings was  published  in  179!),  and  again  in  1807,  with  a 
"Life"  of  the  author  by  Lord  Teignmouth. 


A  PERSIAN  SONG  OF  HAFIZ. 

Sweet  raakl,  if  tboii  Avouldst  cliarm  my  sight, 

Ami  bid  tliese  iirnis  tliy  neck  enfold, 

That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand 

Would  give  thy  iioet  more  delight 

Than  all  Bokhara's  vaunted  gold, 

Tliau  all  the  gems  of  Samarcaud ! 

Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow, 
And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 
Whate'cr  the  frowning  zealots  say: 
Tell  them  their  Eden  cannot  .show 
A  stream  so  clear  as  Kocnabad, 
A  bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

Oil !   when  these  fair,  perfidious  maids, 
Wliose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest, 
Tlicir  dear  destructive  charms  display, 
Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades, 
And  robs  my  wounded  sonl  of  rest, 
As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

Speak  not  of  fate:   ah,  change  the  theme. 

And  talk  of  odors,  talk  of  wine. 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  ns  bloom  : 

'Tia  all  a  cloud, 'tis  all  a  dream; 

To  love  and  joy  thy  tlionghts  confine. 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 


Bnt  ah  !   sweet  maid,  my  counsel  hear 
(Youth  should  attend  when  those  advise 
AVliom  long  experience  renders  sage): 
While  music  charms  the  ravished  ear, 
While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes. 
Be  gay,  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I  heard  ? 

Aiul  yet,  by  Heaven,  I  love  thee  still : 

Can  aught  be  cruel  froni  thy  lip  ? 

Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 

From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill. 

Which  naught  but  drojis  of  honey  sip  ? 

Go  boldlj'  forth,  my  simple  lay, 

Who.se  accents  flow  Avith  artless  ea.se. 

Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung ! 

Tiiy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say ; 

Bnt  oh,  far  sweeter,  if  thej'  please 

The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sunj 


TETRASTICH. 


FiiOM  THE  Persian. 


On  iiarent  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st,  while  all  around  thee  smiled  : 
So  live  that,  sinking  iu  thy  last  long  sleep. 
Calm  thoii  mayst  smile  while  all  around  thee  weep. 


AN  ODE  IN  IMITATION  OF  ALC^US. 

What  constitutes  a  state  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate ; 
Not  cities  proud,  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports. 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts. 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  : — Men,  high-minded  men. 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den. 
As  bea.sts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing,  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow. 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain  : 

These  constitute  a  state; 
And  sovereign  Law,  that  state's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill : 


JOHN  O'KEEFE.— SUSANNA   BLAMIBE.—JOUN  LOGAN. 


233 


Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  ficiul,  Discretion,  like  a  A-apor  sinks  ; 

And  e'en  the  all-daz/.linj;^  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  Avas  this  Heavendoved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer,  and  the  Cretan  shore! 

Xo  more  shall  Freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 


jJolju  (D'Kccfc. 


O'Keefc  (1746-1833)  was  a  native  of  Dublin.  He  at- 
tempted the  stage,  but  subsequently  devoted  himself  to 
dramatic  composition.  His  latter  days  were  embittered 
by  blindness  and  pecuniary  destitution,  but  he  reached 
the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six.  Some  of  his  grotesque 
pieces  still  keep  possession  of  the  stage.  His  poems 
were  published  as  a  "legacy  to  bis  daughters"  in  1824. 
The  "Recollections  of  the  Life  of  John  O'Keefe,  writ- 
ten by  Himself,"  appeared  in  1826;  his  collected  dramas, 
in  1798. 


r  AM  A  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray. 
And  down  the  valleys  I  take  my  way  ; 
I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip — 
Good  store  of  veuisou  fills  my  scrip ; 
My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant ; 
Where'er  I  walk  uo  money  I  want ; 
And  why  I'm  so  plump  the  reason  I  tell — 
Who  leads  a  good  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

After  supper,  of  heaven  I  dream. 

But  that  is  pullet  and  clouted  cream  ; 

Myself,  by  denial,  I  mortify — 

With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden-pie  ; 

I'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin— 

With  old  sack  wine  I'm  lined  within ; 

A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 

And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding-dong. 

What  barou  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire. 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 


SuGanna  Ulamirc. 

A  native  of  Cumberland,  England,  Miss  Blamire  (1747- 
17!)4)  resided  sonic  years  with  a  married  sister  in  Perth- 
sliire,  Scotland,  and  wrote  Scottish  songs  like  a  native. 
Her  poetical  works  were  published,  with  a  biography  by 
Patrick  Maxwell,  in  1842. 


THE   SILLER  CROUN. 

"And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire, 

And  siller  hae  to  spare. 
Gin  ye'U  consent  to  bo  his  bride. 

Nor  think  o'  Donald  mair." 
"  Oh,  wha  wad  buy  a  silken  gouu 

Wi'  a  puir  broken  heart  ? 
Or  what's  to  me  a  siller  croun, 

Gin  frae  my  love  I  part  ? 

"  The  mind  whose  every  wish  is  pure, 

Far  dearer  is  to  me : 
And  ere  I'm  forced  to  break  my  faith, 

I'll  lay  me  douu  an'  dee. 
For  I  hae  pledged  my  virgin  troth 

Brave  Donald's  fate  to  share  ; 
And  he  has  gi'en  to  me  his  heart, 

Wi'  a'  its  virtues  rare. 

"  His  gentle  manners  wan  my  heart, 

He  gratefu'  took  the  gift ; 
Could  I  but  think  to  seek  it  back, 

It  Avad  be  waur  than  theft. 
The  langest  life  can  ne'er  repay  . 

The  love  he  bears  to  me  ; 
And  ere  I'm  forced  to  break  my  troth, 
•I'll  lay  me  doun  an'  dee." 


lol)n  £ogan. 


Logan  (1748-1788)  was  the  son  of  a  Scottish  farmer  in 
Mid -Lothian.  He  became  a  minister  —  alienated  his 
parishioners  by  writing  plays  and  committing  some  un- 
clerical  irregularities  —  went  to  London,  and  wrote  for 
the  English  Review.  He  published  a  volume  of  sermons, 
characterized  by  Chambers  as  "full  of  piety  and  fervor." 
His  little  poem  of  "The  Cuckoo"  is  the  slender  thread 
by  which  be  is  still  connected  with  the  recognized  poets 
of  Britain.  Burke  admired  it  so  much  that,  on  visiting 
Edinburgh,  he  sought  out  Logan  to  compliment  him. 
For  a  while  Logan  was  thought  to  have  pilfered  "The 
Cuckoo"  from  Michael  Bruce;  but  this  charge,  as  we 
learn  from  Chambers,  was  disproved  in  1873  by  David 
Laing  in  a  tract  on  the  authorship,  and  Logan's  claim 
was  made  good.     The  internal  evidence  is  in  his  favor. 


234 


CYCLOV.EDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


There  is  nothing  in  all  that  Bruce  wrote  that  is  sufrites- 
tivc  of  the  ode;  though  Trench  (1870)  fuvors  his  cliiini. 
The  ode  was  a  favorite  witli  Wordswortli. 


ODE  TO   THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,  Itcaiitcous  stranger  of  the  grove, 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

Antl  woods  thy  Avelconic  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Tiiy  certain  voice  we  lioar ; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  iiatb, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

DcligliHiil  visitant  !   witli  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  llowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  throngh  the  wood, 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear. 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  ou  the  bloom 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  gncst  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird!   thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  liast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 

No  Winter  in  tiiy  year! 

Oh  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Onr  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 


THE   CRAES   OF  YARROW. 

Tiiy  braes  were  bonnie.  Yarrow  stream, 

When  first  ou  them  I  met  my  lover ; 
Thy  braes  liow  dreary.  Yarrow  stream, 

When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover ! 
Forever  now,  O  Yarrow  stream, 

Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow  ; 
For  never  ou  thy  banks  shall  I 

Behold  mv  Love,  the  ilower  of  Yarrow! 


Ho  promised  me  a  milk-whito  steed. 

To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page, 

To  sqiiiro  me  to  his  father's  towers. 
He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, — 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow  : 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas!   Lis  watery  grave  in  Yarrow! 

Sweet  were  liis  words  when  last  we  met ; 

My  passion  I  as  freely  told  liim  : 
Clasped  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 

Tiiat  I  should  never  more  behold  him  ! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost — 

It  vanished  Avitli  a  shriek  of  sorrow; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 

And  gave  a  doleful  groan  through  Yarrow  I 

His  mother  from  the  Avindow  looked. 

With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walked 

The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  brother: 
Thej'  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 

They  sought  him  all  the  f<n-est  thorough  : 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 

Tliey  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look — 

Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid — ■ 

Alas !   thou  hast  no  more  a  brother ! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 

And  search  no  more  the  forest  thoi'ongh ; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 

He  fell  a  lifeless  corpse  iu  Yarrow. 

Tlie  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek. 

No  other  j'outh  shall  bo  uiy  marrow  ; 
I'll  seek  thy  body  iu  the  stream, 

And  tlien  witii  (hoe  I'll  sleep  in  Yarrow! 
The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek. 

No  other  youth  became  her  marrow ; 
She  found  his  body  in  the  stream. 

And  now  with  him  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 


illrs.  (Uljarlottc 


(Turner 


Smitl). 


Daughter  of  Nicholas  Turner,  of  Stoke  House,  Surrey, 
Cliaiiottc  (1749-lS0(i)  married  early  and  disastrously. 
Mr.  Smith  was  the  dissipated  son  of  a  West  India  mer- 
chant, and  soon  found  his  way  into  prison,  where  she 
spent  seven  mouths  with  him.     She  suffered  poverty, 


MES.  CHARLOTTE  {TURNER)  SMITH.— ROBERT  GRAHAM. 


2:J5 


wrote  for  bread,  parted  from  her  husband,  worked  for 
her  family,  and  saw  all  her  children  die  as  they  came  to 
maturity.  Her  poetrj'  is  of  the  sentimental  type.  Of 
her  sonnets  Coleridge  had  a  grateful  recollection.  Her 
prose  won  praises  from  Haylej-,  Cowper,  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 


TO   FORTITUDE. 

Nymph  of  the  rock!  who.se  clauiitlos.s  s])irifc  braves 
The  beating  storm,  and  bitter  winds  tliat  howl 
Round  thy  cokl  breast,  and   hear'st  the   bursting 

waves 
And  the  deep  thunder  with  uiishalceu  son! ! 
Oh  come,  aud  sliow  how  vain  the  cares  that  press 
Ou  my  weali  bosom,  aud  how  little  worth 
Is  the  false,  tieetiug  meteor,  Happiness, 
That  still  misleads  the  wanderers  of  the  earth ! 
Strengthened  by  thee,  this  heart  shall  cease  to  melt 
O'er  ills  that  poor  Humanity  must  bear ; 
Xor  frieuds  estranged  or  ties  dissolved  be  felt 
To  leave  regret  aud  fruitless  auguish  there  : 
Aud  when  at  length  it  heaves  its  latest  sigh. 
Thou  aud  mild  Hope  shall  teach  me  how  to  die ! 


TO  A  YOUXG  MAN   ENTERING   THE  WORLD. 

Go  uow,  iugeuuous  youth  ! — The  trying  hour 

Is  come  :  the  world  demands  that  thou  shouldst  go 

To  active  life.     There  titles,  wealth,  and  power 

May  all  be  purchased ;   yet  I  joy  to  kuow 

Thou  wilt  uot  pay  their  price.     The  base  control 

Of  petty  despots  in  their  pedant  reign 

Already  liast  thou  felt ;   and  high  disdain 

Of  tyrauts  is  impriuted  on  thy  sonl. 

Not  where  mistaken  Glory  in  the  field 

Rears  her  red  banner  be  thou  ever  found  ; 

But  against  ijroud  Oppression  raise  the  shield 

Of  patriot  daring.     So  shalt  thou  renowned 

For  tlie  best  virtues  live ;   or,  that  denied, 

Mayst  die,  as  Hampden  or  as  Sidney  died ! 


THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth. 
Chirping  on  my  humble  hearth, — 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode, 
Always  harbinger  of  good, — 
Pay  me  for  tliy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  most  soft  and  sweet : 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  song  as  I  can  give. 


Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  bo 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee. 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far. 
Happiest  grasshopjiers  that  are : 
Theirs  is  but  a  snmmer-song ; 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long. 
Unimpaired,  aud  shrill,  and  clear. 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night  nor  dawn  of  day 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  lay : 
Then,  insect,  let  thy  simple  song 
Cheer  the  winter  evening  long ; 
While,  secure  from  every  storm, 
In  my  cottage  stout  and  warm. 
Thou  shalt  my  merry  minstrel  be, 
Aud  I  deliglit  to  shelter  thee. 


Uobcrt  ©raljam. 

Graham  of  Gartmore,  Scotland,  was  born  1750;  died 
1797.  The  song  we  quote  was  first  published  in  the 
"Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border"  (1801).  At  one 
time  Scott  a'ttributed  it  to  James  Graham,  Marquis  of 
Montrose.  It  was  evidently  suggested  by  the  poem  of 
his  given  on  page  103  in  this  collection. 


OH,  TELL  ME  HOW  TO   WOO  THEE. 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  plea.sc. 

Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed  ; 
And  strong  his  arm,  aud  f\ist  his  seat. 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colors  in  my  cap. 

Thy  picture  in  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love ; 

Oh,  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  I 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 
Tiiongh  ne'er  another  trow  mc. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye, 

I'll  dight  me  in  array; 
I'll  teiul  thj'  chamber-door  all  night. 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear. 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch  ; 
Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysel' — • 

Tliat  voice  that  none  can  match. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love,  etc. 


236 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  liRITISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  if  fond  lovo  tliy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow ; 
Nao  maiden  lays  her  skaitli  to  nie  ; 

I  never  loved  bnt  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue  ; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing — 

Oh,  tell  me  how  to  woo ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love,  etc. 


Caiii)  ^nuc  (£ini)sai))  Uarnari). 

Lady  Anne  Barnard,  daughter  of  James  Lindsay,  Earl 
of  Balcarre?,  was  born  1750,  married  Andrew  Barnard  in 
1703,  and  died  without  issue  in  1825.  She  wrote  the  fo- 
mous  and  pathctie  balhid  of  "Auld  Robin  Gray"  about 
the  year  1771,  but  kept  the  authorship  a  secret  till  18:23, 
when,  in  her  scvcnty-tliird  year,  she  acknowledged  it  in 
a  letter  to  Sir  "Walter  Scott,  in  which  slie  writes  that  she 
does  not  comprehend  how  he  guessed  the  authorship, 
"as  there  was  no  person  alive  to  whom  she  had  told 
it."  At  the  request  of  her  mother,  who  often  asked 
"how  that  unlucky  business  of  Jcanie  and  Jamie  end- 
ed," she  wrote  a  continuation  ;  but,  like  most  continua- 
tions, though  ingeniously  done,  it  is  a  merQ  excrescence 
upon  the  original.  Frequent  alterations  in  the  text 
seem  to  have  been  made,  eitlier  by  the  author  or  by  un- 
autliorized  hands. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  arc  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye's  come 

hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frac  my  e'e, 
Unkent  by  my  gudc-nian,  wha  ,slee[)s  sound  by  mc. 

Young  Jamie  lo'od  me  wcel,  and  sought  me  for  his 

bride  ; 
But,  saving  ac  crown,  he  had  iiaetliing  else  beside  ; 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea. 
And  the  crown   and  the  i)ound  they  Avcro  baith 

for  me. 

lie  hadna.bccn  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was 

stown  away ; 
My  mither  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  my  mither  couldna  spin  ; 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna 
win  : 


Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in 

his  e'e. 
Said,  "  Jeanie,  for  their  sakes,  will  ye  no  marry  mc  ?" 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie  back; 
Bnt   hard   blew    the   Avinds,  and   his    ship    was    a 

wrack  : 
Ills  ship  was  a  wrack — why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  am  I  spared  to  cry,  Wae  is  me  ? 

My  father  urged  me  sair:  my  mither  di4na  speak; 
Bnt  she  look6d  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break. 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the 

sea ; 
And  so  Robin  Gray  he  was  gnde-man  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry  thee !" 

Oh,  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  saj-  of  a'; 
I  gied  him  ae  kisSj  and  I  bade  him  gang  awa'; — 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  nae  like  to  dee; 
For,  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I'm  but  yonng,  wae 
is  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin  ; 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 
Bnt  ni  do  my  best  a  gnde  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  oh !   Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


ilolju  (S^rumbulL 


AMERICAN. 

Trumbull  (1750-1831),  author  of  "M'Fingal,"  a  bur- 
lesque poem  in  the  style  of  Butler's  "Iludibras,"  was 
a  native  of  Watertown,  Conn.  He  entered  Yale  College 
at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  afterward  read  law  in  the  of- 
fice of  John  Adams,  in  Boston.  In  1774  he  began  the 
composition  of  "M'Fingal,"  a  poem  quite  popular  in 
its  day,  but  now  little  read,  though  manifesting  consider- 
able abilitj'.  M'Fingal  is  a  type  of  the  American  Tories 
wlio  held  out  for  a  monarchj-.  Ilonorius  is  the  Whig 
clianipion  of  freedom.  When  the  last  battle  of  the  Rev- 
olution lias  been  fought,  and  Torj-ism  is  humbled,  M'Fin- 
gal escapes  out  of  a  window  en  route  to  Boston,  and  tlie 
poem  is  closed.  Trumbull  wrote  "  The  Progress  of  Dul- 
ness,"  a  satirical  jioem,  also  "An  Elegy  on  the  Times." 
In  1825  he  moved  to  Detroit,  where  he  died.  An  edition 
of  his  works  was  published  in  Hartford  in  1820.  The 
latest  edition  of  "M'Fingal,"  with  notes  by  J.B.Los- 
sing,  was  published  by  G.  P.  Putnam,  New  York,  1857. 


JOHN  TRUMBULL.— lilCHAIiD  BBINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


237 


FROM   ''  JrFINGAL." 


Wlieu  Yiiukecs,  skilled  iii  martini  rule, 
First  init  the  British  troops  to  school ; 
Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade, 
And  new  manojuvres  of  inirade  ; 
The  true  Avar-dauce  of  Yankee  reels, 
And  manual  exercise  of  heels ; 
Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete. 
The  arm  of  flesh  and  trust  the  feet, 
And  Avork,  like  Christians  nudissembling, 
Salvation  out  by  fear  and  trembling, 
Taught  Percy  fashionable  races. 
And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-chases, — 
From  Boston,  in  his  best  array, 
Great  Squire  M'Fingal  took  his  way. 
And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown, 
Steered  liomeward  to  his  native  town. 

*  #  *  *  «  vf 

Nor  only  saw  ho  all  that  was. 

But  much  that  never  came  to  pass ; 

"Whereby  all  prophets  far  outwent  he ; 

Though  former  days  produced  a  plenty ; 

For  any  man,  with  half  an  eye. 

What  stands  before  him  may  espy; 

But  optics  sharp  it  needs,  I  ween. 

To  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen. 

As  in  the  days  of  ancient  fame 

Prophets  and  poets  were  the  same, 

And  all  the  praise  that  poets  gain 

Is  but  for  what  they  invent  and  feign, 

So  gained  onr  squire  his  fame  by  seeing 

Such  things  as  never  wonld  have  being. 

But,  as  some  muskets  so  contrive  it 
As  oft  to  miss  the  mark  they  drive  at. 
And  though  well  aimed  at  duck  or  plover. 
Bear  wide  and  kick  their  owners  over, 
So  fared  our  squire,  whose  reasoning  toil 
Would  often  on  himself  recoil. 
And  so  much  injured  more  his  side, 
The  stronger  arguments  he  applied  ; 
As  old  war  elephants,  dismayed, 
Trode  down  the  troops  they  came  to  aid, 
And  hurt  their  own  side  more  iu  battle 
Thau  less  and  ordinary  cattle. 


All  punishments  the  world  can  render 
Serve  only  to  provoke  the  offender ; 
The  will's  confirmed  by  treatment  horrid, 
As  hides  grow  harder  when  they're  curried. 


No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  draw, 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law; 
Or  held  in  method  orthodox 
His  love  of  justice  in  the  stocks; 
Or  failed  to  lose,  by  sheriff's  shears. 
At  once  his  loyalty  and  ears. 


Uicljari)  Snnslcji  Sljcntian. 

Sheridan  (1751-1816),  son  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  lex- 
icographer and  actor,  was  born  in  Dublin,  and  educated 
at  Harrow.  The  most  brilliant  dramatic  writer  of  his 
times,  he  has  given  but  foiut  evidences  of  the  poetical 
gift.  As  a  parliamentary  orator  he  won  liigh  distinction. 
His  comedies  are  the  best  in  the  language.  Improvident 
and  extravagant  in  his  way  of  living,  he  died  in  great  pe- 
cuniary humiliation,  notwithstanding  the  admiration  he 
had  excited  by  his  powers  as  a  dramatist  and  orator. 


HAD  I  A  HEART  FOR  FALSEHOOD  FRAMED. 

Froji  "  Tub  Duenna." 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I  ne'er  could  injure  you ; 
For  though  your  tongue  no  promise  claimed, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true  : 
To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit, 

No  stranger  offer  wrong  ; 
But  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  lovers  iu  the  young. 

For  wheu  they  learn  that  you  have  blessed 

Another  with  your  heart. 
They'll  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit. 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong ; 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  brothers  iu  the  young. 


SONG. 

From  "  The  Duenna." 

I  ne'er  could  any  lustre  see 

In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  me ; 

I  ne'er  saw  nectar  on  a  lip, 

But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 

Has  the  maid  Avho  seeks  my  heart 

Cheeks  of  rose,  untouched  by  art  ? 

I  will  own  the  color  true. 

When  vielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 


238 


CYCLOrJLDIA    OF  BllITlSII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Is  lici-  liand  so  soft  ami  pure  ? 
I  must  press  it,  to  bo  sure  ; 
Nor  can  I  bo  ccrtaiu  then, 
Till  it,  grateful,  press  again. 
Must  I,  with  attentive  eye, 
AVatt'h  her  beaving  bosom  sigb  ? 
I  will  tlo  so  wbeu  I  seo 
That  beaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 


St.  (C^corgc  <iuckcr. 


Tucker  (1753-1827)  was  born  in  Bermuda,  and  edu- 
cated in  Virginia,  at  William  and  Miiry  College.  He 
was  the  step-father  of  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  and 
was  known  chielly  as  a  jurist. 


DAYS   OF  MY  YOUTH. 

Days  of  my  youth,  yc  have  glided  away; 
Hairs  of  my  youth,  ye  arc  frosted  and  gray ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  your  keen  sight  is  no  more ; 
Cheeks  of  ray  youth,  ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  all  your  vigor  is  gone  ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth,  your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth,  I  wish  not  your  recall ; 
Hairs  of  ray  youth,  I'm  content  ye  should  fall ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth,  ye  much  evil  have  seen  ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth,  bathed  in  tears  have  you  been  ; 
Tlioughts  of  my  youth,  ye  have  led  me  astray ; 
Strength  of  my  youth,  why  lament  your  decay  ? 

Days  of  my  age,  ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 
Pains  of  my  age,  yet  awhile  ye  can  last ; 
Joys  of  my  age,  in  true  wisdom  delight ; 
Eyes  of  my  age,  be  religion  your  light ; 
Thoughts  of  my  age,  dread  yc  not  the  cold  sod ; 
Hopes  of  ray  age,  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 


(iljomas  (LU)attcrton. 

Chattcrton  (17.5:3-1 770),  of  whom  Wordsworth  speaks 
as  "  the  nnirvcllous  boy,  the  sleepless  soul,  that  perished 
in  his  pride,"  was  a  native  of  Bristol,  and  the  son  of  a 
school-master,  who  was  also  sexton  of  St.  Mary  Rcdcliffe 
Church,  and  who  died  three  months  before  Thomas  was 
born.  Tlic  lad,  when  five  years  old,  was  placed  at  school 
under  a  Mr.  Love,  who  scut  him  home  as  dull  and  inca- 
pable of  instruction.  At  six  he  taught  himself  his  let- 
ters from  the  illuminated  capitals  of  an  old  French  MS. 
He  learned  to  read  from  a  black-letter  Bible.     In  17G0 


he  was  admitted  into  Colston's  school,  Bristol,  where  he 
continued  seven  years.  During  that  period  he  composed 
several  of  his  minor  poems.  His  i)assion  for  books  was 
the  wonder  of  all  who  knew  him.  In  1707,  when  four- 
teen, he  was  ai)prenticcd  to  a  scrivener.  lie  now  set 
himself  to  accomplish  a  series  of  impositions  by  pretend- 
ed discoveries  of  old  manuscripts.  He  claimed  to  have 
come  of  a  family  of  hereditary  sextons  of  Redclilfe 
Church,  where,  in  an  old  chest,  these  MSS.  had  been 
found ;  and  he  employed  his  undeniable  and  wonderfully 
precocious  genius  in  manufacturing  mock  ancient  po- 
ems, wbich  he  ascribed  to  an  old  monk  of  Bristol,  whom 
he  culled  Thomas  Rowley,  and  placed  in  the  times  of 
Lydgate.  His  impositions  duped  many  of  the  citizens 
of  Bristol;  but  Gray,  Mason,  Sheridan,  Gibbon,  Johnson, 
and  Bishop  Pcrcj'  pronounced  his  pretended  discoveries 
to  be  forgeries.  Indeed,  a  close  examination  of  the  dic- 
tion ought  to  have  made  this  apparent  to  any  good  Eng- 
lish scholar. 

In  1770  the  boy  of  seventeen  went  up  to  London  to 
write  for  bread  and  fiime.  At  first  he  received  engage- 
ments from  various  booksellers  with  whom  he  had  be- 
fore corresponded.  His  restless  brain  was  full  of  schemes, 
and  he  wrote  home,  "I  am  settled,  and  in  such  a  settle- 
ment as  I  can  desire.  What  a  glorious  prospect  I"  His 
poetry  was  nmch  of  it  of  a  political  and  satirical  charac- 
ter, lie  took  lodgings  in  a  garret  in  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Angel,  in  llolborn.  From  thence  this  friendless  boy  in- 
dited letters  to  his  mother  and  sister,  and  sent  small 
presents  to  them,  to  comfort  them  with  the  thought 
that  be  was  doing  well,  and  to  show  them  his  love.  He 
Mould  live  on  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  dried  sheep' s-tongue, 
in  order  to  buy  something  from  his  poor  earnings  to 
send  home. 

But  his  poverty  at  last  became  extreme,  and  liis  pride 
was  as  great  as  his  poverty.  His  sister  became  insane ; 
and  probably  there  was  a  taint  of  insanity  in  his  own 
organization.  The  baker's  wife  refused  to  supply  him 
with  any  more  bread  until  he  had  paid  the  o.s'.  M.  already 
owing.  This  drove  him  to  his  garret  in  a  storm  of  pas- 
sion. He  made  a  final  attempt  to  get  employment,  but 
it  was  unavailing.  Returning  home,  he  purchased  some 
arsenic.  That  evening  he  spent  bending  over  the  fire  in 
Mrs.  Angel's  parlor,  muttering  poetry  to  himself,  until 
at  last,  taking  his  candle,  and  having  kissed  Mrs.  Angel, 
he  wished  her  good-night,  and  retired  to  his  garret.  The 
following  morning  his  lifeless  body  was  discovered  lying 
on  his  bed;  the  fioor  covered  with  shreds  of  papers.  "I 
leave  my  soul  to  its  Maker,"  he  wrote,  "  my  body  to  my 
mother  and  sister,  and  my  curse  to  Bristol."  Bristol 
lias  nevertheless  raised  a  monument  to  his  memory. 
Campbell  says  of  Chattcrton  :  "Tasso  alone  can  be  com- 
pared to  him  as  a  juvenile  prodigy.  No  English  poet 
ever  equalled  him  at  the  same  age."  At  the  time  of  his 
death  he  was  aged  seventeen  years,  nine  months,  and  a 
few  days. 

The  arbitrary  orthography,  in  rude  imitation  of  the  an- 
cient, used  by  Chattcrton,  being  a  mere  allVctation,  we 
dismiss  it  from  our  few  specimens  of  his  writings.  The 
diction  is  obviously  modern,  and  there  is  no  longer  any 
reason  for  retaining  what  was  only  designed  as  a  means 
of  supporting  an  imposture. 
Archbishop  Trench  has  shown  that  the  whole  fabric 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


239 


of  Cliatterton's  literary  fraud  could  have  been  blown  up 
by  calling  attention  to  his  use  of  the  word  its.  This 
word  did  not  lind  its  way  into  the  language  until  two 
hundred  years  after  the  period  of  Cliatterton's  monk, 
Rowley.  It  occurs  only  once  in  our  translation  of  the 
Scriptures  (Lcvit.  xxv.  5),  and  only  three  times  in  Shak- 
speare.     Even  Milton,  describing  Satan,  says 

"His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness." 

Evidently  Chattcrton  was  ignorant  of  these  facts,  and 
his  use  of  its  is  alone  sufficient  to  stamp  his  pretended 
antiques  as  spurious. 

"The  poems  of  Chattcrton,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
"may  be  divided  into  two  grand  classes:  those  ascribed 
to  Rowley,  and  those  which  the  bard  of  Bristol  avowed 
to  be  his  own  composition.  Of  these  classes,  the  former 
is  incalculably  superior  to  the  latter  in  poetical  power 
and  diction." 

Of  the  Rowley  poems  the  principal  are  :  "The  Trage- 
dy of  Ella,"  "The  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin," 
"Ode  to  Ella,"  "The  Battle  of  Hastings,"  "The  Tour- 
nament," "A  Description  of  Cannynge's  Feast,"  and 
one  or  two  dialogues.  An  animated  controversy  as  to 
their  authenticity  sprang  up  and  raged  for  a  long  time. 
Some  of  the  political  poems  acknowledged  by  Chatter- 
ton  show  remarkable  maturity  and  freedom  of  style,  and 
indicate  powers  akin  to  those  of  Swift  and  Di-yden.  But 
his  imitations  of  the  antique  arc  superior  to  all  his  other 
attempts.  He  has  been  compared  to  the  mocking-bird, 
whose  note  of  mimicry  is  sweeter  than  its  natural  song. 


BRISTOW  TRAGEDY ;   OR,  THE   DEATH  OF 
SIR   CHARLES  BAWDIN. 

The  feathered  songster  chanticleer 

Had  wound  his  bngle-horn, 
And  tokl  the  early  villager 

The  coming  of  the  morn  : 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  light  eclipse  the  gray  ; 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

"Thou'rt  right,"  quoth  he;  "for,  by  the  God 

That  sits  enthroned  on  high ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 

To-day  shall  surely  die." 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 

His  knights  did  on  him  wait ; 
"Go  tell  the  traitor  that  to-day 

He  leaves  this  mortal  state." 

Sir  Cauterlone  then  bended  low, 

\Yith  heart  brimful  of  woe  ; 
He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate. 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 


But  when  ho  came,  his  children  twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
With  briiij'  tears  did  wet  the  floor. 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  life. 

"  Oh,  good  Sir  Charles  !"  said  Canterlone, 

"  Bad  tidings  do  I  bring." 
"Speak  boldly,  man,"  said  bravo  Sir  Charles; 

"What  says  thy  traitor-king?" 

"  I  grieve  to  tell :  before  yon  sun 

Does  from  the  welkin  fly, 
He  hath  upon  his  honor  sworn 

That  thou  shalt  sui-elj'  die." 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir  Charles; 

"  Of  that  I'm  not  aft'eared  ; 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space? 

Thank  Jesu,  I'm  prepared  : 

"  But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he's  not, 

I'd  sooner  die  to-day. 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are. 

Though  I  should  live  for  aye." 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out. 

To  tell  the  mayor  strait 
To  get  all  tilings  in  readiness 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  fate. 

Then  Master  Canyng  sought  the  king, 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee ; 
"I'm  come,"  quoth  he,  "unto  j'our  grace. 

To  move  your  clemency." 

"Then,"  qnoth  the  king,  "your  tale  speak  out. 
You  have  been  much  our  friend : 

Whatever  your  request  may  be, 
We  will  to  it  attend." 

"'  My  noble  liege  !   all  my  request 

Is  for  a  noble  knight. 
Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong, 

He  thought  it  still  was  right : 

"  He  has  a  spou.so  and  children  twain ; 

All  ruined  arc  for  aye. 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day." 

"  Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile," 

The  king  in  fury  said ; 
"  Before  the  evening-star  doth  shine, 

Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head  : 


240 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Justice  docs  loudly  for  him  call, 

And  he  shall  have  his  uiocd  : 
Speak,  Muster  Canyiif;!   what  thing  else 

At  present  do  you  need  ?" 

"  My  noble  liege !"  good  Canyng  said, 

"Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside ; 

]?e  tiiinc  the  olive  rod. 

"  Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins, 

The  best  were  sinners  great ; 
Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 

lu  all  this  mortal  state. 

"Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 
'Twill  fast  thy  crown  full  sure  ; 

From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure  : 

"But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 

Begin  thj'  infant  reign. 
Thy  crown  upon  thy  children's  brows 

Will  never  long  remain." 

"  Canyng,  away  !   this  traitor  vile 
Has  scorned  my  power  and  me ; 

How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 
Entreat  my  clemenc^^  ?" 

"My  noble  liege!   the  truly  brave 

Will  valorous  actions  prize, 
Respect  a  bravo  and  noble  mind, 

Althougii  in  enemies." 

"  Canyng,  away  !     By  God  in  heaven. 

That  did  me  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 

While  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live. 

"By  Mary,  aiul  all  saints  in  heaven. 

This  sun  shall  bo  his  last." 
Then  Canyng  dropped  a  briny  tear. 

And  from  llio  presence  passed. 

With  heart  briinfnl  of  gnawing  grief, 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 
And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool, 

And  tears  began  to  How. 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  bravo  Sir  Charles  ; 

"What  l)oots  it  how  or  when? 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate 

Of  all  wo  mortal  men. 


"  Say  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 

Kuns  over  at  thine  eye  ; 
Is  it  for  mj'^  most  welcome  doom 

That  thou  dost  ehiidliUe  cry?" 

Quoth  godly  Canyng,  "  I  do  weep 

That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 
And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife ; 

'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye." 

"  Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 

From  godly  fountains  spring ; 
Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 

Of  Edward,  traitor-king. 

"  Wlien  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 

I  shall  resign  my  life. 
The  God  I  serve  will  soon  provide 

For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

"  Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  snn. 

This  was  appointed  me  ; 
Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 

What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

"  How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood, 

Wlieu  thousands  died  around; 
Wlieu  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 

Imbrued  the  fattened  ground  : 

"  How  did  I  know  that  every  dart, 

That  cut  the  airy  way. 
Might  not  fiiul  passage  to  my  heart. 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  ? 

"And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death, 

Look  wan,  and  be  dismayed  ? 
No !   from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear ; 

Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

"Ah,  godlike  Henry!   God  forefend. 

And  guard  tlico  and  thy  son. 
If  'tis  his  will  ;  but  if  'tis  not. 

Why  then  his  will  be  done. 

"My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 

To  serve  God  and  my  prince; 
And  that  I  no  time-server  am, 

My  death  will  soon  convince. 

"  In  London  city  was  I  born. 

Of  i)arents  of  great  note  ; 
My  father  did  a  noble  arms 

Emblazon  on  his  coat : 


THOMAS   CUATTEirrOX. 


241 


•'  I  make  uo  doubt  but  ho  is  goue, 

Where  soou  I  hope  to  go  ; 
Where  vcc  forever  shall  be  blessed, 

From  out  the  reach  of  woe. 

"He  taught  mc  justice  aud  the  laws 

With  pity  to  unite ; 
And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 

The  wroug  cause  from  the  right : 

"  He  taught  me  with  a  prudent  baud 

To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 
Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 

The  hungry  from  my  door : 

"Aud  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 

I  have  his  wordis  kept ; 
And  suuuned  the  actions  of  the  day 

Each  night  before  I  slept. 

"  I  have  a  spouse  ;   go  ask  of  her 

If  I  defiled  her  bed : 
I  have  a  king,  aud  none  can  lay 

Black  treason  on  my  head. 

"  In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve. 

From  flesh  I  did  refrain  ; 
Why  should  I  then  appear  dismayed 

To  leave  this  world  of  pain  ? 

"  Xo,  hapless  Heury  !    I  rejoice 

I  shall  not  see  thy  death ; 
Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 

Do  I  resign  my  breath. 

"  Oh,  fickle  people  !   ruined  land  ! 

Thou  wilt  know  peace  no  moe  ; 
While  Richard's  sons  exalt  themselves. 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

''  Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace, 

And  godlj'  Henry's  reign, 
That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 

For  those  of  blood  aud  pain  ? 

"  What  though  I  on  a  sled  be  drawn, 

And  mangled  by  a  hind, 
I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power. 

He  cannot  harm  my  mind  : 

"Wbat  though,  uphoisted  on  a  iiole, 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air. 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ; 
16 


"  Yet  in  the  holy  Book  above. 

Which  time  can't  eat  away, 
There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 

!My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

"  Then  welcome,  death  I   for  life  eteruo 

I  leave  this  mortal  life  : 
Farewell,  vaiu  world,  and  all  that's  dear, 

My  sons  and  loving  wife  ! 

"  Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes 

As  e'er  the  month  of  May ; 
Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live, 

With  my  dear  wife  to  stay." 

Quoth  Canyng,  '•'  'Tis  a  goodly  thing 

To  be  prepared  to  die  ; 
Aud  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 

To  God  iu  heaven  to  fly." 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll, 

Aud  clarions  to  sound ; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A-praucing  on  the  ground : 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  loviug  wife  came  in, 
Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe, 

With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

"  Sweet  Florence  !  now,  I  pray,  forbear. 

In  quiet  let  me  die  ; 
Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 

May  look  on  death  as  I. 

"  Sweet  Florence  !   why  these  briny  tears  ? 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 
Aud  almost  make  me  wish  for  life, 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 

"  'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 

Unto  the  land  of  bliss  ; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love, 

Receive  this  holy  kiss." 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say, 
Trembliug  these  wordis  spoke, 

"Ah,  cruel  Edward!   bloody  king! 
My  heart  is  weU-nigh  broke  : 

"Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles!   why  wilt  thou  go 

Without  thy  loving  wife  ? 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 

It  eke  shall  end  mv  life." 


242 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BIUTISH  AND  AMEBIC  AX  POEmY. 


And  now  the  officers  came  in 

To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 
Who  turn6<l  to  his  hiving  wife, 

And  thus  to  her  did  say  : 

"I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death; 

Trust  thou  in  God  above, 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  tlie  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  him  love  : 

'•  Teacli  them  to  run  the  noble  race 

Tliat  I,  their  father,  run  ; 
Florence  !   should  death  thee  take — adieu  ! 

Ye  ofticers,  lead  on." 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad, 

And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 
"  Oh  stay,  my  husband,  lord,  and  life  !" — 

Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a  tear. 

Till,  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fell  upon  the  lloor ; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 

And  marohed  from  out  the  door. 

Upon  a  sled  he  mounted  then. 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet ; 

Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

Before  him  went  the  councilmcu. 

In  scarlet  robes  and  gohl, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 

Much  glorious  to  behold  : 

The  Friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight. 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds, 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Wiio  tuned  the  strung  bataunt. 

Tlien  five-and-twenty  archers  came ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 

Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sled. 
By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  wiiite, 

With  plumes  upon  their  head: 


Behind  hira  five-and-twenty  more 

Of  anhers  strong  and  stout. 
With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand, 

Marchi^d  in  goodly  rout: 

Saint  James's  Friars  marcliM  next, 
Each  one  liis  part  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt : 

Tlieu  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 

In  cloth  of  scarlet  decked ; 
And  their  attending  men  each  one. 

Like  Eastern  princes  tricked  : 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng  ; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads 

As  he  did  i>ass  along. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross, 

Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 
"  O  Thou  that  savest  man  from  sin, 

Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day  !"' 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 

The  king  in  mickle  state. 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

Soon  as  the  sled  drew  nigh  enough, 

That  Edward  he  might  hear. 
The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up. 

And  thus  his  words  declare  : 

"Thou  seest  me,  Edward!   traitor  vile! 

Exposed  to  infamy  ; 
But  be  assured,  disloyal  man  ! 

I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

"  By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood. 

Thou  wearest  now  a  crown  ; 
And  hast  appointed  mo  to  die. 

By  power  not  thine  own. 

'•Thou  tliiiilvcst  I  shall  die  to-day; 

I  have  been  dead  till  now. 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 

For  aye  upon  my  brow  : 

"  Wliile  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years, 

Shalt  rule  tliis  tickle  land, 
To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 

'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand: 


THOMAS   CHATTERTOX. 


243 


"Thy  poAver  unjust,  thou  traitor-slave! 

Shall  fall  OQ  thy  own  bead"— 
From  out  of  hearinjj  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sled. 

King  Edward's  soul  rushed  to  his  face, 

He  turned  his  head  away, 
And  to  Lis  brother  Gloucester 

He  thus  did  speak  aud  say: 

"To  him  that  so-niuch-dreaded  death 

Xo  ghastly  terrors  bring, 
Behold  the  man  !  he  spake  the  truth, 

He's  greater  than  a  king  !'•' 

'•'  So  let  him  die  !"  Duke  Richard  said  ; 

"And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  dowu  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 

And  feed  the  carrion  crows." 

Aud  now  the  liorses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  higb  hill ; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 
His  precious  blood  to  spill. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go. 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  valorous  chiefs 

Gained  in  the  bloody  war : 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say, 

"  Behold  you  see  me  die. 
For  serving  loyally  my  king. 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

"As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  laud. 

No  quiet  you  will  know  : 
Your  sous  and  husbands  shall  be  slain, 

And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

"You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king, 

When  in  adversity; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick. 

And  for  the  true  cause  die." 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 

A  prayer  to  God  did  make, 
Beseeching  him  unto  himself 

His  parting  soul  to  take. 

Then  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 

Most  seemly  on  the  block  ; 
Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 

The  able  headsman  stroke  : 


Aud  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 
And  round  the  scafluld  twine; 

Aud  tears,  euongh  to  wash  't  away. 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 

The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  i)artis  cat; 
And  every  part,  aud  eke  his  head. 

Upon  a  pole  was  ijut. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kynwul^ih  Hill, 

One  on  the  minster-tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  croweu  did  devour : 

The  other  on  Saint  Powle's  good  gate, 

A  dreary  spectacle  ; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  high-street  most  noble. 

Thus  Avas  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate: 

God  prosper  long  our  king, 
Aud  grant  he  may,  with  Bawdin's  soul. 

In  Heaveu  God's  mercy  sing ! 


ON  RESIGNATION. 

O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys. 

To  thee,  mj  only  rock,  I  fly, 

Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 
The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 

Are  past  the  powers  of  human  skill ; 
But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 

Oil  teach  me  in  the  trying  hour. 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear. 

To  still  my  sorrows,  owu  thy  power, 
Thy  goodness  love,  thy  jnstice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  anght  but  thee, 

Eucroachiug  sought  a  boundless  sway. 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 
And  mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Tlion  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain  .' 
Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess? 

Shake  oft"  the  melaucholy  chain, 
For  God  created  all  to  bless. 


244 


CYCLOl'AWIA    UF  inilTlUll  AM)  AMERICAN  rUETHY, 


But,  ah!   iny  breast  is  human  still; 

The  rising  sigh,  tlio  lulling  tear, 
My  languid  vitals'  fci'ldc  rill, 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  doelarc. 

But  yet,  -with  lurtilinh!  resigned, 

I'll  thank  the  inllictiou  of  tlie  blow, 

Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind. 
Nor  let  tlie  gush  of  misery  How. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night. 
Which  on  my  sinking  si)irit  steals, 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  reveals. 


|JI]ilip  -frcncau. 


Freneau  (17.53-1832)  was  of  French  descent,  a  native  of 
New  York.  He  graduated  at  Princeton,  in  tlie  class  of 
1771.  He  wrote  political  satires,  such  as  they  were,  on 
the  Tories,  which  did  good  service  in  their  day;  and  he 
was  rewarded  by  Jefferson  with  an  office.  Early  in  the 
war  he  was  ca])tured  by  tlie  Hrilish,  and  confined  in  one 
of  the  prison-ships  in  New  York  harbor.  After  the  war 
he  commanded  a  sailing-vessel,  and  got  the  title  of  Cap- 
tain. He  was  an  editor  at  times ;  but  his  newspaper 
speculations  do  not  seem  to  have  turned  out  profitably, 
and  he  died  insolvent.  He  was  prolific  as  a  writer  of 
verse,  and  there  are  several  volumes  of  poems  from  his 
pen.  He  lived  to  the  age  of  eighty,  and  perished  during 
a  snow-storm,  in  a  bog-meadow,  where  he  seems  to  have 
got  lost,  and  which  he  had  allcmpted  to  cross,  near  Free- 
hold, New  Jersey. 


^\.\\   TO   APRIL. 

Without  your  showers 

1  breed  no  llowcrs, 
Each  field  a  barren  waste  appears: 

H"  yon  don't  weep 

My  blossoms  sleep, 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears 

As  your  decay 

Made  room  for  May, 
So  I  must  jiart  with  all  that's  mine; 

My  balmy  breeze, 

My  blooming  trees. 
To  torrid  suns  tlieir  sweets  resign. 

For  Ajiril  di'ad 

My  shades  I  spread, 


To  her  I  owe  my  dress  so  gay; 

Of  daughters  three 

It  falls  on  me 
To  close  our  triumphs  ou  cue  day. 

Thus  to  repose 

All  nature  goes ; 
Mouth  after  mouth  must  find  its  doom  : 

Time  on  the  wing, 

May  ends  the  Spring, 
And  Summer  frolics  o'er  her  tomb. 


lUilliam  Uogcoc. 

Roscoc  (1753-1831)  brought  out,  in  17'.).'),  the  work  on 
which  his  fame  chiefly  rests,  "The  Life  of  Lorenzo  de 
Medici."  He  was  born  near  Liverpool,  and  received  a 
common  school  education.  He  became  a  banker;  but 
the  house  to  which  he  belonged  failed,  and  his  private 
property  was  wrecked.  Strictly  honorable  and  scrupu- 
lous, he  gave  up  even  his  books. 


TO   MY   BOOKS. 
ON   BEING   OBLIGED   TO   SELL   MY   LIBR.^UY. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Eegrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhilo 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  smile, 
And  tempers  as  he  may  affliction's  dart: 
Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art. 
Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you  ;   nor  with  fainting  heart  ; 
For,  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore; 
When,  freed  from  earth,  nnlimited  its  jiowers. 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


(J3corciC  Crabbc. 

Of  humble  parentage,  Crahbe  (1754-1832),  a  native  of 
Aldborough,  Suffolk,  was  educated  for  the  medical  pro- 
fession ;  but  he  left  it  for  literature,  and  went  to  try  his 
fortune  in  London.  After  various  elforts  to  get  into 
notice  by  his  poetry,  in  a  state  of  great  destitution  he 
wrote  to  Edmund  Burke.  Touched  by  his  appeal,  Burke 
made  an  appointment  with  him,  looked  at  his  poems, 
got  a  publisher  for  him,  advanced  him  money,  gave  him 
a  room  at  Bcaconsfield,  and  suggested  his  entering  the 
Church,  which  advice  he  adopted.  After  various  changes 
he  obtained  the  living  of  Trowbridge,  in  Wilts.     In  1819 


GEORGE   CRABBE. 


24C 


lie  published  his  "  Tales  of  the  Hall."  Murraj'  gave  lilni 
£3000  for  these  and  the  copyright  of  his  other  poems. 

"  Nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  the  best,"  was  the 
somewhat  overstrained  compliment  bestowed  by  Lord 
Byron  on  Crabbe.  The  Eni;lisli  poor— their  woes,  weak- 
nesses, and  sins — form  his  almost  unvarying  theme.  Th& 
distinguishing  featui'e  of  his  poetry  is  the  graphic  mi- 
nuteness of  its  descriptive  passages.  He  knew  how  un- 
true and  exaggerated  are  most  of  the  pictures  of  rural 
life  that  figure  in  poetry,  and  he  undertook  to  exhibit  it 
in  its  naked  reality.  In  his  style  he  produces  the  po- 
etical cttect  by  language  of  the  most  naked  simplicity 
almost  utterly  divested  of  the  conventional  ornaments 
of  ])oetry.  His  chief  works,  which  range  in  date  from 
178:3  to  1818,  are  "The  Village,"  "The  Parish  Register," 
"  The  Borough,"  "  Tales  in  Verse,"  "  Tales  of  the  Hall." 

In  his  domestic  circumstances  Crabbe  was  fortunate. 
He  married  the  lady  of  his  choice,  and  had  sous,  one  of 
whom  wrote  an  admirable  memoir  of  him.  At  three- 
score and  ten  the  venerable  poet  was  busy,  cheerful,  af- 
fectionate, and  eager  in  charity  and  kind  offices  to  the 
poor.  He  was  a  great  lover  of  the  sea,  and  his  marine 
landscapes  are  Iresh  and  striking. 


THE  SEA  IN  CALM  AND  STORM. 

From  "  The  Borough. " 

Various  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms, 

When  lulled  by  zephyrs,  or  when  roused  by  storms  ; 

Its  colors  changing  -wheu  from  clouds  and  sun 

Shades  after  shades  upon  the  surface  run  ; 

Embrowned  and  horrid  now,  and  now  serene 

In  limpid  blue  and  evanescent  green  ; 

And  oft  the  foggy  banks  on  ocean  lie, 

Lift  the  fair  sail,  and  cheat  the  experienced  eye ! 

Be  it  the  summer  noon :   a  sandy  space 
The  ebbing  tide  Las  left  upon  its  place  ; 
Then  just  the  hot  and  stony  beach  above, 
Light,  twinkling  streams  in  bright  confusion  move  ; 
(For,  heated  thus,  the  warmer  air  ascends. 
And  with  the  cooler  in  its  fall  contends.) 
Then  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean  keeps 
An  equal  motion  ;   swelling  as  it  sleeps. 
Then  slowly  sinking ;   curling  to  the  strand, 
Faint,  lazy  waves  o'ercreep  the  ridgy  sand, 
Or  tap  the  tarry  boat  with  gentle  blow, 
And  back  return  in  silence,  smooth  and  slow. 
Ships  in  the  calm  seem  anchored  ;  for  they  glide 
On  the  still  sea,  urged  solely  by  the  tide. 

■S  #  -Sf  ■»  vf  * 

View  now  the  winter  storm !     Above,  one  cloud, 
Black  and  unbroken,  all  the  skies  o'ershrond ; 
The  nnwMcldy  ]iorpoise,  throngh  the  day  before, 
Had  rolled  in  view  of  boding  men  on  shore ; 
And  sometimes  hid  and  sometimes  showed  his  form. 
Dark  as  the  cloud,  and  furious  as  the  storm. 


All  where  the  eye  delights,  yet  dreads,  to  roam 
The  breaking  billows  cast  the  dying  foam 
Upon  the  billows  rising — all  the  deep 
Is  restless  change — the  waves,  so  swelled  and  steep. 
Breaking  and  sinking ;   and  the  sunken  swells. 
Nor  one,  one  moment,  in  its  station  dwells  : 
But  nearer  land  you  may  the  billows  trace. 
As  if  contending  in  their  watery  chase  : 
May  watch  the  mightiest  till  the  shoal  they  reach, 
Then  break  and  hurry  to  their  utmost  stretch  ; 
Curled  as  they  come,  they  strike  with  fui'ious  force. 
And  then,  reHowiug,  take  their  grating  course. 
Raking  the  rounded  Hints,  which  ages  past 
Rolled  by  their  rage,  and  shall  to  ages  last. 

Far  oil',  the  petrel,  in  the  troubled  way, 
Swims  with  her  brood,  or  flutters  iu  the  spray  ; 
She  rises  often,  often  drops  again. 
And  sports  at  ease  on  the  tempestuous  main. 

High  o'er  the  restless  deep,  above  the  reach 
Of  gunner's  hope,  vast  flights  of  wild-ducks  stretch  ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance  on  either  side, 
In  a  broad  space  and  level  line  they  glide ; 
All  in  their  wedge-like  figures  from  the  north, 
Day  after  day,  flight  after  flight,  go  forth. 

Inshore  their  passage  tribes  of  sea-gulls  urge, 
And  drop  for  prey  within  the  sweeping  surge ; 
Oft  in  the  rough,  opposing  blast  they  fly 
Far  back,  then  turn,  and  all  their  force  apply. 
While  to  the  storm  they  give  their  weak,  complain- 
ing cry ; 
Or  clap  the  sleek  white  iiiniou  to  the  breast. 
And  in  the  restless  ocean  dip  for  rest. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   WELCOME. 

Pilgrim,  burdened  with  thy  sin. 
Come  the  way  to  Z ion's  gate ; 
There,  till  Mercy  let  thee  iu, 

Knock  and  weep,  and  watcli  and  wait. 
Knock! — He  knows  the  sinner's  cry: 

Weep  ! — He  loves  the  mourner's  tears  ; 
Watch ! — for  saving  grace  is  nigh  : 
Wait ! — till  heavenly  light  appears. 

Hark  !   it  is  the  Bridegroom's  voice  ! 

Welcome,  pilgrim,  to  thy  rest! 
Now  within  the  gate  rejoice, 

Safe  and  sealed,  and  bought  and  blessed ! 
Safe — from  all  the  lures  of  vice. 

Sealed — by  signs  the  chosen  know, 
Bought — by  love  and  life  the  price. 
Blessed^ the  mighty  debt  to  owe. 


;^4() 


CTCLOPMDIA    OF  BRITIsn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Holy  pilgrim!   what  for  thee 

111  u  Avoild  like  tins  iTinain  ? 
From  thy  guarded  breast  shall  llco 
Fear  and  shame,  aud  doubt  and  pain. 
Fear — the  hope  of  heaven  shall  tly, 
Shame— from  glory's  view  retire, 
Doubt — in  certain  rapture  die. 
Pain — in  endless  bliss  expire. 


IT  IS  THE   SOUL  THAT  SEES. 

FuoM  "  Tales  in  Verse." 

It  is  the  soul  that  sees  ;    the  outward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  mind  descries ; 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  cool  indifference  rise. 
When  minds  are  joyful,  then  wo  look  around, 
And  what  is  seen  is  all  on  fairy  ground; 
Again,  they  sicken,  aud  on  every  view 
Cast  their  own  dull  and  melancholy  hue ; 
Or  if,  absorbed  by  their  peculiar  cares, 
The  vacant  eye  on  viewless  matter  glares, 
Onr  feelings  still  upon  our  views  attend, 
And  their  own  natures  to  the  objects  lend. 
Sorrow  and  joy  are  in  their  influence  sure; 
Long  as  the  passion  reigns  the  effects  endure  ; 
But  Love  in  minds  his  various  changes  makes. 
And  clothes  each  object  with  the  change  he  takes; 
His  light  and  shade  on  every  view  he  throws. 
And  on  each  object  what  he  feels  bestows. 


5ocl  I3arlott). 


Barlow  (1754-1813)  was  a  native  of  Reading:,  Conn. 
He  entered  Dartmouth  College,  but  completed  his  edu- 
cation at  Yule.  During  his  vacations  he  served  in  the 
army,  and  was  present  at  tlie  battle  of  White  Plains, 
where  he  showed  much  bravery.  From  college  he  turn- 
ed to  divinity,  and  qualified  himself  as  a  chaplain,  in 
which  capacity  he  served  for  some  time.  He  left  the 
Church  and  the  army,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  in 
1785.  In  1788  he  went  to  Europe,  where  he  remained, 
most  of  the  time  in  France,  seventeen  years.  In  Paris 
he  made  a  fortune  in  some  commercial  speculations,  and 
purchased  the  hotel  of  the  Count  Clermont  de  Tonnerre, 
where  he  lived  in  sumptuous  style.  In  1805  Barlow  re- 
turned to  the  United  States,  and  built  a  fme  house  in 
the  Di-strict  of  Columbia,  which  he  called  Calorama.  He 
was  bitterly  opposed  by  the  Federalists;  whose  wrath 
he  excited  by  a  published  letter  in  which  he  denounced 
Adams  and  Washington.  In  1807  appeared  "The  Co- 
hnnbiad,"  Barlow's  principal  work,  and  the  most  costly 
that  had  yet  appeared  in  America.  It  is  dedicated  to 
tlic  Muthor's  intimate  friend,  Kobcrt  Fulton,  the  inventor 


of  the  steamboat,  and  contains  eleven  engravings  exe- 
cuted by  eminent  London  artists.  It  is  in  the  heroic 
rhymed  measure,  and  recalls  Pope  and  Darwin ;  but 
there  is  little  in  it  worthy  of  survival  as  poetry.  He  did 
better  in  "The  Hasty  Pudding,"  which,  though  smooth- 
ly versified,  is  little  more  than  an  elaborate  trifle.  It 
was  written  in  Savoy,  and  dedicated  to  Mrs.  Washing- 
ton. In  1809  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  France.  In 
October,  1813,  Bona])urte,  then  on  his  Russian  campaign, 
invited  him  to  meet  him  at  Wilna.  His  rapid  journey 
across  the  Continent  in  severely  cold  weather  brought 
on  an  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  to  wliich  he  rapidly 
succumbed,  dying,  on  his  return  to  Paris,  at  a  small  vil- 
lage near  Cracow,  December  23d,  1812.  His  last  poem, 
dictated  during  his  last  illness  to  his  secretary,  was  a  not 
very  happy  e.\i)rcssion  of  his  detestation  of  Napoleon. 
It  was  entitled  "Advice  to  a  Raven  in  Russia." 


FEOM  "THE  HASTY  PUDDING." 

Canto  I. 

I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal. 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  tlie  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
Aud  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh  !   could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue. 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime. 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme. 
No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  nnise,  or  prejudice  thy  fame; 
Put  ri.sing  grateful  to  the  accustomed  ear. 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere! 

Assist  rae  flrst  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Through  wrecks  of  time  thj'  lineage  and  thy  race; 
Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore), 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world  ;   her  works  of  fame 
Have  lived  iiulecd,  but  lived  without  a  name. 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days. 
First  learned  with  stones  to  crack  the  well -dried 

maize. 
Through  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  shower, 
In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  Hour:  ■ 
The  yellow  flour,  bestrewed  and  stirred  with  haste, 
Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  jinffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim. 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim  ; 
The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 
And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 


JOEL  BARLOW.— MRS.  ANNE   GRANT. 


247 


Could  but  lier  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Kise,  like  her  labors,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  theui,  I'd  consecrate  nij'  lays, 
And  blow  her  puddiug  Avitli  the  breath  of  praise. 
If  'twas  Oella  whom  I  sung  before, 
I  here  ascribe  her  one  great  virtue  more. 
Not  through  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
Hut  o'er  the  world's  wide  clime  should  live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 

Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromiscd  joy 
Expands  my  heart  to  meet  thee  in  Savoj' ! 
Doomed  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to 

roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end, 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  uuforgotten  fricud. 

For  thee,  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  towu, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
AMiere  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching  hoard, 
Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board ! 
Loudon  is  lost  iu  smoke  and  steeped  iu  tea ; 
Xo  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee  ; 
Tlie  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town. 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 
From  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays. 
Chilled  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize ; 
A  grain,  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short  gentle  showers,  and  bright  ethereal  fires. 

But  here,  though  distaut  from  our  native  shore. 
With  mutual  glee  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more  ; 
Tlie  same !   I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race. 
Which  lime  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Wliere   grows  the   maize,  there   thou   art   sure  to 
reign. 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute  ; 
In  tropes  of  high-straiued  wit,  while  gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling,  man,  to  pampered  pigs ; 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest, 
Xor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 
What  though  the  generous  cow  give  me  to  quaff 
The  milk  nutritious:   am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Tiiough  nursed  on  pudding,  claim  a  kin  to  mine? 
Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise. 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song  resounding  iu  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims :   I  praise  myself  in  thee. 


My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length  of  days, 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize ; 
From  thee  what  health,  what  vigor  he  possessed. 
Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest ; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  mital  morn. 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn. 
Delicious  grain  !   whatever  form  it  take. 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
Iu  every  dish  'tis  welcome  still  to  me. 
But  most,  my  Hasty  Puddiug,  most  iu  thee. 


illrs.  ^nne  (J5rant. 

Mrs.  Grant,  commonly  styled  "of  Laggan,"  to  distin- 
guish her  from  her  contemporary,  Mrs.  Grant  of  Carron, 
was  born  in  Glasgow,  17.55.  Her  father,  Duncan  Mac- 
vicar,  was  an  olHcer  in  the  army.  While  a  ehilcl,  she 
accompanied  her  parents  to  America;  and  they  settled 
for  a  time  in  the  State  of  New  York.  In  1768  she  re- 
turned with  her  family  to  Scotland.  She  married  James 
Grant,  a  young  clergyman,  in  1779.  He  died  in  1801 ;  and 
in  1803  she  published  a  volume  of  poems.  In  180G  ap- 
peared her  "Letters  from  the  ^lounlains,"  which  passed 
through  several  editions.  She  reached  her  eighty-fourth 
year,  retaining  her  faculties  to  the  last.  Her  correspond- 
ence was  published,  iu  three  volumes,  by  her  son,  John 
P.  Grant,  in  1844.  The  song  we  quote  was  written  on 
the  occasion  of  the  Marquis  of  Huntly's  departure  for 
Holland  with  his  regiment,  in  1799. 


OH,  WHERE,  TELL   ME   WHERE? 

"Oh,  where,  tell  mo  Avhere  is  your  Highland  laddie 
gone  ? 

Oh,  where,  tell  me  where  is  your  Highland  laddio 
gone  ?" 

"He's  gone  with  streaming  banners,  where  noble 
deeds  are  done. 

And  my  sad  heart  will  tremble  till  he  come  safe- 
ly home." 

"  Oh,  where,  tell  me  where,  did  your  Highland  lad- 
die stay  ? 

Oh,  where,  tell  me  where,  did  your  Highland  laddie 
stay  ?" 

"  He  dwelt  beneath  the  holly-trees,  beside  the  rapid 
Spey, 

And  mauy  a  blessing  followed  him  the  day  he  went 
away. 

He  dwelt  beneath  the  holly-trees,  beside  the  rapid 

Spqy, 
And  many  a  blessing  followed  him  the  day  he  went 
awav." 


248 


CYCLOPJiDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"OL,  what,  tell  uio  wliat,  does  your  Highlaud  laddio 

wear  ? 
Ob,  wbat,  tell  mo  Avliat,  docs  your  llii;liliiiid  laddio 

wear?" 
"A  bonnet  -vvitli  a  lofty  i)liuii(',  the  gallant  badge 

of  war, 
Aud  a  plaid  across  the  manly  breast  that  yet  shall 

wear  a  star ; 
A  bouuct  with  a  lofty  plume,  tbe  gallant  badge  of 

war, 
Aud  a  plaid  across  tbe  manly  breast  that  yet  sball 

wear  a  star." 

"  Suppose,  all,  suppose,  tbat  some  cruel,  cruel  wound 

Sbould  pierce  your  Highland  laddie,  and  all  your 
hopes  confound?" 

"  The  pipe  would  play  a  cheering  march,  the  ban- 
ners round  him  lly. 

The  spirit  of  a  Highland  chief  would  lighten  in 
his  eye  ; 

The  pipe  would  play  a  cheering  march,  the  banners 
round  him  lly ; 

And  for  his  king  and  country  dear  with  pleasure 
he  would  die !" 

"But  I  will  hope  to  see  him  yet  in  Scotland's 
bonny  bounds ; 

But  I  will  hope  to  see  him  yet  in  Scotland's  bon- 
ny bounds. 

His  native  land  of  liberty  shall  nurse  his  glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide,  wide,  through  all  our  Highland  hills,  his 
warlike  name  resounds : 

His  native  land  of  liberty  shall  nurse  his  glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide,  wide,  through  all  our  Highland  hills,  his 
warlike  name  resounds." 


lllilliam  (ryiffor>. 


Gifford  (17.50-18:30)  was  a  native  of  Aslibiirton,  in  Dev- 
onshire. Ills  parents  were  poor,  and  at  thirteen  he  was 
a  penniless  orphan.  Ills  godfallier  llrst  sent  him  to  sea 
as  cabin-boy  in  a  coasting-vessel,  and  then  apprenticed 
him  to  a  shoemaker.  lie  was  a  lad  of  eager  intellect, 
with  a  taste  for  verse  and  for  mathematics.  Through 
tbe  efforts  of  a  Mr.  Cookcsley,  be  was  placed  at  school, 
and  when  twenty-two  years  old  was  sent  to  Oxford.  In 
1791  be  wrote  "The  Baviad,"  a  satire  ridiculing  some  of 
the  small  poets  of  tbe  day,  who,  under  the  signatures  of 
Anna  Matilda,  Edwin,  Orlando,  Delia  Crusca,  etc.,  gained 
a  transient  notoriety.  The  game  was  hardly  worth  tbe 
candle;  but  the  satire  was  read  and  praised,  and  bad  a 


transient  reputation.    The  name  of  Bavius  for  a  dunce 
is  taken  from  Virgil's  line  : 

"Qui  liavium  uon  edit  aniet  tua  carmiua,  Mievi." 

"The  Maeviad"  followed  "Tbe  Baviad,"  liut  is  infe- 
rior to  it  in  spirit.  Gifford  attacked  Woleot  in  an 
"Ei)istle  to  Peter  Pindar,"  and  Woleot  replied  with 
"A  Cut  at  a  Cobbler."  This  led  to  a  personal  collision, 
in  which  Gillbrd  would  have  got  the  worse  of  it  but  for 
the  interference  of  a  bulky  Frenchman  who  happened  to 
be  present,  aiul  who  turned  Woleot  out  of  the  reading- 
room,  where  the  scene  oceuri-cd,  into  the  street,  throw- 
ing his  wig  and  cane  after  him. 

Gilford's  "small  but  sinewy'  intellect,"  it  has  been 
said,  "was  well  employed  in  bruising  tbe  butterflies  of 
the  Delia  Cruscan  school."  He  afterward  edited  the 
Anti- Jacobin  (see  "Canning"),  translated  Juvenal,  and 
in  1808  became  editor  of  the  Quarterhj  Jiei'icw,  in  which 
be  labored  to  keep  alive  among  tbe  English  aristocracy 
a  feeling  of  dislike  toward  the  United  States.  As  a  lit- 
erary critic,  be  was  merciless  and  bitter.  Snutbej-  says 
of  him  :  "  lie  bad  a  heart  full  of  kindness  for  all  living 
creatures  except  authors  ;  them  he  regarded  as  a  fish- 
monger regards  eels,  or  as  Izaak  Walton  did  slugs, 
worms,  and  frogs."  Gifford  seems  to  have  bad  a  tender 
place  in  his  heart  for  Ann  Davies,  a  faithful  attendant 
who  died  in  his  service,  aud  iu  whose  memory  he  wrote 
some  pathetic,  but  rather  faulty  and  eomnionplaee,  lines, 
entitled  "The  Grave  of  Anna."  As  a  poet  bis  claims  to 
remembrance  are  very  slender. 


TO  A  TUFT  OF  EARLY  VIOLETS. 

Sweet  flowers!   that  from  your  humble  beds 

Thus  iirematurely  dare  to  rise. 
And  trust  your  unprotected  heads 

To  cold  Aquarius'  watery  skies ! 

Retire,  retire  !     These  tepid  airs 
Are  not  the  genial  brood  of  ^lay ; 

Tiiat  sun  with  light  malignant  glares, 
And  flatters  only  to  betray. 

Stern  winter's  reign  is  not  yet  past : 
Lo !  while  your  buds  prepare  to  blow, 

On  icy  pinions  comes  the  blast, 

And  nips  your  x'oot,  and  lays  you  low. 

Alas  for  such  ungoitlo  doom  ! 

But  1  will  shield  you,  and  supply 
A  kindlier  soil  on  which  to  bloouj, 

A  nobler  bed  on  which  to  die. 

Come,  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest, 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away  ; 
Oh,  come,  and  grace  my  Anna's  breast ! 


WILLIAM  GIFFOItD.  — WILLIAM  SOTHEBY.  — WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


249 


FROM   "THE   BAVIAD." 

Soiuo  lovo  the  verso  that  like  Maria's  flows, 
No  rubs  to  stagger,  autl  uo  seuse  to  i)ose  ; 
"Which  read  aud  read,  yoii  raise  your  eyes  in  doubt, 
And  gravely  Avouder — what  it  is  about. 
These  fancy  "  Bell's  Poetics,"  only  sweet. 
And  intercept  his.  hawkers  in  the  street ; 
There,  smoking  hot,  inhale  Mit  Yenda's'  strains, 
And  the  rank  fame  of  Tony  Pasquin's  brains. 
Others,  like  Kemble,  on  black-letter  pore, 
And  wbat  they  do  not  understand,  adore  ; 
Buy  at  vast  sums  the  trash  of  ancient  days. 
And  draw^  on  prodigality  for  praise. 
These,  when  some  lucky  hit  or  lucky  iirice 
Has  blessed  them  with  "  The  Boke  of  gode  Advice," 
For  ekes  and  algates  only  deign  to  seek. 
And  live  upon  a  whilom  for  a  week. 

Aud  can  we,  when  such  moiie-eyed  dolts  are  placed 
By  thoughtless  fashion  on  the  throne  of  taste — 
Say,  can  we  wonder  whence  such  jargon  flows. 
This  motley  fustian,  neither  verse  nor  prose, 
This  old,  new  language  which  defiles  our  page, 
The  refuse  and  the  scum  of  everj'  age  ? 

Lo,  Beaufoy  tells  of  Afric's  barren  sand, 
lu  all  the  flowery  phrase  of  fairy-laud  : 
There  Fezzan's  thrum-capped  tribes — Turks,  Chris- 
tians, Jews — 
Accommodate,  ye  gods,  their  feet  with  shoes ! 
There  meagre  shrubs  inveterate  mountains  grace. 
And  brushwood  breaks  the  amplitude  of  space. 
Perplexed  with  terms  so  vague  and  undefined, 
I  blunder  on,  till,  wildered,  giddy,  blind. 
Where'er  I  turn,  on  clouds  I  seem  to  tread; 
Aud  call  for  Maudeville  to  ease  my  head. 

Oh  for  the  good  old  times  when  all  was  new, 
Aud  every  hour  brought  jirodigies  to  view  ! 
Our  sires  in  unaffected  language  told 
Of  streams  of  amber,  aud  of  rocks  of  gold  : 
Full  of  their  theme,  they  spurned  all  idle  art, 
Aud  the  plain  tale  was  trusted  to  the  heart. 
Now  all  is  changed !    We  fume  aud  fret,  poor  elves. 
Less  to  display  our  subject  than  ourselves. 
Whate'er  we  iiaint — a  grot,  a  flower,  a  bird — 
Heavens  !   how  we  sweat !   laboriously  absurd  ! 
Words  of  gigantic  bulk  and  uncouth  sound 
In  rattling  triads  the  long  sentence  bound  ; 
While  points  with  points,  with  periods  periods  jar. 
And  the  whole  work  seems  one  continued  war ! 


'  The  uame,  read  backwaid,  of  Mr.  Tim  Adney,  one  of  the 
poetasters  of  the  day. 

"Gentle  duhiess  ever  loves  a  joke." 


llVilliam  Sotljcbn. 


Sotheby  (1757-1833),  an  accomplished  scholar,  poet, 
and  translator,  was  a  native  of  Loudon.  He  was  of  good 
family,  and  educated  at  Harrow  school.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  he  entered  the  army,  but  quitted  it  in  1780, 
purchased  a  place  at  Southampton,  and  resided  there  ten 
years.  In  1780  he  published  a  translation  of  Wleland's 
"Oberon,"  which  was  a  success.  He  now  wrote  poems, 
translations,  and  tragedies  in  great  profusion.  His  trans- 
lations were  the  chief  source  of  his  fame :  that  of  Virgil's 
"Georgics"  is  one  of  the  best  in  the  language ;  those  of 
the  "Hiad"  and  "Odyssey"  have  their  i)eculiar  merits. 
Wieland,  the  German  poet,  is  said  to  have  been  charmed 
with  the  version  of  his  "  Oberon."  Byron  said  of  Sotlie- 
by  that  he  imitated  everybodj',  and  occasionally  sur- 
passed his  models. 


STAFFA— VISITED  1829. 

Staffii,  I  scaled  thy  summit  hoar, 
I  j)assed  beneath  thy  arch  gigantic. 

Whose  pillared  cavern  swells  the  roar, 

When  thunders  on  thy  rocky  shore 
The  roll  of  the  Atlantic. 

That  hour  the  wind  forgot  to  rave. 

The  surge  forgot  its  motion  ; 
And  every  pillar  in  thj'  cave 
Slept  in  its  shadow  on  the  wave, 

Uurippled  bj'  the  ocean. 

Then  the  past  age  before  me  came. 

When,  'mid  the  lightning's  sweep. 
Thy  isle,  with  its  basaltic  frame, 
Aud  every  column  wreathed  with  flame, 

Bui'st  from  the  boiling  deep. 

When,  'mid  lona's  wrecks  meanwhile 

O'er  sculptured  graves  I  trod, 
Where  Time  had  strewn  each  moulderiug  aisle 
O'er  saints  aud  kings  that  reared  the  pile, 

I  hailed  the  eternal  God : 
Yet,  Stafta,  more  I  felt  his  presence  in  thy  cave 
Thau  where  loua's  cross  rose  o'er  the  western  wave. 


lllilliam  Ulalxc. 


Extraordinary  as  an  artist  and  a  poet,  Blake  (17.57- 
1828)  was  the  son  of  a  London  hosier.  Apprenticed  at 
fourteen  to  an  engraver,  he  became  a  diligent  and  enthu- 
siastic student.  At  twenty -six  he  married  Catlierine 
Boutcher,  who  survived  him,  and  was  a  most  devoted 
and  attached  wife.  He  produced  a  series  of  designs  and 
poems  which  are  quite  unique  in  the  peculiar  spirit  of 


250 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


their  conception,  but  replete  with  beauties  of  a  high  or- 
der. The  designs  arc  drawn,  and  tlie  poems  written, 
upou  copper,  witli  a  secret  composition  (disclosed  to 
liim,  as  lie  sajs,  l)y  the  si)irit  of  his  brother  Robert) ;  and 
when  the  uncovered  parts  were  eaten  away  by  aqua-for- 
tis,  the  rest  remained  as  if  in  stereotype.  His  wife  work- 
ed off"  the  plates  in  tiie  i)ress ;  and  he  tinted  the  impres- 
sions, designs,  and  letter-press  with  a  variety  of  pleasing 
colors. 

Blake  thought  that  he  conversed  with  tl)c  spirits  of 
the  departed  great — with  Homer,  Moses,  Pindar,  Virgil, 
Dante,  Milton,  and  many  others  ;  and  that  some  of  them 
sat  to  him  for  their  i)ortraits.  He  produced  a  great  vari- 
ety of  works,  many  of  which  now  command  high  prices. 
The  principal  are  "The  Gates  of  Paradise,"  "  Ulrizen," 
"  Hlustrations  of  Young's  'Night  Thoughts,'"  "Jeru- 
salem," and  "Illustrations  to  the  Book  of  Job."  Blake 
got  from  his  strange,  fanciful  illustrations  but  little 
worldly  gain.  He  was  often  extremely  poor.  Fond  of 
children,  he  retained  a  child's  heart  to  the  last.  Mr. 
Ruskin  says  of  his  poems:  "They  are  written  with  ab- 
Bolute  sincerity,  with  infinite  tenderness,  and,  though  in 
the  manner  of  them  diseased  and  wild,  are  in  verity  the 
words  of  a  great  and  wise  mind,  disturbed,  but  not  de- 
ceived, by  its  sickness ;  nay,  partly  exalted  by  it,  and 
sometimes  giving  forth  in  fiery  aphorism  some  of  the 
most  precious  words  of  existing  literature." 


NIGHT. 

The  sun  descending  iu  the  west, 
The  evening  star  doth  shine  ; 
The  birds  are  .silent  iu  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  niglit. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  groves. 

Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight ! 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright ; 
Un.seeu,  they  pour  blessing, 
And  joy  without  ceasing, 
On  each  bud  and  blossom. 
On  each  sleeping  bosom. 

Tlioy  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 

Where  birds  are  covered  Avarni  ; 
Tliey  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  from  all  harm  ; 
If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  on  their  bed. 


When  wolves  and  tigers  liowl  for  prey, 

Tlicj'  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep ; 
But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Keceive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 


THE   TIGER. 

Tiger,  tiger,  Ijurning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  f 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
IJurnt  the  lire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  Avings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  thy  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  formed  thy  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer  ?   what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
AVliat  the  anvil  ?   what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clas2>  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears. 
Did  He  smile  his  Avork  to  see? 
Did  He  w  ho  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright. 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
AVhat  innnortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  svmmetrv? 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW. 

Can  I  see  another's  woe. 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief  ? 
Can  I  see  a  falling  tear. 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 


WILLIAM  BLAKE.— THOMAS  TAYLOR. 


251 


Can  a  inotluT  sit  and  hear 
All  infant  groau,  an  inlaut  fear  ? 
No,  uo !   never  can  it  bo! 
Never,  never  can  it  be  ! 

And  can  IIo  Avbo  smiles  on  all 
Hear  tbe  -wren  witli  sorrows  small, 
Hear  tbe  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  tbe  woes  tbat  infixnts  bear, — 
And  not  sit  beside  tbe  nest, 
Ponriug  pity  in  tbeir  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  tbe  cradle  near, 
^Yeepiug  tear  on  infant's  tear  ? 
And  not  sit,  botb  uigbt  and  day, 
"Wiping  all  onr  tears  away  ? 
Ob  no !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

•He  dotli  give  bis  joy  to  all; 
He  becomes  an  infant  small ; 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe  ; 
He  dotb  feel  tbe  sorrow  too. 
Tbink  not  tbou  canst  sigh  a  sigb, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by ; 
Tbink  not  thon  canst  weep  a  tear. 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 
Ob,  he  gives  to  ns  his  joy, 
Tbat  our  griefs  he  may  destroy : 
Till  onr  grief  is  Hed  and  gone, 
He  dotb  sit  by  ns  and  moan. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE." 

Piping  down  tbe  valleys  wild. 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child  ;    • 
And  be,  langbing,  said  to  me  : 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb." 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"  Piper,  pipe  tbat  song  again." 
So  I  piped  ;   ho  wept  to  bear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  bappy  pipe ; 

Sing  tby  songs  of  bappy  cbeer." 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

Wbile  he  wept  witli  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write, 
In  a  book  tbat  all  may  read — " 

So  he  vauisbed  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 


And  I  made  a  rural  jten, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear. 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs. 
Every  cbild  may  joy  to  hear. 


Taylor  (1758-1835)  was  a  native  of  London,  where,  at 
an  early  age,  he  was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School.  He  be- 
came an  accomplished  classical  scholar,  and  devoted  his 
spare  hours  to  the  study  of  Plato  and  Aristotle.  To  the 
end  of  his  life  he  gave  six  hours  a  day  to  study.  Pover- 
ty and  its  attendant  annoyances  were  no  obstacle.  lie 
translated  the  wiitings  of  all  the  untranslated  ancient 
Greek  philosophers,  and  through  the  generous  aid  of 
friends  was  enabled  to  publish  works  that  must  have 
cost  more  than  £10,000,  and  upon  the  whole  yielded  no 
pecuniary  profit.  He  is  described  as  "a  sincere  friend 
and  a  delightful  companion."  But  Taylor  was  a  Plato- 
nist  and  polytheist.  He  characterized  the  Christian  re- 
ligion as  a  "  barbarized  Platonism ;"  and  maintained  that 
the  divinities  of  Plato  are  the  divinities  to  be  adored  ; 
that  we  should  be  taught  to  call  God,  Jupiter;  the  Vir- 
gin, Venus  ;  and  Christ,  Cupid  !  This  "literary  lunacy  " 
did  not  prevent  his  being  held  in  high  esteem  by  many 
influential  friends.  He  wrote  an  "Ode  to  the  Rising- 
Sun,"  a  remarkable  production,  and  having  the  passion- 
ate impetus  of  a  sincere  adoration;  for  Taylor  believed 
what  he  was  writing,  and  pours  forth  real  idolatry  to  the 
sun :  Apollo  was  to  him  a  living  power  in  the  universe. 
An  English  critic  say^s  of  the  poem:  "The  frequently 
repeated  and  splendidly  effective  'See!'  was  the  true 
inimitable  suggestion  of  sincere  emotion,  as  is  proved 
by  tlie  otherwise  inartificial  character  of  the  poem.  The 
alliteration  with  which  the  verses  abound  is  evidently 
the  unconscious  effect  of  passion  ;  the  music  is  occasion- 
ally exquisite." 


ODE   TO  THE   RISING   SUN. 

See!   how  with  thundering  fiery  feet 
Sol's  ardent  steeds  tlie  barriers  beat, 

Tbat  bar  tbeir  radiant  way ; 
Yoked  by  the  circling  hours  they  stand, 
Impatient  at  tbo  god's  command 

To  boar  tbe  car  of  day. 

See!   led  by  Morn,  with  dewy  feet, 
Apollo  mounts  his  golden  seat, 

Replete  with  sevenfold  fire ;' 
Wliile,  dazzled  by  bis  conquering  light, 
Heaven's  glittering  host  and  awful  uigbt 

Submissively  retire. 


1  That  i?,  with  his  own  proper  fire,  aud  with  the  fire  of  the 
other  jiliuicts. 


252 


CYCLOPjEDIA    of  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Sec!   clothed  with  majesty  ami  strength, 
Through  sacred  light's  wide  gates,  at  length 

The  god  exulting  spring : 
While  lesser  deities  around. 
And  demon  powers  his  praise  resouud, 

And  hail  their  matchless  king! 

Through  the  dark  portals  of  the  deep 
The  foaming  steeds  now  liirious  leap. 

And  thunder  up  the  sky. 
The  god  to  strains  now  tunes  his  lyre, 
Which  nature's  harmonj^  inspire, 

And  ravish  as  they  fly. 

Even  dreadful  Ilylc's  sea  profound 
Feels  the  enchanting  conquering  sound, 

And  boils  Avith  rage  no  more  ; 
The  World's  dark  boundary,  Tartarus  hears, 
And  life-inspiring  strains  reveres. 

And  stills  its  wild  uproar. 

And  while  through  heaven  the  god  sublime 
Triumphant  rides,  see  reverend  Time 

Fast  by  his  chariot  run  : 
Observant  of  the  tiery  steeds. 
Silent  the  hoary  king  proceeds, 

And  hymns  his  parent  Sun. 

See !   as  he  comes,  with  general  voice 
All  Nature's  living  tribes  rejoice. 

And  own  him  as  their  king. 
Even  rugged  rocks  their  heads  advance, 
And  forests  on  the  mountains  dance, 

And  hills  and  valleys  sing. 

See !   while  his  beauteous  glittering  feet 
In  mystic  measures  ether  beat, — 

Enchanting  to  the  sight, 
P;ean,' — whose  genial  locks  diffuse 
Life-bearing  health,  ambrosial  dews,— 

Exulting  springs  to  light! 

Lo !  as  he  comes,  in  Heaven's  array, 
And  scattering  wide  the  blaze  of  day, 

Lifts  high  his  scourge  of  lire, — 
Fierce  demons  that  in  darkness  dwell, 
Foes  of  our  race,  and  dogs  of  Hell, 

Dread  its  avenging  ire. 

Hail!   crowned  with  light,  creation's  king ! 
Be  mine  the  task  thy  praise  to  sing, 

'  A  name  of  Apollo. 


And  vindicate  thy  might; 
Thy  honors  siu'cad  through  barbarous  climes, 
Ages  unborn,  and  impious  times, 

And  realms  involved  in  night! 


(!:li^abctl)  Qin"iltcu. 


A  native  of  Scotland,  Miss  Hamilton  was  born  17.58, 
and  died  1816.  She  wrote  "The  Cottagers  of  Glen- 
buruie,"  praised  by  JcflVcy  and  Scott,  and  said  by  the 
latter  to  be  "a  picture  of  the  rural  habits  of  Scotland, 
of  striking  and  impressive  fulclity."  There  have  been 
several  versions  of  the  following  little  poem. 


MY  AIN   FIRESIDE. 
I. 
I  hac  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha's, 
Mang  lords  and  fine  ladies  a'  covered  wi'  braws ;' 
At  feasts  made  for  princes,  w  i'  princes  I've  been, 
Whare   the   grand   shine   o'  splendor   has   dazzled 

my  een  ; 
But  a  sight  sae  delightfu'  I  trow  I  ne'er  spied 
As  the  bonnie,  blithe  blink  o'  my  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 
O  there's  naught  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain  fireside. 


Aiuce  mair,  Gnde  bo  thank't,  round  my  ain  heart- 
some  ingle, 
Wi'  the  friends  o'  my  youth  I  cordially  mingle  ; 
Nae  forms  to  compel  me  to  seem  wae  or  glad, 
I  may  laugh  when  I'm  merry,  and  sigh  when  I'm  sad ; 
Xae  fiilsehood  to  dread,  and  nae  malice  to  fear, 
But  truth  to  delight  me,  and  friendship  to  cheer: 
Of  a'  roads  to  happiness  ever  were  tried, 
There's  nane  half  so  sure  as  ane's  ain  iireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 
O  there's  naught  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain  fireside. 


When  I  draw  in  my  stool  on  my  cosy  heart hstane, 
My  heart  loups  sae  light  I  scarce  keu't  for  my  ain; 
Care's  down  on  the  wiud,  it  is  clean  out  o'  sight, 
Past  troubles  they  seem  but  as  dreams  of  the  night. 
I  hear  but  kend  voices,  kend  faces  I  see. 
And  mark  saft  affection  glint  fond  frae  each  c'e : 
Nae  fletchings''  o'  flattery,  nae  boastings  of  pride, 
'Tis  heart  speaks  to  heart  at  ane's  aiu  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 
O  there's  naught  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain  fireside. 


Fine  clothes. 


2  Blaudishmcnts,  coaxiugs. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


253 


Uobcrt  Burns. 

The  son  of  a  poor  farmer,  Burns  was  born  in  the  par- 
ish of  Alloway,  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  on  tlic  25tli  of  Jan- 
uary, 1759.  He  died  at  Dumfries,  on  the  21st  of  July, 
179(3,  aged  thirty-seven  years  and  six  months.  Going-  to 
school  at  six  years  of  age,  he  had  acquired  at  eleven  a 
fair  amount  of  elementary  education.  It  was  all  his 
good  father  could  give  him  ;  aud  subsequently,  a  "fort- 
night's French"  and  a  summer  quarter  at  land-surveying 
completed  all  the  iustruction  the  poet  ever  got,  beyond 
what  he  was  able  to  pick  up  from  a  few  books  that  lay 
on  his  humble  shelf. 

The  lirst  edition  of  Burns's  poems  was  published  at 
Kilmarnock  in  1786.  The  little  volume  Avcnt  otf  rapidly ; 
and  he  found  himself  with  some  twenty  guineas  in  his 
pocket,  after  paying  all  expenses  of  the  edition.  He  ar- 
ranged to  try  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies;  he  was  on 
the  point  of  sailing  for  Jamaica ;  he  had  bid  farewell  to 
the  "bonnie  banks  of  Ayr"  in  his  touching  song,  "The 
gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,"  when  a  word  of  praise 
from  Dr.  Blacklock,  himself  a  poet,  caused  him  to  alter 
his  i^lans,  and  proceed  to  Edinburgh.  Here  he  was  cord- 
ially received;  his  book  had  unlocked  the  first  Edin- 
burgh mansions  to  the  peasant  bard.  A  second  edition 
of  his  poems  was  issued,  by  which  he  cleared  nearly 
£500.  He  now  sent  £200  to  help  his  brother  Gilbert  at 
Mossgiel,  took  a  farm  of  his  own  at  EUisland  in  March, 
1787,  and  five  months  afterward  married  Jean  Armour, 
by  whom  he  had  had  twin  sons. 

The  farm  being  unfruitful,  he  tried  to  supplement  it 
with  a  place  in  the  Excise,  with  a  salary  of  £70  a  year. 
This  poorly  repaid  him  for  the  time  its  duties  cost,  and 
the  dangers  of  that  unsettled,  convivial  life,  to  which  his 
excitable  nature  was  thus  exposed.  After  struggling  for 
more  than  three  years  with  the  stubborn  soil  of  Ellis- 
land,  and  vainly  trying  to  raise  good  crops  while  he 
looked  after  whiskey-stills,  he  gave  up  the  farm,  and  in 
1791  went  to  live  at  Dumfries  upon  his  slender  income 
as  a  ganger.  A  third  edition  of  his  poems,  enriched  with 
his  inimitable  "Tarn  O'Shanter,"  came  out  two  years 
later.  But  his  life  was  nearing  its  close;  he  could  not 
shake  off  the  grip  of  his  too  convivial  habits,  and  sad 
days  of  poverty  and  failing  health  came  to  their  end  for 
him  before  he  had  well  reached  his  prime.  Those  who 
had  neglected  him  in  life  then  found  themselves  a  day's 
pleasure  by  making  a  great  show  of  his  funeral.  Twelve 
thousand  came  to  follow  the  poet  to  his  grave. 

"It  is  impossible,"  says  Chambers,  "  to  contemplate 
the  life  of  Burns  without  a  strong  feeling  of  affectionate 
admiration  and  respect.  His  manly  intcgritj'  of  char- 
acter— which  as  a  peasant  he  guarded  with  jealous  dig- 
nity—and his  warm  and  true  heart,  elevate  him,  in  our 
conceptions,  almost  as  much  as  the  native  force  and 
beauty  of  his  poetry.  Some  errors  and  frailties  threw 
a  shade  on  the  noble  and  affecting  image,  but  its  higher 
lineaments  were  never  destroyed." 

As  a  lyrical  poet,  Burns  is  unsurpassed  in  all  literature. 
So  quick  and  genial  were  his  sympathies,  that  he  was 
easily  stirred  to  lyrical  melody  by  whatever  was  good 
and  beautiful,  whether  in  external  nature  or  in  the  hu- 
man heart  and  life.     His  energy  and  truth— the  dowu- 


iii:lit  earnestness  of  ills  emotions  and  convictions — stamp 
the  highest  value  on  his  writings. 

The  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  as  appears 
from  his  letters,  formed  the  strongest  and  most  soothing 
of  Burns's  beliefs.     ^Most  of  his  poems  are  written  in 
Lowland  Scotch ;  but  he  often  rises  to  an  English  style, 
noble,  impressive,  and  refined.    "  Viewing  him  merely  as 
a  poet,"  says  Campbell,  "there  is  scarcely  another  re- 
gret connected  with  his  name  than  that  his  productions, 
with  all  their  merit,  fall  short  of  the  talents  which  he 
possessed."     A  touching  reference  to  one  element  of 
success,  in  which  he  himself  was  lacking,  is  made  in  the 
following  stanza  from  a  serio-comic  epitaph : 
"Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

lu  low  pursuit, — 
Kuow,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 
Is  wisdom's  root." 

One  noble  trait  of  Burns's  character  is  manifest  in  the 
fact  that,  though  he  died  in  abject  poverty,  he  did  not 
leave  a  farthing  of  debt.  His  physical  frame  correspond- 
ed to  the  qualities  of  his  mind.  His  expressive,  thought- 
ful face,  above  all  his  kindling  eyes,  were  in  keeping  with 
the  lineaments  of  his  genius,  the  prominent  qualities  of 
wliich  were  earnestness  and  intensity. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

IXSCRIBED   TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,  ESQ.,  OF  AYR. 

"Let  not  amhitiou  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Kor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

Gkat. 

M\"  loved,  my  bonorctl,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
Witli  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise ! 
To  yon  I  slug,  in  simple  Scottish  hiys, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways : 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 
I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  lond  wi'  angry  sngh  ; 

The  shortening  winter  day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  plengh, 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose  : 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  Aveekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  moru  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
Aud  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hanie- 
ward  bend. 


254 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


At  length  his  h)nely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  ag6d  tree  ; 
TU'    expectant     -wco    things,    toil  ill  in',    stacher' 
through 

To  meet  their  (la(l,'\vi'  llichterin'^  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  Ijonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wlfie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  ou  his  knee. 

Does  a'  his  weary,  carkiug  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  (]uite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyvo'  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  among  the  farmers  roun' : 
Some  ca'  the  plcugh,  some  herd,  some  ten  tie''  rin 

A  canuie  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfii'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown. 

Or  deposit  her  sair-wou  penny-fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  others'  wcelfare  kindly  spiers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet  ; 

Each  tells  the  uucos^  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
Tiie  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  .shears, 

Gars"  auld  claes  look  aniaist  as  weel's  the  new  ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command. 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
"An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  cydent'  hand, 
An'    ne'er,  though    out    o'    sight,  to  jauk*   or 
111  ay  : 
An'  oh,  be  sure  to  f(>ar  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night  I 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  migiit : 
Thej'  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Loi'd 
aright !" 

But  h.Trk  !   a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 

Jenny,  wh.a  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wilj^  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  iu  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 


With    heart  -  struck,  anxious    care,  inquires    his 
name, 
Willie  Jenny  liafllins'  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  ideased  the  mother  hears  it's  uae  wild,  worth- 
less rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A  strappan  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye  ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'eu  ; 

The  father  cracks"  of  horses,  ploughs,  and  kye. 
Tiie  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 
But  blate'  ami  laitlifu',^  scarce   can  weel  be- 
have : 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What   makes    the    youth   sac  bashfu'   an'   sac 
grave ; 
Weel   pleased  to   think   her   bairn's  respected  like 
the  lave.^ 

O  happy  love !   where  love  like  this  is  found  I 
O  heartfelt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare .' 
I've  pac(^d  much  this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  : 
''  If    heaven    a    draught    of   heavenly    i)Ieasure 
spare. 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  A'ale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  even- 
ing gale." 

Is  tliei'e,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 

A  wretch !   a  villain  !   lo.st  to  love  and  truth  ! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissembling  smooth! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  iheir  distraction 
wild ! 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board: 
The  halesome  parritch,*  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  ; 

The  sonpc  their  only  hawkie'  does  aft'ord. 

That  'yont  the  hallan"  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained''  kebbuck,'" 
fell," 


1  lliilf. 

2  Talk«. 

3  Bashful. 

'  Sta-jsrer. 

-  Flnttering. 

3  Rv-aml-by. 

■"  Hc>?it:Uing. 

■>  Other  people. 

«  Poi-ridge. 

*  Cautions. 

^  News. 

«  MiiUcs. 

'  Cow. 

"  Poi-eh. 

»  Well-saved. 

7  Diligeut. 

e  Dally. 

'»  Cheese. 

»i  Biting. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


255 


Au'  aft  he's  pressed,  au'  aft  bo  calls  it  gaid  ; 
The  frugal  witic,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  'twas  a  towniond'  auld,  siu'  liut  was  i'  the  bell." 

The  cbeerfu'  supper  douc,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  rouud  tbe  iugle  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turus  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'  Bible,  auce  his  father's  pi'ide  : 
His.  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haifets'  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales*  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And,  "Let  us  worship  God!"  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild,  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  Elgin  bcets°  the  heavenward  flame. 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Xae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  tire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  ; 
How  his  first  foUovj-ers  and  servants  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  laud  ; 
How  he  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished 

Saw  in  the  snn  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  to  heaven's  Eternal  King 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays; 

Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wiug"° 
Tliat  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days ; 


'  A  twelvcmouth. 

3  Gray  locks. 

*  Adds  fuel  to  fire. 


■■*  Siuce  the  flax  was  iu  flower. 

■•  Chooses. 

«  Pope's  "Windsor  Forest." 


There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear ; 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While   circling   time   moves   rouud   in   an    eternal 
sjjhere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Tlien  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way: 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
AYould,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide, 
But  chiefly  iu  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From    scenes   like   these    old   Scotia's   grandeur 
springs. 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad  : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings  ; 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  :" 
And  certes,  iu  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?     A  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  humankind, 
Studied  iu  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 

O  Scotia !   my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blessed  with  health  and  peace  and  sweet 
content ! 
And  oh!  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  iirevcnt 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  liowe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved 
isle. 

O  Thou,  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That   streamed   through   Wallace's   undannted 
heart. 


256 


CYCIA)rJ':i)lA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Who  dared  to  uobly  stem  tyiauiiic  pride, 
Or  uobly  die,  tbo  second  <rlorious  part — 

(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  rtnvard!) 

Oh  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 

l?ut  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
lu  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard! 


A  TRAYER   UNDER  THE   PRESSURE   OF 
VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

O  thon  Great  Being!  what  thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know ; 
Yet  sure  I  am  that  kuowu  to  thee 

Are  all  thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  thee  stands. 
All  wretched  aud  distressed, 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wriug  my  soul 
Obey  thy  bigh  behest. 

Sure,  thou.  Almighty,  caust  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath ! 
Oh  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death ! 

But  if  I  nnist  alllicted  be 

To  suit  some  wise  design. 
Then  man  my  soul  with  lirm  resolves 

To  bear  and  not  repine ! 


EPISTLE   TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND,'  MAY,  1786. 

I  lang  liae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Tliougli  it  should  serve  uae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kiiul  memento; 
But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang 

Let  time  and  chance  determine; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang. 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye'il  try  the  world  fn'  soon,  my  lad  ; 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  iind  mankind  an  unco  squad. 

And  ninckh;  tlicy  may  grieve  ye. 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

E'eu  when  your  end's  attained  ; 

'  Addressed  to  Andrew  Aiken,  son  of  Robert  Aiken,  to  whom 
"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Ni;:ht"  was  dedicated.  Andrew  died 
iu  1S31  at  Riga,  where  ho  held  the  office  of  English  consul. 


And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  naught 
Where  every  nerve  is  strained. 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a': 

The  real,  bardcmcd  wicked, 
Wha  hae  uae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked. 
But  ocli !   mankind  arc  unco  weak. 

An'  little  to  be  trusted ; 
If  self  the  wavering  l)alance  shake, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  uae  censure; 
For  still  the  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  auswer : 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Though  poortith'  hourly  stare  him  ; 
A  mau  may  tak  a  ueebor's  part. 

Yet  hae  uae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff  ban'  your  storj'  tell. 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection  ; 
But  keek  through  every  other  mau 

Wi'  sharpened,  sly  inspection." 

The  sacred  lowi^^  o'  weel-placed  love. 

Luxuriantly  iiululgo  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it! 
I  waive  the  qmintnm  o'  the  sin. 

Tile  hazard  of  concealing  ; 
But  och  !    it  hardens  a'  within, 

Aud  itetrilies  the  feeling! 

To  catch  Dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge. 

Not  for  a  train-attendant. 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 


1   r.ntMly. 

-  llcic  liunis  was  in  error,  and  rcccMiimondcd  wliat  a  {gener- 
ous nature  like  his  own  would  have  shrunk  from— scH'-conceal- 
nient  at  the  expense  of  others.  Probably  he  fi;lt  that  prudence 
in  checking  his  own  impulsive  feelings  was  what  he  lacked. 

3  Flame. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


Tlio  fear  o'  hell's  a  bangmairs  whip, 

To  hand  the  wretch  in  order ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  houor  j;rii>, 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border : 
Its  slightest  touches,  iustaut  pause — • 

Debar  a'  side  preteuces ; 
And  resolutelj-  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  reveie 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  ; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  e'en  the  rigid  feature  : 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range 

Be  complaisance  extended ; 
An  atheist's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  ofieuded ! 

When  ranting  round  iu  pleasure's  ring, 

Keligion  may  be  blinded ; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But  when  on  life  we're  temiiest-driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker, 
A  correspondence  fixed  wi'  heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor  I 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  : 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth 

Erect  your  brow  nndauuting ! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  ''God  send  you  speed" 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser ; 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede' 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser. 


B.VXXOCKBUEN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

Burns  made  another  version  of  this  poera,  inferior,  we  tliiuk, 
to  the  original,  which  we  give. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  ; 
Scots,  w  ham  Bruce  has  aften  led ! 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victory! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery  I 


'  Heed  the  advice. 
17 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wlia  can  till  a  coward's  grave  f 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  stronglj'-  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me. 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  iu  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  iu  every  blow ! 

Let  us  do  or  die ! 


TO  A  MOL^'TAIX  DAISY. 

OX  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  iu  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure' 

Thy  slender  stem  : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 

Thou  bounie  gem. 

Alas !   it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bounie  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blithe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east! 

Canld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm  ; 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form ! 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield 
High  sheltering  woods  aud  wa's  maun  shield ; 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield' 

O'  clod  or  stane 
Adorns  the  histie'  stibble-ficld, 

Un.seen,  alaue. 


'  DnsU 


'  Protection. 


»  Drv. 


258 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEBIC  AX  POETRY. 


There,  in  tby  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  iiiiassuniing  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptoar.s  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  slip,  like  tliee,  all  soiled  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink. 
Till,  Avrenched  of  everj'  stay  but  Heaven, 

Ho,  ruined,  sink  ! 

E'en  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  Ruiu's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  wo  pass  him  by ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that : 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that! 

What  though  on  hamoly  fare  wo  dine, 
Wear  hoddin  gray,'  and  a'  that  ? 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that ! 

'  Coarse  wooUeu  cloth. 


For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that : 

The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sao  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that ! 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,'  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wlia  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that : 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof*  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that : 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that ! 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might : 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa"  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pitli  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  rank^  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,^  and  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that ! 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Gi'een  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie !" 
Tliero  simmer  first  unfanld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  farewcel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  biik. 
How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom. 

As  nnderucatli  their  fragrant  shade 
I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours  on  angel  wiugs 
Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 


'  A  conceited  fellow. 
3  Attempt.  * 

'  Supremacy. 


2  A  fool. 
So  in  MS.,  but  usually  printed  ranks. 
«  Muddy. 


liOBERT  BVIiyS. 


259 


For  deaf  to  mo  as  liylit  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  niony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But  oil!   fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipped  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 

O  pale,  pale  now  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dnst 

That  heart  that  loed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


BONNIE   LESLEY. 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  further. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 
And  love  but  her  forever ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  uever  made  anither ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face. 
And  say,  "  1  cauna  wrang  thee." 

Tlie  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee  ; 

^Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves,  sae  lovelj" 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 
That  we  may  brag  wo  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Shonld  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  uever  brought  to  mind  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  bo  forgot, 
And  daj'S  o'  laiig  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne ; 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang.  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu't  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

We  twa  hae  iiaidl't  i'  the  burn 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere,' 

And  gie's  a  baud  o'  thiue ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught^ 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,  etc. 


TO   MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  raj'. 

That  lovest  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary !   dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Ilear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grov^. 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 


'  Corapimion. 


-  Draught. 


260 


CYCLOJ'.EDJA    OF  BIUTISII  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  traii.s])orts  past; 
Tliy  image  at  our  last  embrace — 

Ah!   little  thought  we  'twas  our  last! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhuug  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawtliorn  hoar 

Twined  amorous  round  tlio  raptured  sccue  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, — 
Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speod  of  wing<5d  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thon  thy  lover  lowly  laid  '? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groaus  that  rend  his  breast' 


AE  FOND  KISS. 

Ac  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then  forever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
"Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
"Wlio  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me — iiae  cheerful  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  ht^r. 
Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sac  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sac  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  l)r()ken-hearled. 

Fare  theo  weel,  thon  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Tiiiue  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love,  and  Ph^asure  ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !   forever! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groaus  I'll  wage  thee. 


JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  lirst  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  arc  like  the  snaw. 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  bill  thegither ; 
And  niony  a  canty  day,  J(din, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand-in-haud  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 
11a,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
On  blithe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Maggie  coost'  her  head  fu'  high, 
Looked  asklent  and  unco  skeigh," 
Gart^  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh  ; 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  fleechcd,*  and  Duncan  prayed. 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

ISIeg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig,^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  Avooing  o't ; 

Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat"  his  ecu  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 

Spak  o'  lowpin'"  ower  a  linn. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 
Ha,  ha,  the  Avooiug  o't; 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he. 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  gao  to — Franco  for  me ! 
Ha,  ha,  the  Avooing  o't. 


1  Cnst.  "  Cot. 

s  Compelled.  *  Fl.itteied. 

»  A  well-kuown  rocky  islet  in  the  Fiiih  of  Clyde. 
«  Wept.  ''  Leaping. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


2G1 


How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grow  heal, 
Ha,  ba,  the  wooing  o't. 

Something  iu  her  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 

And  oh,  her  een  they  spak  sic  things ! 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  tlio  wooing  o't ; 

Maggie's  was  a  piteons  case, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

Duncan  couldna  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoored  his  wrath  ; 

Now  thej''re  cronse'  and  canty  baith. 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


SOMEBODY. 

My  heart  is  sair,  I  darena  tell. 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody; 

I  could  wake  a  winter  night 

For  the  sake  of  somebody ! 

Oh-hon  !   for  somebody ! 

Oh-hey !   for  somebody  ! 

I  could  range  the  Avorld  aronnd 

For  the  sake  o'  somebody. 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  lore, 

O  sweetly  smile  on  somebody ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 
And  send  me  safe  my  somebodj' ! 
Oh-hon  !  for  somebody  ! 
Ob-hey !   for  somebody ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? — 
For  the  sake  o'  somebody. 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 
O  my  luve's  like  the  melodie 

That's  sweetly  j)layed  iu  tune. 
As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnio  lass. 

So  deep  iu  luve  am  I ; 
Aud  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

I  Brisk. 


Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  \vi'  the  sun: 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  .shall  run. 
Aud  fiiro  thee  weel,  my  only  luve! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Though  it  were  teu  thousand  mile. 


THE   BANKS   0'  DOON. 

Ye  banks  aud  braes  o'  bouuie  Doon, 

How  cau  ye  bloom  sac  fresh  and  fair  ? 
How  cau  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care  ? 
Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wautous  through  the  flowering  thorn 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys. 

Departed  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonuie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  aud  woodbine  twine ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve. 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
Aud  my  fanse  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah !   he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


AFTON  WATER. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Aftou,  among  thy  green  braes. 
Flow  gently,  FU  sing  thee  a  song  in  i\\y  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  uot  her  dream. 

Thou  stockdove  whose  echo  resounds  through  the 

glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  iu  j^on  tliorny  den. 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  j'ou  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills. 
Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills. 
There  dally  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  Hocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  iu  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  iirimroses  blow ; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 


2ii2 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tby  crystal  stream,  Afton,  liow  lovely  it  gliilcs, 
And  winds  by  tlio  cot  wliorc  my  Mary  resides ; 
liow  wanton  thy  -waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gatheriug  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy  clear 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  Itriies, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  hy  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


iolju  ilUlVJUC. 


John  Maync  (1759-183G)  was  a  native  of  Dumfries, 
Scotland.  After  such  an  education  as  lie  could  get  at 
the  grammar-school  of  his  native  town,  he  entered  the 
printing-office  of  the  Dmnfries  Journal  as  a  type-setter. 
In  1781  lie  published  his  song  of  "Logan  Braes,"  of 
which  Burns  afterward  composed  a  uew,  but  inferior, 
version.  Maync  wrote  "The  Siller  Gun,"  a  descriptive 
poem,  the  latest  edition  of  which  contains  five  cantos. 
In  1787  he  settled  in  London.  Allan  Cunningham  said 
of  him :  "A  better  or  warmer- hearted  man  never  ex- 
isted."   

LOGAN  BRAES. 
By  Logan  streams  that  rin  sao  deep 
Fu'  aft  wi'  glee  I've  herded  sheep ; 
Herded  sheep,  and  gathered  slaes, 
Wi'  my  dear  lad  on  Logau  braes. 
But,  wae's  my  heart !   thae  days  are  gane. 
And  I  wi'  grief  may  herd  alaue  ; 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logau  braes. 

Nac  mair  at  Logan  kirk  will  ho 
Atween  the  preachings  meet  wi'  me; 
Meet  wi'  me,  or,  whan  it's  mirk. 
Convoy  me  hame  frae  Logau  kirk. 
I  wecl  may  sing  thae  days  are  gane ; 
Frae  kirk  and  fair  I  come  alano ; 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logau  braes. 

At  e'en,  when  hope  amaist  is  gane, 
I  danuder*  out,  and  sit  alane ; 
Sit  alaue  beneath  the  tree 
Where  aft  he  kept  his  tryst  wi'  me. 
O  could  I  see  thao  days  again. 
My  lover  skaithless,  and  my  ain  ! 
Beloved  by  friends,  revered  by  faes. 
We'd  live  in  bliss  on  Logan  braes. 

'  To  walk  thoughtlessly. 


t)clcn  illaria  lllilliams. 

Miss  Williams  (17G3-1827)  was  a  native  of  the  North  of 
England,  and  was  ushered  into  public  notice  when  she 
was  eighteen  by  Dr.  Kippis.  She  published  "Edwin  and 
Elfrida,"  a  poem;  "Peru,"  a  poem;  and  other  pieces, 
afterward  collected  in  two  volumes.  In  ITM  she  settled 
in  Paris.  There  she  became  intimate  with  Madame  Ro- 
land and  the  most  eminent  of  the  Girondists ;  and  in  1794 
was  imprisoned,  and  nearly  shared  their  fate.  She  es- 
caped to  Switzerland,  but  returned  to  Paris  in  1790,  and 
re.sided  there  till  her  death.  She  shared  the  religious 
opinions  of  the  "Theophilanthropists,"  who  were  pure 
Theists.  The  one  exquisite  hymn  by  which  she  is  known 
has  been  freely  adopted,  however,  by  all  Christian  sects. 
In  1823  she  collected  and  republished  her  poems.  Of 
one  of  her  sonnets  she  says:  "I  commence  the  sonnets 
with  that  to  Hope,  from  a  predilection  in  its  favor  for 
which  I  have  a  proud  reason :  it  is  that  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth, who  lately  honored  me  with  his  visits  while  at 
Paris,  having  repeated  it  to  me  from  memory  after  a 
lapse  of  many  j'cars." 


SONNET  TO  HOPE. 

Oh,  ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  we  love, 
To  bid  the  shapes  of  fear  and  grief  depart, — 
Come,  gentle  Hope !   with  one  gay  smile  remove 
The  lasting  sadness  of  an  aching  heart. 
Thy  voice,  benign  enchantress !  let  me  hear ; 
Say  that  for  me  some  pleasures  yet  shall  bloom ; 
That  Fancy's  railiance.  Friendship's  precious  tear, 
Shall  soften  or  shall  chase  misfortune's  gloom. 
But  come  not  glowing  in  the  dazzling  ray 
Which  once  with  dear  illusions  charmed  my  eye ; 
Oh,  strew  no  more,  sweet  flatterer,  on  my  way 
The  flowers  I  fondly  thought  too  bright  to  die  ! 
Visions  less  fair  will  soothe  mj'^  pensive  breast. 
That  asks  not  happiness,  but  longs  for  rest. 


TRUST  IN  PROVIDENCE. 

While  thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power, 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled ; 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 

With  better  hopes  bo  lilled. 

Thy  love  the  jiowers  of  thought  bestowed ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar  : 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed; 

That  mercy  I  adore ! 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 
Thy  ruling  hand  I  sec ! 


ANDREW  CHERRY.— GEORGE   COLMAX,  THE   YOUNGER. 


263 


Each  blessing  to  luy  soul  more  clear 
Because  conferred,  by  tbeo! 

lu  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

lu  every  paiu  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise, 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favored  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resigned,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 
Mj^  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear, 
The  gathering  storm  shall  see  ; 

My  steadfixst  heart  shall  know  no  fear; 
That  heart  shall  rest  on  thee ! 


;i?lni)rctt)  Qlljcrrn. 

Born  in  Limerick,  Ireland,  Andrew  Cherry  (17G;>-1812) 
was  an  actor  and  dramatic  author  of  second-rate  abili- 
ties ;  but  he  made  one  conspicuous  bit  in  his  well-known 
song  of  the  "Bay  of  Biscay,"  which,  defective  as  it  is  in 
literary  merit,  is  wedded  to  music  that  Iveeps  it  alive. 
Braham  used  to  sing  it  with  thrilliuo;  effect. 


THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY. 

Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder, 
The  rain  a  deluge  showers ; 

The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powers  : 

The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 

Our  poor  devoted  bark, 

Till  next  day  there  she  lay, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow. 
Her  opening  timbers  creak  : 

Each  fears  a  watery  pillow ; 
None  stops  the  dreadful  leak. 

To  cling  to  slippery  shrouds 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 

As  she  lay  till  the  day 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 
Broke  througli  the  hazy  skj' ; 

Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow. 
Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh  : 

The  dismal  wreck  to  view 

Struck  horror  to  the  crew, 


As  she  lay,  on  that  day, 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 

Her  yielding  timbers  sever. 
Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent. 

When  Heaven,  all  bounteous  ever. 
Its  boundless  mercy  sent : — 

A  sail  in  sight  appears ! 

We  hail  it  with  three  cheers ! 

Now  we  sail  with  the  gale 

From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 


George  (Holman,  tijc  lounger. 

The  son  of  George  Colman,  the  Elder,  author  of  "The 
Jealous  Wife,"  and  other  successful  plays,  George  the 
Younger  (176r2-1836)  early  gave  his  attention  to  the  writ- 
ing of  plays.  He  produced  several  which  still  keep  their 
place  on  the  stage:  "The  Iron  Chest"  (1796);  "The 
Heir  at  Law"  (1797);  "The  Poor  Gentleman"  (1802); 
"John  Bull"  (1805) ;  with  numerous  minor  pieces.  Col- 
man wrote  poetical  travesties  and  light  farcical  pieces  in 
verse,  which  were  collected  and  published  (1802)  under 
the  title  of  "  Broad  Grins." 


SIR  MARMADUKE. 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  hearty  knight — 

Good  nnxn  !   old  man  ! 
He's  painted  standing  bolt  upright, 

With  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee ; 
His  periwig's  as  white  as  chalk. 
And  on  his  fist  he  holds  a  hawk  ; 

And  he  looks  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

His  dining-room  was  long  and  wide — 

Good  man  !   old  man  ! 
His  spaniels  lay  by  the  fireside ; 

And  in  other  parts, — d'ye  see  ? 
Cross-bows,  tobacco-pipes,  old  hats, 
A  saddle,  his  wife,  and  a  litter  of  cats; 

And  he  looked  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  faniilj'. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  the  gate — 

Good  man  !   old  man  ! 
But  was  always  ready  to  break  the  pate 

Of  his  country's  enemy. 
What  knight  could  do  a  better  thing 
Thau  serve  the  poor  and  fight  for  his  king' 

And  so  may  every  head 
Of  an  ancient  faniilv! 


264 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(fcicrton  Urnligcs. 


Sir  Samuel  Es^erton  Bryclf,'cs  (170^1837)  first  saw  the 
light  at  the  manor-house  of  Wootton,  between  Canter- 
bury and  Dover.  By  his  motlier,  an  E-^erton,  he  elaimed 
to  have  inh'erited  tlie  most  illustrious  blood  of  Europe. 
Having  entered  Queen's  College,  Cambridge,  he  left  it 
without  a  degree.  lie  tried  the  law,  was  admitted  to  the 
Bar,  but  made  no  mark  as  a  lawyer.  In  1785  he  publish- 
ed a  volume  of  poems ;  and  in  1814  his  volume  of  "  Ocea- 
sional  Poems"  appeared.  His  "Bertram,"  a  poem,  was 
given  to  the  world  in  1815.  Byron  writes  of  him  as  "a 
strange  but  able  old  man."  He  was  immensely  proud 
of  his  noble  aneestry,  sensitive,  and  morbidly  anxious  for 
literary  fame,  as  some  of  his  sonnets  show.  The  latter 
part  of  his  life,  having  involved  himself  in  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments, he  resided  chiefly  at  Geneva.  His  sonnet 
upon  "Echo  and  Silence"  was  pronounced  by  Words- 
worth the  best  sonnet  in  the  language ;  and  Southey 
said  he  knew  of  none  more  beautifully  imaginative- 
commendation  that  now  must  seem  extravagant  and  in- 
appropriate. Brydges  was  too  self-conscious,  introspec- 
tive, and  jealous  of  what  he  thought  his  dues,  to  warble 
anj'  "native  wood-notes  wild."  His  long  poems  have 
little  poetic  value  ;  but  he  shows  imaginative  power, 
and  some  of  the  high  gifts  of  the  poet.  He  edited  with 
much  ability  an  edition  of  Milton,  which  was  republished 
in  New  York,  and  is  still  in  demand. 


ECHO   AND   SILENCE. 

In  eddying  course  Avlien  leaves  began  to  fly, 

And  Autumn  iu  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 

As  'mid  Avild  scenes  I  chanced  the  Muse  to  woo, 

Thro'  glens  untrod,  and  woods  that  frowned  ou  high, 

Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  I  spy ! 

And  lo,  8he'.s  gone ! — In  robe  of  dark-green  hue 

'Twas  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew, 

For  quick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky ! 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister. — Hark!  for  onward  still, 

With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening  way, 

Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  liill  to  hill. 

Ah,  mark  the  merry  maid  iu  mockful  play 

With  thousand  mimic  toues  the  laughiug  forest  fill ! 


THE   APPROACH   OF   COLD  WEATHER. 

One  morn,  what  time  the  sickle  'gan  to  phiy, 
The  eastern  gates  of  licaven  were  opeu  laid, 
When  forth  the  rosy  Hours  did  lead  a  maid, 
From  her  sweet  eyes  who  shed  a  softened  ray. 
Blushing  and  fair  she  was ;   and  from  the  braid 
Of  her  gold  locks  she  shook  forth  perfumes  gay; 


Yet  languid  looked,  and  indolently  straj-ed 
Awhile,  to  watch  the  harvest  borne  away. 
But  now,  with  sinews  braced,  and  aspect  hale; 
With  buskined  legs,  and  quiver  'cross  her  flung; 
With  hounds  and  horn,  she  seeks  the  wood  and  vale  ; 
And  Echo  listens  to  her  forest  .song. 
At  eve  she  flies  to  hear  the  poet's  talc, 
And  "Autumn's"  name  resounds  his  shades  among. 


WKITTEN  AT   PARIS,  21  AY   11,  182G. 

High  name  of  poet ! — sought  in  every  age 

By  thousands — scarcely  won  by  two  or  three, — 

As  with  the  thorns  of  this  sad  i)ilgrimago 

My  bleeding  feet  are  doomed  their  war  to  wage, 

With  awful  worship  I  have  bowed  to  thee ! 

And  yet,  perchance,  it  is  not  Fate's  decree 

This  mighty  boou  should  be  assigned  to  me, 

My  heart's  consuming  fever  to  assuage. — 

Fountain  of  Poe.sy !   that  liest  deep 

Within  the  bosom's  innermost  recesses, 

Aiul  rarely  burstest  forth  to  human  ear, 

Break  out  I — and,  while  profoundly  magic  sleep 

With  piercelcss  veil  all  outward  form  oppresses. 

Let  me  the  music  of  thv  murmurs  hear. 


WRITTEN  AT  LEE   PRIORY,  AUGUST  10,  1826. 

Praise  of  the  wise  and  good! — it  is  a  meed 
For  which  I  would  lone  years  of  toil  endure  ; 
Which  many  a  i)eril,  many  a  grief  would  cure ! 
As  onward  I  with  weary  feet  proceed, 
My  swelling  heart  continues  still  to  bleed; 
The  glittering  prize  holds  out  its  distant  lure, 
But  seems,  as  nearer  I  approach,  less  sure, 
And  never  to  my  prayer  to  be  decreed ! — 
With  anxious  car  I  listen  to  the  voice 
That  shall  pronounce  the  precious  boon  I  ask  ; 
But  yet  it  comes  not, — or  it  comes  iu  doubt. 
Slave  to  the  passion  of  my  earliest  choice. 
From  youth  to  age  I  ply  my  daily  task, 
And  hope,  e'en  till  the  lamp  of  life  goes  out. 


lUilliam  Cislc  Uowlcs. 

But  for  the  praise  bestowed  by  Coleridge  and  Words- 
worth on  the  sonnets  of  Bowles— praise  which  seems  a 
little  overstrained  a  century  later— he  would  hardly  be 
entitled  to  a  place  among  British  poets  of  note.  Born 
in  the  county  of  Wilts  in  176:i,  he  died  in  1850.     He 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES.— JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


265 


was  ediiciitcd  at  Oxford,  studied  for  the  ministry,  was 
made  Prebendary  of  Salisbury,  1804,  and  incumbent  of 
Bremliill,  Wiltsliire,  1S05.  lie  was  a  voluminous  writer 
both  of  prose  and  poetry.  Ilallam  saj's:  "Tlie  sonnets 
of  Bowles  may  be  reckoned  among  the  flrst-fruits  of  a 
new  era  in  poetry."  Bowles  had  a  controversy  with  By- 
ron and  Campbell  on  the  writings  of  Pope,  and  took  the 
ground  that  Pope  was  no  poet.  Many  pamphlets  were 
issued  on  both  sides,  and  the  question  was  left  where 
the  combatants  found  it.  Pope's  must  always  be  a  great 
name  in  English  literature. 


THE   TOUCH  OF  TlilE. 

0  Time !  'wlio  kuow'st  a  leuieut  band  to  lay 
Softest  on  Sorrow's  wound,  and  slowly  thcuco 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 

Tlie  faint  pang  stealest  nuperceived  away! 
On  tbee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 
And  tbiuk,  when  tbou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  iu  vaiu  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1  may  look  hack  on  every  sorrow  past, 

And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile  ; 
As  some  loue  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour. 
Sings  iu  the  sunbeam,  of  the  trausieut  shower 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while : — 
Yet  ah,  how  much  must  that  poor  heart  endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  aloue,  a  cure ! 


THE   BELLS   OF  OSTEND. 

WRITTEN   ON   A  BEAUTIFUL   MORNING,  AFTER  A   STORM. 

No,  I  never,  till  life  and  its  .shadows  shall  end. 
Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  O.stend ! 
The  day  set  iu  darkness;    the  wind  it  blew  loud. 
And  rung,  as  it  pas.sed,  through   each   murmuring 

shroud. 
My  forehead  Avas  wet  Avitli  the  foam  of  the  spray, 
My  heart  sighed  in  secret  for  those  far  awaj- ; 
When  slowly  the  morning  advanced  from  the  east. 
The  toil  and  the  noise  of  the  tempest  had  ceased : 
The  peal,  from  a  land  I  ne'er  saw,  seemed  to  say, 
"Let  the  stranger  forget  every  sorrow  to-day!" 

Yet  the  short-lived  emotion  was  mingled  with  pain  : 
I  thought  of  those  eyes  I  should  ne'er  see  again  ; 
I  thought  of  the  kiss,  the  last  kiss  which  I  gave ; 
And  a  tear  of  regret  fell  unseen  on  the  wave. 
I  thought  of  the  schemes  fond  aftection  had  planned. 
Of  the  trees,  of  the  towers,  of  my  own  native  laud. 
But  still  the  sweet  sounds,  as  they  swelled  to  the  air. 
Seemed  tidings  of  pleasure,  though  mournful,  to 
bear; 


And  I  never,  till  life  and  its  shadow.s  shall  end, 
Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  Ostend ! 


SONNET,  OCTOBER,  1792. 

Go,  then,  and  join  the  roaring  city's  throng! 
Me  thou  dost  leave  to  solitude  and  tears, 
To  busy  fantasies,  and  boding  fears, 
Lest  ill  betide  thee.     But  'twill  not  be  long. 
And  the  hard  season  shall  be  past :   till  then 
Live  happj^,  sometimes  the  forsaken  shade 
Remembering,  and  these  trees  now  left  to  fade ; 
Nor  'mid  the  busy  scenes  and  "hum  of  men" 
Wilt  thou  my  cares  forget :   in  heaviness 
To  me  the  hours  shall  roll,  weary  and  slow. 
Till,  mournful  autumn  past,  and  all  the  snow 
Of  winter  pale,  the  glad  hour  I  shall  bless 
That  shall  restore  thee  from  the  crowd  again, 
To  the  green  hamlet  iu  the  peaceful  plain. 


SONNET:    ON   THE   RIVER   RHINE. 

'Twas  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  mountain's  brow 
(Hung  Avith  the  beamy  clusters  of  the  vine) 
Streamed  the  blue  light,  when  on   the  sparkling 

Rhine 
We  bounded,  and  the  white  waves  round  the  prow 
In  murmurs  iiarted.     Varying  as  we  go,  • 

Lo,  the  woods  open,  aiul  the  rocks  retire. 
Some  convent's  ancient  walls  or  glistening  spire 
'Mid  the  bright  landscape's  track  unfolding  slow. 
Here  dark,  with  furrowed  aspect,  like  despair. 
Frowns  the  bleak  cliff;  there  on  the  woodland's  side 
The  shadowy  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide ; 
While  Hope,  enchanted  with  the  scene  so  fair. 
Would  wish  to  linger  many  a  summer's  day. 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 


Joanna  Daillic. 

Miss  Baillie  (1763-18.51)  was  the  daughter  of  a  Scottish 
minister,  and  was  born  in  Bothwell,  county  of  Lanark. 
Her  latter  years  were  spent  at  Hampstcad.  She  wrote 
"Plays  of  the  Passions,"  of  whicli  "De  Montfort"  is, 
perhaps,  the  best,  and  which  made  for  lier  quite  a  litera- 
ry reputation  in  her  day.  The  lines  on  "Fame"  form 
the  conclusion  of  a  narrative  poem,  entitled  "Christo- 
pher Columbus."  According  to  Ballantyne,  she  was  at 
one  time  pronounced  "the  highest  genius"  of  Great 
Britain  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Her  dramatic  and  poetic 
works,  with  a  Life,  were  published  in  18.53. 


266 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Wboso  imp  art  tbou,  with  dimpled  check, 

And  curly  pato,  and  niorry  eye, 
And  arm  and  sh()nl<l('rs  round,  and  sleek, 

And  soft,  and  lair?   lliou  urchin  sly! 

What  boots  it  who,  Avith  sweet  caresses, 
First  called  thee  bis,  or  squire  or  bind  ? — 

Since  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes 
Dost  now  a  liiendly  playmate  iind. 

Thy  downcast  glances,  grave,  but  cunning, 

As  fring6d  eyelids  rise  and  fall, — 
Thy  shyness,  swiftly  from  mo  running, — 

'Tis  infantine  coquetry  all ! 

But  far  alield  thou  hast  not  flown. 

With  mocks  and  threats,  half  lisped,  half  spoken, 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown. 

Of  right  good-will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle  too, 

A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging. 
To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thy  after  kindness  more  engaging. 

The  wilding  rose,  ssveet  as  thyself. 

And  new-cropped  daisies  are  thy  treasure  : 

€'d  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf. 

To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet,  for  all  thy  merry  look. 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming 

When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook, 
The  weary  sjicll  or  horn-hook  thumbing. 

Well,  lot  it  bo!     Tlirongh  Avcal  and  woe 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range  ; 

Life  is  a  motley,  shifting  show. 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 


FAME. 


Oh,  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name, 
Wliilc  in  tliat  sound  there  is  a  charm 
Tiie  nerve  to  brace,  the  heart  to  v>arm, 
As,  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead, 
The  young  from  slothful  couch  will  start, 
And  vow,  with  lifted  bands  outspread. 
Like  them,  to  act  a  noble  part? 


Oh,  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name. 
When,  but  for  those,  our  mighty  dead. 
All  ages  past  a  blank  would  Ijo, 
Sinik  in  oljlivion's  murky  bed, 
A  desert  bare,  a  shiplcss  s(!a  ? 
They  are  the  distant  objects  seen, — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

Oh,  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name, 
When  memory  of  the  mighty  dead 
To  earth-worn  pilgrim's  wistful  eye 
The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed 
That  point  to  immortality? 

A  twinkling  speck,  but  fixed  and  bright. 
To  guide  us  through  the  dreary  night. 
Each  hero  shines,  and  lures  the  soul 
To  gain  the  distant,  happy  goal. 
For  is  there  one  who,  musing  o'er  the  grave 
Where  lies  interred  the  good,  the  wise,  the  brave; 
Can  poorly  think  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
That  noble  being  shall  forever  sleep  ? 
"No,"  saith  the  generous  heart,  and  proudly  swells, 
"Though  his  cored  corse  lies  here,  with  God  his 
spirit  dwells." 


jiTljomas  Uusscll. 


Russell  (17G2-178S)  was  a  native  of  Beaminster,  Dor- 
setsliire.  He  studied  for  the  Church,  but  died  young. 
After  his  death  appeared  "  Sonnets  and  Miscellaneous 
Foems,  by  the  late  Thomas  Russell,  Fellow  of  New  Col- 
loi^e,  Oxford,  1789."  Southcy  spoke  of  liim  in  exagger- 
ated terms  as  "the  best  Enj^iish  sonnet-writer;"  and 
Bishop  Mant  says,  "  there  arc  no  better  sonnets  in  the 
English  langu.age  than  Russell's."  Wordsworth  also 
praised  him.  Of  the  sonnet,  "To  Valclusa,"  II.  F.  Gary, 
in  his  "Notices  of  Miscellaneous  English  Poets,"  says: 
"The  whole  of  this  is  exquisite.  Nothing  can  be  more 
like  Milton  than  the  close  of  it." 


TO  VALCLUSA. 

What  though,  Valclusa,  the  fond  bard  be  fled 
That  wooed  his  fair  in  thy  se(iuestered  Ijowors, 
Long  loved  her  living,  long  bemoaned  her  dead, 
And  hung  her  visionary  shrino  with  flowers? 
What  though  no  more  ho  teach  thy  shades  to  mourn 
The  hapless  chances  that  to  love  belong. 
As  erst,  when  droo))ing  o'er  her  turf  forlorn, 
He  charmed  wild  Ia-Iio  with  his  plaintive  song? 


SAMUEL   ROGERS. 


2G7 


Yet  still,  enamored  of  the  tender  tale, 
Pale  Passion  haunts  thy  grove's  romantic  gloom, 
Yet  still  soft  music  breathes  in  every  gale, 
Still  undecayed  the  fairy-garlands  bloom, 
Still  lieaveiilj-  incense  fills  each  fragrant  vale. 
Still  Petrarch's  Genius  weeps  o'er  Laura's  tomb. 


SONNET. 

Could  then  the  Babes  from  you  nusheltei'ed  cot 

Implore  thy  passing  charity  iu  vain  ? 

Too  thoughtless  Youth !   what  though  thy  happier 

lot 
Insult  their  life  of  poverty  and  pain  ! 
What  though  their  Maker  doomed  them  thus  forloru 
To  brook  the  mockery  of  the  taunting  throng, 
Beneath  the  Oppressor's  iron  scourge  to  mourn, 
To  mourn,  but  not  to  murmur  at  his  wrong ! 
Yet  when  their  last  late  evening  shall  decline, 
Their  evening  cheerful,  though  their  day  distressed, 
A  Hope  iierhaps  more  heavenly-bright  than  thine, 
A  Grace  by  thee  unsought,  and  unpossessed, 
A  Faith  more  fixed,  a  Rapture  more  divine 
Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  Eest. 


Samuel  Uoc\crG. 


Rogers  (1763-1855)  was  the  son  of  a  banker,  resident 
near  Loudon.  In  1776  he  entered  the  banking-house  as 
a  clerk.  Once,  when  a  boy,  he  resolved  to  call  ou  Dr. 
Johnson  in  Bolt  Court,  but  his  courage  failed  him  as  he 
placed  his  hand  on  the  knocker,  and  they  never  met.  In 
1783  Rogers  published  "The  Pleasures  of  Memory."  Its 
success  was  remarkable.  In  1793  his  father  died,  and 
Samuel,  inheriting  a  large  fortune,  had  ample  leisure  for 
literature.  At  his  residence  in  St.  James's  Place,  he  de- 
lighted to  gather  round  him  men  eminent  in  letters  and 
art.  In  1830  he  published  a  superb  edition  of  his  poem, 
"Italy,"  illustrated  with  engravings  after  drawings  done 
for  him  by  Stothard,  Turner,  and  other  artists.  Rogers 
was  a  careful  and  fastidious  writer.  His  "Italy"  has 
passages  of  high  artistic  merit,  and  will  long  make  his 
place  good  among  British  poets.  A  certain  quaint  sar- 
casm characterized  some  of  his  saj-ings.  The  late  Lord 
Dudley  (Ward)  had  been  free  in  his  criticisms  on  the 
poet,  who  retaliated  with  this  epigrammatic  couplet : 

"Ward  has  no  heart,  tbey  say;  bat  I  deny  it; 
lie  ha.-i  a  heart — he  gets  his  speeches  by  it." 

On  one  occasion  Rogers  tried  to  extort  from  his  neigh- 
bor, Sir  Philip  Francis,  a  confession  that  he  was  the  au- 
thor of  "Junius  ;"  but  Francis  gave  a  surly  rebuff,  and 
Rogers  remarked  that  if  he  was  not  Junius,  he  was  at 
least  Brutus.     The  poet's  recipe  for  long  life  was,  "  tem- 


perance, the  bath  and  flesh-brush,  and  don't  fret."  He 
thus,  in  his  "  Italy,"  refers  to  himself: 

"Nature  denied  bim  much, 
But  gave  him  at  bis  birtli  what  most  ho  values: 
A  passionate  love  for  music,  sculpture,  paiutiug, 
For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods, 
For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 
A  setting  sun,  a  lake  among  the  mountains, 
The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance, 
And,  what  transcends  them  all,  a  noble  action." 

Rogers  died  in  his  ninety -third  year,  his  life  having 
ranged  over  four  successive  generations  in  the  history 
of  English  literature. 


THE   OLD  ANCESTRAL  MANSION. 

FnoM  "  The  PLEAscnES  of  IIemoky." 

Mark  you  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arched  with  ivy's  brownest  shade. 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  couveyed. 
The  moulderiug  gate-way  strews  the  grass-grown 

court. 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simjile  sport ; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new. 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  revealed 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call! 
O  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  iu  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now   stained   with   dews,  with   cobwebs   darkly 
hung. 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  you  ample  board,  iu  duo  degree, 
We  sweetened  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest, 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  here  we  chased  the  slijiper  by  the  sound  ; 
And  turned  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  formed  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  fancy  fluttered  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chained  each  wondering  ear ; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  wo  wandered  iu  the  wood, 
Or  viewed  the  forest  feats  of  Robin  Hood  : 
Oft  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour. 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murdered  by  rufiian  hands,  when  smiling  iu  its  sleep. 

Ye  household  deities  I   whose  guardian  eye 
Marked  each  pure  thought,  ere  registered  on  high; 


268 


CYCLOl'JiDlA    OF  BlUTllSll  AXD  AMERICAN  rOETllY. 


Still,  still  yo  walk  the  consecrated  grouiul, 
And  broatlio  tliu  soul  of  Insinration  rouud. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend, 
Each  chair  awakes  tlic^  foeliugs  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  de1ij;ht, 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  'wildered  siglit ; 
And  still,  TFith  heraldry's  rich  hues  impressed, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colored  chart, 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
Tiiat  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear. 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near : 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime. 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feathered  feet  of  time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence    the    caged    linnet    soothed    my    pensive 

thought ; 
Those  muskets  cased  with  venerable  rust ; 
Those   once -loved  forms,  still   breathing   through 

their  dust. 
Still  from  the  frame,  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove! 
How  oft,  when  pur^de  evening  tinged  the  west. 
We  watched  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest; 
W^elcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing. 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring ! 
How  offc  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme. 
The  bark  now  silvered  by  the  touch  of  time  ; 
Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through    sister    elms    that    waved   their    summer 

shade ; 
Or  strewed  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat! 


HOPES  FOR  ITALY. 

From  "  Italy." 

Am  I  in  Italy?     Is  this  the  Miucius? 

Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona? 

And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  mask 

Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  ? 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 

And  not  a  finger-post  hy  the  roadside 

"To  Mantua" — "To  Ferrara" — but  excites 

Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  could  I  weep — for  thou  art  lying,  alas! 
Low  in  the  dust ;  aiul  they  who  come,  admire  thee 
As  wo  admire  the  beautiiul  in  death. 
Thine  Avas  a  dangerous  jrift,  the  jrift  of  beauty- 


Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  euslavo  thee ! 
— But  why  despair?    Twice  hast  thou  lived  already, 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world. 
As  the  sun  shines  aluong  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven  ;  and  shalt  again.    The  hour  shall  come, 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit," 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey, 
W^atch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     E'en  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously, 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendor  like  the  day. 
That  like  the  day  dift'used  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth — the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 
Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedicmon,  were  themselves. 
Since  men  invoked  "  By  those  in  Marathon  !"' 
Awake  along  the  ^geau  ;  and  the  dead, 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call, 
And  through  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are  seen 
jSIoving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valor. 


VENICE. 

From  "  Italy." 

There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea, 

The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets. 

Ebbing  and  flowing,  and  the  salt  sea-weed 

Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 

No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro. 

Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  sea, 

Invisible;   and  from  the  land  we  Avent, 

As  to  a  floating  city — steering  in, 

And  gliding  np  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 

So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dinne 

Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 

Tlio  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky  ; 

By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendor. 

Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings ; 

The  fronts  of  some,  though  time  had  shattered  them. 

Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art. 

As  thoiijili  the  wealth  witliiii  them  had  run  o'er. 


ROMAN  RELICS. 

From  "  Italy." 

I  am  in  Rome!     Oft  as  the  morning  ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking,  at  once  I  cry, 


SAMUEL  ROGERS.— JOHN  MASON  GOOD.— JAMES  GRAHAME. 


269 


Whence  tliis  excess  of  joy  ?    What  has  befallen  me  ? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 
Thou  art  in  Rome  !     A  thousand  busy  thoughts 
Rush  ou  my  niind,  a  thousand  images; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  ruu  a  race  ! 

Thou  art  iu  Rome !   the  city  that  so  long 
Reigned  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world: — 
Thou  art  iu  Rome  !   the  city  where  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sunrise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  tluough  her  streets  silent  and  desolate, 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  gods,  not  men  ; 
The  citj-  that  by  teraperauce,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  towered  above  the  clouds. 
Then  fell — but,  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat. 
And  iu  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe, 
Where  uow  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild, 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age. 
Her  empire  undiminished. 

There,  as  though 
Grandeur  attracted  grandeur,  are  beheld 
All  things  that  strike,  ennoble — from  the  depths 
Of  Egypt,  from  the  classic  fields  of  Greece, 
Her  groves,  her  temples — all  things  that  inspire 
Wonder,  delight !     W^ho  would  not  say  the  forms 
Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 
Flocked  thither  to  abide  eternally. 
Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell 
Iu  happy  intercourse  ? 

And  I  am  there  ! 
Ah  I   little  thought  I,  when  iu  school  I  sat, 
A  school-boy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian,  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces. 
Their  doors  sealed  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  Illustrious  dead; — to  turn 
Toward  Tiber,  and,  beyond  the  city-gate, 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse. 
Where  on  his  mule  I  might  have  met  so  oft 
Horace  himself ;— or  climb  the  Palatine, 
Dreaming  of  old  Evauder  and  his  guest, — 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Longwhile  the  seat  of  Rome,  hereafter  found 
Less  thau  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  bi'ood 
Engendered  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  iu  his  madness;*  and,  the  summit  gained. 
Inscribe  my  name  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf. 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  verj'  walls 
Where  Virgil  read  aloud  his  tale  divine. 
Where  his  voice  faltered,  aud  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight! 

'  Nero. 


i?ol]n  illason  ©ooii. 


Good  (1764-1827)  was  born  at  Epping,  in  Essex,  and 
was  an  indefatigable  worker.  He  was  apprenticed  as  a 
surgeon,  and  afterward  settled  in  London  as  a  surgeon 
and  apothecary.  His  "Book  of  Nature"  (1S30;  was  a 
great  success. 


THE   DAISY. 

Not  worlds  on  worlds,  iu  phalanx  deep. 
Need  we  to  prove  a  God  is  here ; 

The  daisy,  fresh  from  Nature's  sleep, 
Tells  of  his  baud  in  lines  as  clear. 

For  who  but  He  that  arched  the  skies, 
And  pours  the  day-spring's  living  flood, 

Wondrous  alike  in  all  he  tries. 

Could  raise  the  daisy's  purple  bud, 

JMould  its  green  cup,  its  wir^'  stem. 
Its  fring6d  border  nicely  spin, 

Aud  cut  the  gold-emboss6d  gem. 
That,  set  in  silver,  gleams  within, 

Aud  fling  it,  unrestrained  and  free. 
O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  desert  sod. 

That  man,  where'er  he  walks,  may  see, 
In  every  step,  the  stamp  of  God  ? 


iFamcs  (!5ral)amc. 


Grahame  (176.5-1811),  a  native  of  Glasgow,  exchanged 
the  profession  of  a  barrister  for  that  of  a  curate  in  the 
Churcli  of  England.  Amiable,  modest,  pious,  his  poe- 
try consists  of  a  drama,  "  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  ;"  "  The 
Sabbath,"  the  best  of  liis  poems;  "The  Birds  of  Scot- 
land;" "British  Georgics,"  etc.  His  style  is  moulded 
on  the  model  of  Cowper. 


SABBATH  MORNING. 

Fbosi  "The  Sabbatu." 

How  still  the  morning  of  tiie  hallowed  day! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  ploughboy's  Avhistle  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yester-morn  bloomed  waving  iu  the  breeze. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickliug  of  the  dew, 


270 


CYCLOP JEDI A   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlic  distant  bleating  midway  np  tlio  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  jon  nnmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas, 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale, 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
While  from  you  lowly  roof,  Avhose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  iutervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  siin[)lo  song  of  praise. 


A  WINTER  SABBATH  WALK. 

From  "The  Sabbath." 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene !  deep,  deep 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath-day, — 
Not  even  a  footfall  heard !     Smooth  are  the  ticlds. 
Each  hollow  pathway  level  with  the  plain  : 
Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that  here  and  there 
Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 
High-ridged,  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 
The  powdered  key-stone  of  the  church-yard  porch. 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell ;  the  tombs  lie  buried ; 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  tlickeriug  fall  is  o'er :   the  clouds  disperse. 
And  show  the  sun  hung  o'er  the  welkin's  verge. 
Shooting  a  bright  but  ineffectual  beam 
Ou  all  tiie  sparkling  waste.     Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  Nature  in  her  grand  attire  : 
Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 
A  noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 
How  beautiful  the  plain  stretched  far  below. 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood  ! 
But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 
To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned. 
Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine, 
Among  yon  rocky  fells  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold  ? 
There  silence  dwells  profound  ;   or,  if  the  cry 
Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  calm, 
Tlie  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  mo  now  explore  the  deep-sunk  dell : 
No  footprint,  save  the  covey's  or  the  flock's, 
Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 
Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts. 
Nor  linger  there  too  long!     The  wintry  day 
Soon  closes ;  and  full  oft  a  heavier  fall. 
Heaped  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  sheltered  glen, 
While,  gurgling  deep  below,  the  buried  rill 
Miues  for  itself  a  snow-coved  way.     Oh,  then. 


Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  .spot. 
And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill's  storniy  side. 
Where  night-winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift  away. 
So  the  great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  tlock 
From  faithless  pleasures  full  into  the  stornis 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast, 
Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 
Bedimmed  with  showers  :  then  to  the  pastures  green 
He  brings  them,  where  the  quiet  waters  glide. 
The  streams  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 


A  PRESENT  DEITY. 
FnoM  "The  Sabbath." 

O  Nature !   all  thy  seasons  please  the  eye 
Of  him  who  sees  a  present  Ueity  in  all. 
It  is  his  presence  that  difluses  charms 
Unspeakable  o'er  mountain,  wood,  and  stream. 
To  thiuk  that  He  who  hears  the  heavenly  choirs 
Hearkens  complacent  to  the  woodland  song ; 
To  thiuk  that  He  who  rolls  you  solar  sphere 
Uplifts  the  warbling  songster  to  the  sky ; 
To  mark  his  presence  in  the  mightj'^  bow 
That  spans  the  clouds  as  in  the  tints  miunto 
Of  tiniest  flower ;  to  hear  his  awful  voice 
In  thunder  speak,  and  whisper  in  the  gale ; 
To  know  and  feel  his  care  for  all  that  lives, — 
'Tis  this  that  makes  the  barren  waste  appear 
A  fruitful  field,  each  grove  a  paradise. 

Yes  !  place  me  'mid  far-stretching  woodless  wilds. 
Where  uo  sweet  song  is  heard  ;  the  heath-bell  there 
Would  please  my  weary  sight,  and  tell  of  thee ! 
There  would  my  gratefully  uplifted  eye 
Survey  the  heavenly  vault  by  day,  by  night. 
When  glows  the  firmament  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
There  would  my  overflowing  heart  exclaim, 
"  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
The  firmament  shows  forth  his  handiwork  I'' 


(Carolina,  Baroness  ^'airnc. 

Carolina  Qlipliant,  afterward  Baroness  Nairne  (1700- 
184.'j),  was  born  in  the  county  of  Perth,  Scotland,  and 
wrote  several  lyrical  pieces,  still  popular.  She  was  cel- 
ebrated for  her  beauty,  talents,  and  estimable  character. 
She  married  her  second-cousin,  Major  Nairne,  who,  in 
1834,  was  restored  to  his  rank  in  the  peerage,  and  became 
Lord  Nairne.  A  collection  of  her  poems,  edited  by  Dr. 
diaries  Rogers,  with  a  memoir,  was  published  in  1808. 
There  is  a  shorter  version  of  "The  Land  o'  the  Leal." 


CAEOLIXA,  BAEOXESS  NAIRXE.—EOBEItT  BLOOMFIELD. 


271 


THE  LAND   O'  THE   LEAL. 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John, 

Like  suaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  Jolin  ; 

I'm  weariu'  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John  ; 
There's  neither  cauld  uor  care,  John  ; 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

r  the  laud  o'  the  leal. 

Our  bonuie  bairn's  there,  John  ; 
She  -R'as  baith  gude  and  fair,  John ; 
And  oh,  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Bnt  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-comiu'  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

I'  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Sae  dear's  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  siufu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  laud  o'  the  leal. 
O  dry  your  glistening  e'e,  John ! 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
Aud  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

O  baud  ye  leal  aud  true,  Johu  ; 
Your  day  it's  weariu'  through,  John, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Johu  ! 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John  ; 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain, 

r  the  laud  o'  the  leal. 


WOULD  YOU  BE  YOUNG  AGAIN? 

Am:  "Aiken  Aroon." 

Would  you  be  young  again  ? 

So  would  not  I ! 
One  tear  to  memory  given, 

Onward  I'd  hie. 
Life's  dark  flood  forded  o'er, 
All  but  at  rest  on  shore, 
Say,  would  you  plunge  once  more, 

With  home  so  nigh  ? 

If  you  might,  would  you  now 
Ketrace  your  way  ? 


Wander  through  stormy  wilds, 

Faint  aud  astray  ? 
Night's  gloomy  watches  fled, 
Moruing  all  beaming  red, 
Hope's  smiles  around  us  shed, 

Heavenward — away ! 

Where,  then,  are  those  dear  ones. 
Our  joy  aud  delight  ? 

Dear  and  more  dear,  though  now 
Hidden  from  sight ! 

Where  they  rejoice  to  be, 

There  is  the  laud  for  me  : 

Fly,  time,  fly  speedily ! 
Come,  life  and  light ! 


Hobcrt  Bloomficlb. 

Bloomfield  (17G6-1823),  an  English  pastoral  poet,  was 
a  native  of  Houington,  in  Suffolk.  He  was  the  youngest 
sou  of  a  tailor,  who  died  before  Robert  was  a  year  old. 
At  the  age  of  eleven  the  lad  was  employed  as  a  farmer's 
boy,  and  next  as  a  shoemaker  in  London.  While  work- 
ing with  others  in  a  garret,  he  composed  mentally,  ar- 
ranged and  re -arranged,  his  poem  of  "  The  Farmer's 
Boy,"  comprising  some  sixteen  hundred  lines,  without 
committing  a  line  to  paper.  Having  procured  paper, 
he  "had  nothing  to  do,"  he  said,  "  but  to  write  it  down." 
It  was  printed  in  the  year  1800,  under  the  patronage  of 
Capel  Lofft,  and  26,000  copies  were  sold  in  three  years. 
Through  imprudent  liberality  to  poor  relations,  and  an 
unfortunate  adventure  in  the  book  business,  the  poet's 
last  days  were  darkened  by  poverty,  ill-health,  aud  dis- 
tress. He  left  a  widow  aud  four  children.  In  all  that 
he  wrote  there  is  an  artless  simplicity,  an  exquisite  sen- 
sibility to  the  beautiful,  and  an  unerring  rectitude  of 
sentiment,  worthy  of  all  praise.  In  "  The  Soldier's 
Home,"  a  trite  subject  is  dignified  by  the  touching 
fidelity  to  nature  in  every  part.  It  has  all  the  neatness, 
truthfulness  in  detail,  and  perfect  simplicity  of  a  chef- 
iV (euvrc  by  Tcnicrs. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   HOME. 

ISIy  untried  Muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume. 
Nor  strut  iu  arms — farewell  my  cap  aud  plume! 
Brief  be  my  verse,  a  task  within  my  power ; 
I  tell  my  feelings  in  one  happy  hour : 
But  what  an  hour  was  that !  when  from  the  main 
I  reached  this  lovely  valley  once  again  ! 
A  glorious  harvest  filled  my  eager  sight. 
Half  shocked,  half  waving  in  a  sea  of  light: 
Ou  that  poor  cottage  roof  where  I  was  born'. 
The  sun  looked  down  as  in  life's  early  morn. 
I  gazed  around,  but  not  a  soul  appeared; 
I  listened  on  the  threshold,  nothing  heard ; 


272 


CYCLOl'AiDIA   OF  BlilTISII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I  called  my  father  tbrico,  but  no  oue  came  ; 
It  was  not  fear  or  grief  that  shook  my  frame, 
But  an  o'erpowerinj;  sense  of  peaec  and  home, 
Of  toils  gone  by,  perhaps  of  joys  to  come. 
The  door  invitingly  stood  open  wide ; 
I  shook  my  dust,  and  set  my  staff  aside. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air, 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame. 
Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before !     The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a  shock 
I  never  can  forget.     A  short  breeze  sprung. 
And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue, 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind, 
And  up  they  Hew  like  banners  in  the  wind; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down  they  went, 
And  told  of  twenty  j'cars  that  I  had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.     That  instant  came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold  ;   though  so  tame, 
At  first  ho  looked  distrustful,  almost  shy. 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye, 
Ajid  seemed  to  say — past  friendship  to  renew — 
"Ah  ha!   old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you?" 
Through  the  room  ranged  the  imprisoned  humble- 
bee. 
And  boomed,  aiul  bounced,  and  struggled  to  be  free  ; 
Dashing  against  the  panes  with  sullen  roar. 
That  threw  their  diamond  sunlight  on  the  lloor ; 
That  floor,  clean  sanded,  where  my  fancy  strayed. 
O'er  undulating  waves  the  broom  had  made  ; 
Reminding  me  of  those  of  hideous  forms 
That  met  us  as  we  passed  the  Capo  of  Storms, 
Where  high  and  loud  they  break,  and  peace  comes 

never ; 
They  roll  and  foam,  and  roll  and  foam  forever. 
But  here  was  peace,  that  peace  which  home  can 
yield ; 
The  grasshopper,  the  partridge  in  the  field, 
And  ticking  clock,  were  all  at  once  become 
The  substitute  for  clarion,  fife,  and  (hum. 
While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 
On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 
And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there, 
And  prized  its  hue  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose ; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose  : 
I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  years. 
But  rose  at  once — rose,  and  burst  into  tears ; 
Then,  like  a  fool,  confused,  sat  down  again. 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain. 


I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost, 
And  gh)ry's  quagmire,  where  the  brave  ure  lost. 
On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I  mused, 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices  heard, 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  appeared. 
In  stepped  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed  maid; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said  : 
"  Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again : 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from  Spain." 
The  child  approached,  and  with  liCr  fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale — thus  tedious  be? 
Ilappj-  old  soldier !   what's  the  worhl  to  me  ? 


Uifljarb  aifrcb  iUillilicn. 

Milliken  (17G7-1815)  was  a  native  of  the  county  of 
Cork,  Ireland.  He  seems  to  liave  been  the  originator 
of  a  humorous  vein  of  verse,  afterward  cultivated  with 
success  by  Maliony  and  other  Irish  poets.  There  arc 
several  versions  of  the  following  comical  c.vtiavaganza. 


THE   GROVES   OF   BLARNEY. 

The  groves  of  Blarney,  they  look  so  charming, 

Down  by  the  purling  of  sweet  silent  brooks ; 
Being  banked  with  posies  that  spontaneous  grow 
tliere, 

riauteil  in  order  in  the  rocky  nooks. 
'Tis  there's  the  daisy,  and  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink,  and  the  rose  so  fair; 
The  daffadowndilly,  likewise  the  lily, — 

All  flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  open  air! 

'Tis  Lady  Jeffers  owns  this  plantation, 

Like  Alexander,  or  like  Helen  fair; 
There's  no  commander  in  all  the  inition 

For  emulation  can  with  her  compare. 
Such  walls  surround  her,  that  no  nine-pounder 

Could  ever  plunder  her  place  of  strength ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell,  lie  did  her  pommel. 

And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 

There's  gravel-walks  there  for  speculation 
And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude  : 

'Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover  in  the  afternoon. 

And  if  a  lady  should  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 


RICHARD  ALFRED  MILLIEEN.—JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE. 


273 


'Tis  tliere  her  courtier  he  may  transport  her 
Into  some  fort,  or  all  uudergroiuul. 

For  'tis  there's  a  cavo  Avhcro  no  daylight  enters, 

But  bats  and  badgers  are  forever  bred; 
Being  mossed  by  iiatur',  that  makes  it  sweeter, 

Tlian  a  coach-aud-six,  or  a  feather-bed. 
'Tis  there  the  lake  is,  •well  stored  with  perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud ; 
Besides  the  leeches  and  groves  of  beeches, 

Standing  iu  order  for  to  gnard  the  liood ! 

'Tis  there's  the  kitchen  haugs  many  a  flitch  iu, 

With  the  maids  a-stitching  upon  the  stair; 
The  bread  and  biske',  the  beer  and  •whiskey, 

Would  make  you  frisky  if  you  were  there. 
'Tis  there  you'd  see  Peg  Murphj-^s  daughter 

A-washing  praties  forenent  the  door. 
With  Soger  Cleary  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood-relatious  to  my  Lord  Douonghmore. 

There's  statues  gracing  this  uoble  place  in, — 

All  heathen  gods  and  uymphs  so  fair ; 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nlcoderaus, 

All  standing  naked  iu  the  open  air. 
There  is  a  boat  on  the  lake  to  float  on, 

And  lots  of  beauties  ■^hieh  I  can't  entwine  ; 
But  were  I  a  preacher  or  a  classic  teacher, 

In  every  feature  I'd  make  'em  shine. 

There  is  a  stone  there  that  whoever  kisses. 

Oh,  he  never  misses  to  grow  eloquent ; 
'Tis  he  may  clamber  to  a  lady's  chamber, 

Or  become  a  member  of  Parliament : 
A  clever  spouter  he'll  soon  turn  out,  or 

An  out-and-outer,  to  be  let  alone  : 
Don't  hope  to  hinder  him,  or  to  bewilder  him. 

Sure  he's  a  jjilgrim  from  the  Blarney  Stone ! 
So  no-w  to  finish  this  brave  narration 

Which  my  poor  genius  could  not  entwine  : 
But  were  I  Homer  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis  iu  every  feature  I  would  make  it  shine. 


iJoljn  C)ool\l)am  Jrcrc. 

Frere  (17G&-1846)  was  a  native  of  Norfolk.  He  entered 
the  dii)lomatic  service  of  England,  and  was  minister  to 
Spain  in  1808.  At  one  time  he  contributed  to  the  Eto' 
nian,  with  Moultrie  and  Praed.  He  is  commended  by 
Scott  and  Byron.  In  1817  Mr.  Murray  published  a  small 
poetical  volume,  under  the  eccentric  title  of  "Prospec- 
tus and  Specimen  of  an  Intended  National  Work  by  Wil- 
liam and  Robert  Whistlecraft,  of  Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk, 
18 


Harness  and  Collar  Makers  :  intended  to  comprise  the 
most  inteiesling  particulars  relatinji;  to  King  Arthur  and 
his  Round  Table."  For  many  years  Mr.  Frere  resided  in 
Malta,  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  handsome  pension  for  dip- 
lomatic services ;  and  in  Malta  lie  died,  on  the  7th  of 
January,  184(5,  aged  seventy-seven.  In  1871  his  works  in 
prose  and  verse,  and  a  memoir  by  his  ncpliews,  were 
fiublished  iu  two  vohimes. 


THE   PROEM. 

I've  often  wished  that  I  could  -write  a  book, 
Such  as  all  English  people  might  peruse  : 

I  never  should  regret  the  pains  it  took  ; 

That's  just  the  sort  of  fame  that  I  should  choose. 

To  sail  about  the  world  like  Captain  Cook, 
I'd  sling  a  cot  up  for  my  favorite  Muse  ; 

And  we'd  take  verses  out  to  Demarara, 

To  New  South  Wales,  and  up  to  Niagiira. 

Poets  consume  excisable  conmiodities : 

They  raise  the  nation's  spirit  when  victorious ; 

They  drive  an  export  trade  iu  whims  and  oddities, 
Making  our  commerce  and  revenue  glorious. 

As  an  industrious  and  painstaking  body  'tis 
That  poets  should  be  reckoned  meritorious  ; 

And  therefore  I  submissively  i>ropose 

To  erect  one  board  for  verse,  and  one  for  prose. 

Princes  protecting  sciences  and  art 

I've  often  seen,  iu  copper-plate  and  print ; 

I  never  saw  them  elsewhere,  for  my  part, 

And  therefore  I  conclude  there's  nothing  in't : 

But  everybody  knows  the  Regent's  heart 

(I  trust  he  won't  reject  a  well-meant  hint) — 

Each  board  to  have  twelve  members,  with  a  scat 

To  bring  them  in  per  ann.  five  hundred  neat. 

From  princes  I  descend  to  the  nobility: 

In  former  times  all  persons  of  high  stations, 

Lords,  baronets,  and  persons  of  gentility. 
Paid  twenty  guineas  for  the  dedications. 

This  practice  was  attended  with  utility  : 
The  patrons  lived  to  future  generations. 

The  poets  lived  by  their  industrious  earning, — 

So  men  alive  and  dead  could  live  by  learning. 

Then  twenty  guineas  was  a  little  fortune  ; 

Now  we   must   starve   unless  the  times   should 
mend  : 
Our  poets  nowadays  are  deemed  importune 

If  their  addresses  are  difl'usely  penned. 
Most  fashionable  authors  make  a  short  one 

To  their  own  wife,  or  child,  or  private  friend, 


274 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


To  show  their  iiidopcndciico,  I  Kuppose  ; 
And  that  may  do  for  yciith-incu  like  those. 

Lastly,  tho  common  jkm)1)1c  1  bosooeli  : 

Dear  i)Oople,  if  you  think  my  verses  clovei', 

Preserve  with  care  your  noble  parts  of  siteech, 
And  take  it  as  a  maxim  to  endeavor 

To  talk  as  your  good  mothers  used  to  tcaeh, 
And  then  these  lines  of  mine  may  last  forever; 

And  don't  confound  the  language  of  tho  nation 

With  long-tailod  words  in  onilij  and  (dioii. 

I  think  that  poets — whether  Whig  or  Tory — 
Whether  they  go  to  meeting  or  to  church  — 

Should  study  to  promote  their  country's  glory 
With  patriotic,  diligent  research, 

That  children  yet  unborn  may  learn  the  story, 
With  grammars,  dictionaries,  canes,  and  birch. 

It  stands  to  reason — this  was  Homer's  plan  ; 

And  we  must  do — like  him — the  best  we  can. 

Madoe,  and  IMarmion,  and  many  more, 

Are  out  in  print,  and  most  of  them  are  sold  ; 

Perhaps  together  they  may  make  a  score. 
Richard  the  First  has  had  his  story  told; 

But  there  were  lords  and  princes  long  before 
That  had  behaved  themselves  like  Avarriors  bold  : 

Among  tho  rest  there  was  the  great  King  Arthur — 

What  hero's  fame  was  ever  carried  farther  ? 

King  Arthur,  and  the  Knights  of  his  Hound  Table, 
Were  reckoned  the  best  king,  and  bravest  lords. 

Of  all  that  flourished  since  the  tower  of  Babel, 
At  least  of  all  that  history  records  ; 

Therefore,  I  shall  endeavor,  if  I'm  able, 

To  paint  their  famous  actions  by  my  words. 

Heroes  exert  themselves  in  hopes  of  fame  ; 

And,  having  such  a  strong  decisive  claim. 

It   grieves    me    much   that    names   that    were    re- 
spected 

In  former  ages — persons  of  such  mark, 
And  countrymen  of  ours — should  lie  neglected, 

Just  like  old  portraits  lumbering  in  the  dark. 
An  error  such  as  this  should  be  corrected  ; 

And  if  my  Muse  can  strike  a  single  spark, 
Why,  then  (as  poets  say),  I'll  string  my  lyre; 
Aiul  then  I'll  light  a  great  poetic  lire  : 

I'll  air  them  all,  and  rub  down  the  Round  Table, 
And  wash  the  cativas  clean,  and  sconr  the  frames, 

And  put  a  coat  of  varnish  on  the  fable. 

And  try  to  puzzle  out  the  dates  and  names ; 


Then  (as  I  said  before)  I'll  heave  my  cable. 

And  take  a  pilot,  and  drop  down  the  Thames; 
— These  first  eleven  stanzas  make;  a  Proem, 
And  now  I  must  sit  down  and  write  my  poem. 


WHISTLECRAFT   AND   MURRAY. 
I'hom  Canto  III. 

I've  a  proposal  here  from  Mr.  Murray. 

He  offers  handsomely — tho  money  down. 
My  dear,  you  might  recover  from  your  Hurry 

In  a  nice  airy  lodging  out  of  town. 
At  Croydon,  Epsom — anywhere  in  Surrey: 

If  every  stanza  brings  ns  in  a  crown, 
I  think  that  I  might  venture  to  bespeak 
A  bedroom  and  front  parlor  fur  next  week. 

Tell  u\(),  my  dear  Thalia,  what  you  think. 

Your  nerves  have  undergone  a  suddc-n  shock  ; 
Y'our  poor  dear  spirits  have  begun  to  sink: 

On  Banstead  Downs  you'd  muster  a  new  stock  ; 
And  I'd  be  sure  to  keep  away  from  drink. 

And  always  go  to  bed  by  twelve  o'clock. 
We'll  travel  down  there  in  the  morning  stages  ; 
Our  verses  shall  go  down  to  distant  ages. 

And  here  in  town  we'll  breakfast  on  hot  rolls, 
And  you  shall  have  a  better  shawl  to  wear: 

Tliese  pantaloons  of  mine  are  chafed  in  holes; 
By  Monday  next  I'll  compass  a  new  pair. 

Come  now,  fling  up  the  cinders,  fetch  the  coals, 
And  take  away  the  things  you  hung  to  air : 

Set  out  the  tea-things,  and  bid  Phcebe  bring 

The  kettle  up.     Anns  (uid  the  Monks  I  shig. 


3o\]n  (Tobin. 


Tobin  (1770-1S04)  was  a  native  of  Salisbury,  England, 
and  was  educuted  for  the  law.  "  lie  passed  man}'  years," 
says  Mrs.  Inelibald,  "in  the  anxious  labor  of  writing 
jilays,  wliich  were  rejected  by  the  managers ;  and  no 
sooner  had  they  accepted  '  Tlie  Honey-moon  '  than  lie 
died,  and  he  never  enjoyed  tlie  recompense  of  seeing  it 
performed."  He  attempted  to  miite  literary  composi- 
tion witli  a  faithful  attention  to  legal  studies.  He  over- 
worked liiniself,  and  fell  a  victim  to  a  judmonary  eoin- 
l)hunt.  In  the  hope  of  relieving  it,  he  had  embarked  for 
the  West  Indies.  "The  Iloney-moon"  is  a  romantic 
drama,  chiefly  in  blank  verse,  and  still  keeps  honest  pos- 
session of  the  stage.  It  shows  the  true  poetical  faculty. 
Tlie  i)lot  resembles  that  of  "  The  Taming  of  tiie  Slirew." 
The  Duke  of  Aranza  conducts  his  bride  to  a  cottage  in 
the  country,  pretending  that  lie  is  a  peasant,  and  that  he 


JOHX  TOBIX.— GEORGE   CAXXIXG. 


275 


lias  obtained  her  hand  by  deception.  The  proud  Juli- 
ana, after  a  struggle,  submits ;  and  the  duke,  having  ac- 
complished Ills  object,  asserts  his  true  rank,  and  places 
her  in  his  palace. 

"This  truth  to  manifest:   a  gentle  wife 
Is  still  the  sterling  comfort  of  man's  life; 
_T<)  fools  a  torment,  but  a  lasting  boon 
To  those  who — wisely  keep  their  honey-moon." 


THE  DUKE  ARAXZA  TO   JULIAXA. 

From  "The  Hoxet-moon." 
Duke.  I'll  Lave  no  glittering  gewgaws  stuck  about 

To  stretch  the  gaping  eyes  of  idiot  wonder, 

Aud  make  lueu  stare  upou  a  piece  of  earth 

As  on  the  star-wrought  firmament ;   no  feathers 

To  wave  as  streamers  to  your  vanity ; 

Xor  cumbrous  silk,  that,  with  its  rustling  sound, 

Makes  proud  the  flesh  that  hears  it.    She's  adorned 

Amply  that  in  her  husband's  eye  looks  lovely — 

The  truest  mirror  that  an  honest  wife 

Can  see  her  beauty  in  ! 

Juliana.  I  shall  observe,  sir. 

Duke.  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  the  dress 
I  last  presented  you. 

Jnliana.  The  blue  one,  sir  ? 

Duke.  Xo,  love,  the  white.    Thus  modestly  attired, 
A  half-blown  rose  stuck  in  thy  braided  hair, — 
With  no  more  diamonds  than  those  eyes  are  made  of, 
X'o  deeper  rubies  than  compose  thy  lips, 
X'or  pearls  more  precious  than  inhabit  them, — 
With  the  pure  red  and  white  which  that  same  hand 
Which  blends  the  rainbow  mingles  in  thy  cheeks, — 
This  well-proportioned  form  (think  not  I  flatter) 
In  graceful  motion  to  harmonious  sounds, 
And  thy  free  tresses  dancing  in  the  wind, — 
Tliou'lt  fix  as  much  observance  as  chaste  dames 
Can  meet  without  a  blush. 


(George  Cauningi. 


Canning  (1TT0-1S27),  a  native  of  London,  was  educated 
at  Eton  and  Oxford.  He  entered  Parliament  in  1793, 
and  became  distinguished  as  a  statesman  and  orator.  In 
1T97,  with  some  associates,  he  started  a  paper,  styled  The 
Anti-Jacobin,  the  object  of  which  was  to  attack  the  writ- 
ers of  the  day  whose  symjwthies  were  with  the  French 
Revolution.  Gilford  was  the  editor.  The  contributions 
of  Canning  consist  of  parodies  on  Southey  and  Darwin. 
In  a  satire  entitled  "New  Morality"  occur  the  follow- 
ing often-quoted  lines  : 

"Give  me  the  avowed,  the  erect,  the  manly  foe; 
Bold  I  can  meet,  perhaps  may  tarn,  the  blow  ; 


But  of  all  plagues,  good  Heaven,  thy  wrath  can  seud, 
Save,  save,  oh,  save  me  from  the  candid  friend  !" 

The  poetry  of  The  Anti-Jacobin,  collected  and  published 
in  a  separate  form,  reached  a  sixth  edition.  One  of  the 
writers  was  John  Hookham  Frere,  who  showed  an  ele- 
gant and  scholarly  wit  in  various  poetical  productions. 
Southey  had  written  the  following  Inscription  for  tlie 
Apartment  in  Chepstow  Castle,  where  Henry  Marten, 
the  regicide,  was  imprisoned  thirty  years  : 

INSCRIPTION. 

"For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind 
Here  Marteu  lingered.    Often  have  these  walls 
Echoed  his  footsteps,  as,  with  even  tread. 
He  paced  around  his  prison.    Not  to  him 
Did  Nature's  fair  varieties  exist : 
He  never  saw  the  sun's  delightful  beams. 
Save  when  through  you  high  bars  he  poured  a  sad 
And  broken  splendor.    Dost  thou  ask  his  crime  ? 
He  had  rebelled  against  the  king,  aud  sat 
lu  jud^'ment  on  him ;   for  his  ardent  mind 
Shaped  goodliest  plans  of  happiness  on  earth. 
And  peace,  and  liberty.    Wild  dreams !  but  such 
As  Plato  loved ;   such  as  with  holy  zeal 
Our  Milton  worshipped.    Blessed  hopes!  awhile 
From  mau  withheld,  even  to  the  latter  days, 
When  Christ  shall  come,  aud  all  things  be  fulfilled ! 

The  above  was  thus  wittily  parodied,  Canning,  Frere, 
and  George  Ellis  each  having  a  hand  in  the  burlesque : 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  CELL  IN 
NEWGATE, 

WniiEE    SIKS.  BKOWNRIGG,  THE    'PEENTICE-OIDK,  WAS    OONFINEl) 
PKEVIOUS    TO    IlEE    EXECUTION. 

"For  one  long  term,  or  e'er  her  trial  came. 
Here  Brownrigg  lingered.    Often  have  these  cells 
Echoed  her  blasphemies,  as,  with  shrill  voice. 
She  screamed  for  fresh  geneva.    Not  to  her 
Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 
St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand. 
Till  at  the  last,  in  slow-d|;awn  cart,  she  went 
To  execution.    Dost  thou  ask  her  crime? 
She  whipped  two  female  'prentices  to  death. 
And  hid  them  in  the  coal-hole ;  for  her  mind 
Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline.    Sage  schemes  I 
Such  as  Lycnrgus  tanght,  when  at  the  shriue 
Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 
The  little  Spartans;   such  as  erst  chastised 
Our  Milton,  when  at  college.    For  this  act 
Did  Brownrigg  swing.    Harsh  laws  !    But  time  shall  come 
When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repealed !" 


THE   FKIEXD   OF  HUMAXITY  AXD   THE 
KNIFE-GEIXDER, 

A  P.\UODY  ON  SOUTHErS  LINES,  ENTITLED  "THE  WIDOW."' 
FPJEXD   OF   UCMANITY. 

Xeedy  knife-grinder,  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order ; 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't. 
So  have  your  breeches ! 


276 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Weary  Iciiifi'-srindcr !   littlo  think  tlio  i)r()n(l  ones 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  alonj;-  the  turiipikc- 
-road,  ^vhat  bard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  ''Knives 
and 

Scissors  to  grind,  O  !" 

Toll  me,  knife-grinder,  how  you  came  to  grind  knives. 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  yon  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?   or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney? 

Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game?   or 
Covetous  jtarson  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  rognish  lawyer  made  you  lose  your  littlo 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  "Eights  of  Man,"  by  Tom 

Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Keady  to  full  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  storj'. 

KXIFE-GRIXDElt. 

Story!     God  bless  you!   I  have  none  to  tell,  sir; 
Only  last  night,  a-driuking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  se(>,  were 
Torn  in  a  scufHe. 

Constables  came  np  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody;    they  took  me  before  the  justice; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  ])arish- 

-stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIKXD    OF   HUMANITY. 

/give  thee  sixpence!   I  will  see  thee  damned  first — 
AV retch  !   whom  no  sense  of  wrongs   can  rouse  to 

vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast ! 
[^Eicks  the  kiiifc-firindcr,  overfiirns  hli  wheel,  and 
exit  in  a  travsport  of  repuhUmn  enihusiaam  and 
universal  pliiUnitlivopij. ] 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF   HIS   ELDEST   SON. 

Though  short  thy  space,  (iod's  unimpeached  decrees, 
Which  made  that  shortened  span  one  long  disease  ; 

f 


Yet,  merciful  in  chastening,  gave  tliee  scope 
For  mild  redeeming  virtues — faith  and  hope, 
M(!ek  resignation,  pious  charity; 
And,  since  this  world  was  not  the  world  for  thee, 
Far  from  thy  path  removed,  with  partial  care, 
Strife,  glory,  gain,  and  pleasure's  llowcry  snare, 
Bade  earth's  temptations  pass  thee  harmless  by. 
And  fixed  on  heaven  thine  unreverted  eye  ! 
Oh,  marked  from  birth,  and  nurtured  for  the  skies! 
In  youth  with  more  than  learning's  v/isdom  wise! 
As  sainted  martyrs,  ]iatient  to  endure! 
Simple  as  unweaned  infancy,  and  pure — 
Pnre  from  all  stain  (save  that  of  human  clay, 
Which  Christ's  atoning  blood  hath  washed  away)! 
By  mortal  snfJerings  now  no  more  o)>pressed. 
Mount,  sinless  spirit,  to  thy  destined  rest! 
While  I — reversed  our  nature's  kindlier  doom — 
Pour  forth  a  father's  sorrows  on  thv  tomlj. 


SONG    BY    POGERO. 

Scene  from  "  The  TlOvers." 

This  was  levelled  .it  Schiller's  "Robbers,"  nnd  Goetlie's 
"Stolla."  It.  is  introduced  by  a  soliloquy,  supposed  to  be  spo- 
l<en  by  Kogei'o,  a  student  who  has  been  inimnied  eleven  years 
in  "a  .subterraneous  vault  in  the  Abbey  of  Quedlinburgh." 

Whene'er  Avith  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  Pm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingeu — 
-uiversity  of  Gottingeu. 
[  Weeps,  and  pulls  out  a  blue  kerehief,  with  which 
he  ivi2)es  his  eyes;  gating  tenderly  at  it,  he  pro- 
ceeds— 

Sweet  kerchief,  cheeked  with  heavenly  bine, 

\Vhich  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in! — 
Alas!   ]\Iatilda  then  was  true! — 
At  least  1  thought  so  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingeu — 
-uiversity  of  (Jottingen. 
[,'1<  the  repetition  of  this  line,  liogero  clanks  his 
chains  in  cadence. '\ 

Barbs !   barbs !   alas !   how  swift  you  Hew, 

Her  neat  post-wagon  ti'otting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view; 
Forlorn  I  languished  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingeu — 
-uiversity  of  Gottingeu. 


JAMES  nOGG. 


277 


This  faded  form!   this  pallid  hue! 

This  blood  ray  veius  is  clotting  iu  ! 
My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U- 

-uiversity  of  Gottingen — 
-Diversity  of  Gottingeu. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  Tu- 
-tor,  Law  Professor  at  the  U- 

-uiversity  of  Gottingeu — 
-Diversity  of  Gottingeu. 

Sun,  moon,  aud  thou,  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  aud  priests  are  plotting  in! 
Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water-gru- 
-el,  never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

-uiversity  of  Gottingen — 
-niversity  of  Gottingeu. 
\_Diirtng  the  last  stanza,  Bogvro  dashes  his  head 
repeatedly  against  the  icalls  of  his  prison,  and 
finally  so  hard  as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion. 
He  then  throws  himself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony. 
The  curtain  drops,  the  music'continuing  to  play.'] 


5amc5  tjocig. 


One  of  the  best  lyric  poets  of  Scotland,  Hogg  (ITTO- 
1835),  often  called  the  "Ettrick  Shepherd,"  was  born  in 
a  cottage  at  Ettrick  Hall,  and  was  the  son  of  a  shepherd. 
His  mother  had  good  humor  aud  a  rich  store  of  song. 
He  had  little  education,  but  showed  great  aptitude  in 
imitating  the  old  strains  which  he  got  from  his  mother. 
He  had  withal  a  taste  for  music.  Iu  1801  he  published  a 
small  volume  of  poems,  and  in  1807  another.  He  helped 
Scott  in  collecting  old  ballads  for  the  "  Border  Min- 
strelsy." It  was  not  till  181o  that  he  established  his 
reputation  by  "The  Queen's  Wake,"  largely  made  up 
of  Scottish  songs  and  short  romantic  ballads.  Among 
them  that  of  "Bonny  Kilmeny"  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  poetical  of  fairy  tales.  Hogg  wrote  sev- 
eral novels.  His  worldl)'  schemes  were  seldom  success- 
ful, aud  he  failed  as  a  sheep-farmer.  He  had  a  passion 
for  field  sports.  He  was  generous,  kind-hearted,  and 
charitable  far  beyond  his  means,  and  his  death  was  deep- 
ly mourned  in  the  vale  of  Ettriclv,  wlierc  he  had  lived 
on  seveutj'  acres  of  moorland,  presented  to  him  by  the 
Duchess  of  Buccleuch.  He  breathed  his  last  with  the 
calmness  and  freedom  from  pain  tliat  he  miglit  have  ex- 
perienced in  falling  asleep  in  his  gray  plaid  on  the  liill- 
side.  Hogg's  prose  is  very  unequal.  He  had  no  skill 
in  arranging  iucidents  or  delineating  character.  He  is 
often  coarse  and  extravagant ;  yet  some  of  his  stories 
have  much  of  the  literal  truth  and  happy,  minute  paint- 
ing of  Defoe. 


BONNY  KILMENY. 

From  "  The  Queen's  Wake." 

Bonuy  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duueira's  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  onlj'  to  hear  the  yorliu  sing, 

Aud  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring — 

The  scarlet  hypj)  and  the  hindl>errye, 

Aud  the  uut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel-tree  ; 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  miuuy  look  o'er  the  wa'. 

And  laug  may  she  seek  iu  the  green-wood  shaw; 

Lang  the  laird  of  Duueira  blame, 

Aud  lang,  laug  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame. 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  aud  hope  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeuy's  soul  had  been  sung. 
When  the  bedesman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead-bell 

ruug. 
Late,  late  iu  a  gloamiu',  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  friuge  was  red  ou  the  westliu  hill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane, 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain — 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  iu  the  world  its  lane, 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eyrie  leme, — 
Late,  late  iu  the  gloamiu'  Kilmeny  came  hame ! 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den — 
By  lin,  by  ford,  and  green-wood  tree ; 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  got  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green  f 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  tliat  ever  were  seen  ? 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  Avhere  have  you  been  ?" 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face ; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  e'o 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  ou  the  eraeraut  lea. 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  ou  a  waveless  sea. 
For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare ; 
Kilmeny  bad  been  where  tha  cock  never  crew, 
Wliere  the  rain  never  fell,  aud  the  wind  never  blew; 
But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung. 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  plaj^ed  round  her  tongue, 
When  she  sp.ake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 
And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been — 


278 


CYCLOPAEDIA    or  BIUTISII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  lij:;lit, 
AVithontcn  sini,  or  moon,  or  nij^Iit  ; 
Wlu'io  the  liver  swu'd  a  livinj^  (stream, 
And  the  light  a  i)ure  ceh'stial  beam: 
The  laud  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  von  green-wood  there  is  a  walk, 
And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wcne, 

And  in  that  weuo  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  tlcsh,  nor  blood,  nor  banc ; 
And  down  in  you  greeu-wood  ho  walks  his  lane. 

In  that  green  wcne,  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  hai)pcd  Avi'  the  tlowercts  gay; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep. 
And  bonny  Kilmenj*  fell  sound  asleep  ; 
She  kenned  uae  mair,  uor  opened  her  e'e. 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  couutrye. 

She  Avakened  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim ; 
And  lovely  beings  around  were  rife. 
Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gau  to  speer : 
"Whiit  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here?" 

"Lang  have  I  journeyed  the  world  wide," 

A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied : 

"  Baith  uight  and  day  I  have  watched  the  fair 

Eident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 

Yes,  I  have  watched  o'er  ilk  degree, 

Wherever  blooms  femeuitye  ; 

But  sinless  virgin,  free  of  stain, 

In  mind  and  body,  faud  I  nane. 

Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 

Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  pi'ime, 

Till  late  this  bonny  maiden  I  saw. 

As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw. 

Full  twenty  years  she  has  lived  as  free 

As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  countrj-e. 

I  Lave  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of  men, 

That  sin  or  death  she  may  never  ken.*' 

They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair; 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kerned  her  hair ; 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere, 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye're  welcome  here  ; 
Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn  ; 
Oh,  blessed  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 
Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
Many  a  lang  year  in  sorrow  and  pain, 
Many  a  lang  year  through  the  world  we've  gane, 


Commissioned  to  watch  fair  womankind, 

For  it's  they  who  uurico  the  innnortal  mind. 

We  have  watched  their  steps  as  the  dawning  shone, 

And  deep  in  the  green-wood  walks  alone  ; 

By  lily  bower  aud  silken  bed 

The  viewless  tears  have  o'er  them  shed; 

Have  soothed  their  ardent  minds  to  sleep. 

Or  left  the  couch  of  love  to  weep. 

We  have  seen !  we  have  seen !  Ijut  the  time  must  come, 

And  the  angels  will  Aveep  at  the  day  of  doom. 

'•'  Oh,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind. 
That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see. 
Who  Avatch  their  ways  with  anxious  e'e, 
And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye ! 
Oh,  SAveet  to  Heaven  the  maiden's  prayer. 
And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair ! 
And  dear  to  Heaven  the  Avords  of  truth 
And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty's  mouth  ! 
And  dear  to  the  A'iewless  forms  of  air, 
The  minds  that  kythe  as  the  body  fair! 

"  Oh,  bonny  Kilmeny  !   free  frae  stain. 
If  eA'cr  you  seek  the  Avorld  again, — 
That  Avorld  of  sin,  of  sorrow  and  fear, — 
Oh,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here; 
And  tell  of  the  joys  you  shall  shortly  see  ; 
Of  the   times  that   are   now,  and   the   times   that 
shall  be." 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 

And  she  Avalked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  day  ; 

The  sky  Avas  a  dome  of  crystal  bright. 

The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 

The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow. 

And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  bloAV. 

Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 

Tliat  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade  ; 

And  they  smiled  on  heaAcn,  when  they  saw  her  lie 

In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 

And  she  heard  a  song — she  heard  it  sung, 

She  kenned  not  Avheie  ;   but  sae  SAveetly  it  rung, 

It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the  morn — 

"  Oh,  blessed  bo  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born! 

Now  shall  tlio  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken  Avhat  a  woman  may  be! 

The  sun  that  shines  ou  the  world  sae  bright, 

A  borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light  ; 

And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun. 

Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun. 

Shall  wear  away,  and  bo  seen  uae  mair ; 

And  the  angels  shall  miss  them,  travelling  the  air 


JAMES  HOGG. 


279 


But  laiig,  liiiig  after  baitli  uight  and  day, 
Wlieu  the  suu  aud  the  ■world  have  died  away, 
Wbeu  the  sinner  had  gaue  to  his  waesomo  doom, 
Kihneuy  shall  smile  iu  eternal  bloom !" 

Tliey  l)t)re  Iier  away,  she  Avist  not  how. 

For  she  lelt  not  arm  nor  rest  below ; 

Hut  so  swift  they  waiued  her  throngli  the  light, 

'Twas  like  the  motion  of  sonnd  or  sight; 

They  scenied  to  split  the  gales  of  air, 

And  yet  nor  gale  nor  breeze  was  there. 

I'nnninbert'd  groves  below  them  grew ; 

They  came,  they  passed,  they  backward  flew, 

Like  floods  of  blossoms  gliding  on, 

In  moment  seen,  iu  moment  gone. 

Oh,  never  vales  to  mortal  view 

Appealed  like  those  o'er  which  they  flew. 

That  land  to  human  spirits  given, 

The  lowermost  vales  of  the  storied  heaven  ; 

From  whence  they  can  view  the  world  below, 

And  heaven's  blue  gates  with  sapphires'  glow — 

More  glory  yet  unmeet  to  kuow. 

They  bore  her  to  a  mountain  green. 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had  seen  ; 
And  they  seated  her  high  on  a  purple  sward. 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  heard, 
And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  wrought ; 
For  now  she  lived  iu  the  laud  of  thought. — 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nor  suu  nor  skies, 
But  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dies  ; 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  iiae  land  aright, 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  aud  light ; 
And  radiant  beings  Aveut  aud  came, 
Far  swifter  thau  wind,  or  the  linked  flame ; 
She  hid  her  eeu  frae  the  dazzling  view ; 
She  looked  again,  aud  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a  sun  ou  a  summer  sky. 

And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by ; 

A  lovely  land  beneath  her  lay, 

Aud  that  laud  had  glens  aud  mountains  gray  ; 

Aud  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary  piles, 

Aud  marled  seas,  and  a  thousand  isles ; 

Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 

Aud  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling  sheen. 

Like  magic  mirrors,  where  slumbering  lay 

The  suu  and  the  sky  and  the  cloudlet  gray. 

Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently  swung ; 

Ou  every  shore  they  seemed  to  be  hung ; 

For    there    they    were    seen    ou    their    downward 

plain 
A  thousand  times  and  a  thousand  again  ; 


In  winding  lake  and  placid  firth — 

Like  peaceful  heavens  iu  the  bo.som  of  earth. 

Kilmeuy  sighed,  aud  seemed  to  grieve. 

For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did  cleave ; 

She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale  ; 

She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale  ; 

She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore, 

Aud  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom  bore  ; 

Aud  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  laud  before. 

She  saw  a  lady  sit  ou  a  throne. 
The  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on ! 
A  lion  licked  her  hand  of  milk, 
Aud  she  held  him  in  a  leash  of  silk. 
And  a  leifu'  maiden  stood  at  her  knee. 
With  a  silver  wand  aud  melting  e'e — 
Her  sovereign  shield,  till  Love  stole  in, 
And  poisoued  all  the  fount  within. 

Then  a  gruft',  untoward  bedesman  came, 

Aud  hundit  the  lion  ou  his  dame  ; 

And  the  guardian  maid  wi'  the  dauntless  e'e, 

She  dropiJed  a  tear,  aud  left  her  knee ; 

And  she  saw  till  the  queen  frae  the  lion  fled. 

Till  the  bonniest  flower  of  the  world  lay  dead ; 

A  coffin  was  set  on  a  distant  plain. 

And  she  saw  the  red  blood  fall  like  rain. 

Then  bonny  Kilmeny's  heart  grew  sair. 

And  she  turned  away,  and  could  look  no  mair. 

Then  the  gruff,  grim  carle  girned  amain, 

Aud    they    trampled    him    down  —  but    he    rose 

again  ; 
And  he  baited  the  lion  to  deeds  of  weir, 
Till  he  lapped  the  blood  to  the  kingdom  dear; 
Aud,  weening  his  head  was  danger-preef 
When  crowned  Avith  the  rose  aud  clover-leaf, 
He  growled  at  the  carle,  aud  chased  him  away 
To  feed  with  the  deer  on  the  mountain  gray. 
He  growled  at  the  carle,  ami  he  gecked  at  Heaven ; 
But  his  mark  was  set,  and  his  arlds  given. 
Kilmeuy  awhile  her  eeu  withdrew ; 
She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

Slie  saw  below  her,  fair  unfurled, 

One  half  of  all  the  glowing  world. 

Where  oceans  rolled  and  rivers  ran, 

To  bound  the  aims  of  sinful  man. 

She  saw  a  people  fierce  and  fell. 

Burst  frae  their  bounds  like  fiends  of  hell  ; 

There  lilies  grew,  and  the  eagle  flew  ; 

And  she  herked  on  her  ravening  crew. 


280 


CYCLOrjEDIA    OF  lUlITISII  AND  AMERICAN  rOETUY. 


Till    the    cities    and    towers    were    wiiipped    in    a 

blaze, 
And  llic  tliiuider  it  roared  o'er  tbo  lands  and  tlic 

seas. 
TIio  widows  they  -wailed,  and  the  red  blood  ran, 
And  she  threatened  an  end  to  the  race  of  man  ; 
She  never  lered,  nor  stood  in  awe. 
Till  caught  by  the  lion's  deadly  paw. 
Oh !   then  the  eagle  swinked  for  life, 
And  brainzelled  np  a  mortal  strife  ; 
But  dew  she  north,  or  Hew  she  south, 
.She  met  wi'  the  growl  of  the  lion's  mouth. 

Witli  a  mooted  Aving  and  waeful  mien, 

The  eagle  sought  her  eyrie  again  ; 

But  lang  may  she  cower  in  her  bloody  nest. 

And  lang,  lang  sleek  her  wounded  breast, 

Before  she  sey  another  llight. 

To  play  wi'  the  norland  lion's  might. 

But  to  sing  the  sights  Kilmeny  saw. 

So  far  surpassing  Nature's  law, 

The  singer's  voice  wad  sink  away. 

And  the  string  of  his  harp  wad  cease  to  play. 

But  she  saw  till  the  sorrows  of  man  were  by. 

And  all  was  love  and  harmony ; 

Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly  away, 

Like  the  tiakes  of  suaw  on  a  Avinter's  day. 

Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  conntrye. 
To  tell  of  the  place  Avhere  she  had  been, 
Aud  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen ; 
To  warn  the  living  nuiidens  fair. 
The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits'  care. 
That  all  whoso  minds  unmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  time  is  ganc. 

With  <listant  music,  soft  and  deep. 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 

Aud  when  she  awakened  sIk^  lay  her  lane, 

All  happed  Avith  flowers  in  the  green-wood  wene. 

When  scA'en  lang  years  had  come  and  tied; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  Avas  dead ; 
When  scarce  was  remembered  Kilmeny's  luirac. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin',  Kilmenj'  cam'  hame ! 
And  oh,  her  beauty  Avas  fair  to  see. 
But  still  and  steadfast  Avas  her  e'e ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  Avas  no  pride  nor  passion  there  ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  nuiidens'  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  ucA'cr  be  seen. 


Her  sey  mar  was  the  lily  flower. 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower; 

And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodic 

That  iloats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keepit  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men  ; 

Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing. 

To  suck  the  flower.s,  aud  drink  the  spring. 

But,  Avliorever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  Avere  cheered  : 

The  wolf  played  blithely  round  the  Held, 

The  lordly  bison  loAved  and  kneeled  ; 

The  dun-deer  Avoocd  with  manner  bland, 

And  cowered  aneatli  her  lily  hand. 

And  Avhen  at  even  the  woodlands  rung. 

When  hymns  of  other  Avorlds  she  sung. 

In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion. 

Oh,  then  the  gleu  Avas  all  iu  motion  : 

The  Avild  beasts  of  the  forest  came  ; 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 

And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed  ; 

Even  the  dull  cattle  crooucd  aud  gazed, 

And  murmured,  and  looked  Avith  anxious  pain 

For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  Avith  the  throstle-cock. 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 

The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew  ; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew  ; 

The  wolf  aud  the  kid  their  raike  began. 

And  the  tod,  aud  the  lamb,  aud  the  leveret  ran  ; 

The  haAvk  and  the  Leru  atour  them  hung. 

And  the  merle  and  the  mavis  forhooyed  their  young; 

And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  AAcre  hurled  : 

It  Avas  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

When  a  month  and  day  had  come  aiul  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-Avood  wene ; 
There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sac  green, 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 
But  oh!    the  Avords  that  fell  from  her  mouth 
Were  words  of  Avonder  and  Avords  of  truth ! 
But  all  the  laud  Avere  iu  fear  and  dread. 
For  they  keuued  iia   whether   she   was  living  or 

dead. 
It  Avasna  her  hame,  and  she  conldna  remain  ; 
She  left  this  Avorld  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
And  returned  to  the  Land  of  Thought  again.' 

'  "  'Kilmeny'  nlone  places  onr  shepherd  nnion<^  the  niulyinc; 
one?,"  Bays  Professor  Wilson,  in  IHackirood'a  Maijazhie.  "  From 
'Kihnony'  alonu,"  says  Lord  JeflVoy,  "no  doabl  can  be  enter- 
tained tliat  llogtj;  is  n  poet  in  tlio  highest  acceptation  of  the 
name.''  "'Kilmeny'  has  been  the  theme  of  nnivcrsal  admira- 
tion, and  deservedly  so,  for  it  is  pure  poetry,''  says  D.  M.  Moir. 
"It  cannot  be  matched  in  the  whole  compass  of  British  song,"' 
says  Alluu  Cuuuinghara. 


JAMES  BOG  G.  —  WILLI  A  M    UUllDS  WOli  TH. 


281 


THE   SKYLARK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blessed  is  thj'  dwelling-place — 
Oh,  to  abide  iu  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  lond 

Far  in  the  doAvny  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing. 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  hiy  is  iu  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim. 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  : 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  lo%-e  be ! 

Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blessed  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
Oh,  to  abide  iu  the  desert  with  thee ! 


WHEN  MAGGY  GANGS  AWAY. 

Oh,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 
Oh,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 
There's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  glen 

That  disna  dread  the  day : 
Oh.  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

Y'oung  Jock  has  ta'en  the  hill  for't- 

A  waefu'  wight  is  he ; 
Poor  Harry's  ta'en  the  bed  for't. 

An'  laid  him  down  to  dee  ; 
An'  Sandy's  gane  nnto  the  kirk, 

Au'  learniu'  fast  to  pray  : 
And  oh,  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  3'oung  laird  o'  the  Lang-Shaw 
Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine  ; 

The  priest  has  said — in  confidence— 
The  lassie  was  divine, — 


And  that  is  mair  in  maiden's  praise 

Thau  ony  priest  should  say : 
But  oh,  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 

That  day  will  quaver  high ; 
'Twill  draw  the  redbreast  frae  the  wood, 

The  laverock  frae  the  sky  ; 
The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o'  dew 

Will  rise  an'  join  the  lay  : 
An'  hey !   what  a  day  will  be 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ! 


lUilliam  lllorliGiiiortI). 

Wordsworth  (1770-1850)  was  born  at  Cockermouth, 
England,  April  7th,  1770.  His  father  was  law-agent  to 
Sir  James  Lowther,  afterward  Lord  Lonsdale.  His  moth- 
er died  when  he  was  eight  years  of  age ;  his  father,  when 
he  was  thirteen.  He  went  to  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, in  1787,  and  took  his  Bachelor's  degree  there  in 
1791.  On  leaving  the  University  he  travelled  abroad, 
and  was  in  France  when  Louis  XVI.  was  dethroned.  At 
that  time  he  was  a  strong  republican,  and  symiiathized 
with  the  revolutionary  purtj'.  He  soon  changed  his 
views.  His  friends  wished  him  to  enter  the  Church  ; 
but  a  bequest  of  £900  from  Raisley  Calvert,  a  young 
friend,  who  urged  him  to  become  a  poet,  led  him  to  de- 
vote himself  thenceforth  to  literary  pui'suits.  The  cir- 
cumstance was  commemorated  b\'  Wordsworth  in  a  no- 
ble sonnet.  In  1793  he  put  forth  a  modest  volume  of 
descriptive  verse ;  and  in  1798  appeared  "  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads," containing  twenty- three  pieces,  the  tirst  being 
"The  Ancient  Mariner,"  by  his  friend  Coleridge,  and 
the  rest  poems  by  Wordsworth.  Joseph  Cottle,  book- 
seller of  Bristol,  gave  thirty  guineas  for  the  copyright ; 
he  printed  five  hundred  copies,  but  the  venture  was 
financially  a  failure,  and  he  got  rid  of  the  edition  at  a 
loss.  The  attempt  of  Wordsworth  to  substitute  the 
simple  language  of  rustic  life  for  the  tumid  diction  of 
the  sentimental  school  was  assailed  with  bitter  ridicule 
by  the  critics  of  the  day.  The  Edinbnrtjh  Review  con- 
demned his  innovations.     He  had  to  educate  his  public. 

After  a  tour  iu  Germany,  Wordsworth  settled,  with  his 
sister,  at  Grasmere.  The  payment  to  them  of  £:500()  from 
a  debt  due  their  father  had  placed  them  above  want.  In 
1802  the  poet  was  married  to  his  cousin,  Marj'  Hutchin- 
son, the  lady  who  became  the  subject  of  the  well-known 
lines,  beginning,  "She  was  a  phantom  of  deliglit."  In 
1808  he  removed  to  Allan  Bank,  and  in  1813  to  Rydal 
Mount,  both  places  lying  in  sight  of  the  beautiful  lakes ; 
whence  the  name  of  the  "Lake  School  of  Poetry"  was 
given  to  the  style  represented  by  himself,  Coleridge,  and 
Southe\'.  Holding  the  views  he  did — that  poetry  should 
be  true  to  nature,  and  represent  real,  and  not  exagger- 
ated, feelings  —  Wordsworth  purposely  selected  simple 
subjects,  and  treated  them  with  a  simplicity  which  diew 


282 


CTCLOr^EDIA    OF  BRlTISa  AND  AMEIUCAX  rOETIlY. 


down  rniKli  opposition,  and  gave  rise  to  a  controversy 
wliicli  lasted  for  some  years. 

Tlie  income  from  his  writings  was  small,  because  of 
the  existing  distaste  for  them,  and  because  lie  had  to  ed- 
ucate a  public  up  to  the  appreciation  of  his  standard. 
It  was,  therefore,  a  great  assistance  when,  through  the 
influence  of  Lord  Lonsdale,  he  was,  in  I8I0,  appointed 
distributor  of  stamps  for  Westmoreland,  which  brought 
him  in  £500  a  year.  In  1814  "  The  Excursion  "  was  pub- 
lished. Only  five  hundred  copies  were  disposed  of  the 
first  six  years.  "This  will  never  do,"  wrote  Jeflfrey,  iu 
the  Edinburgh  lievicio ;  but  he  lived  to  see  that  he  had 
been  far  from  infallible  in  bis  prediction.  As  a  mere 
narrative,  "The  Excursion"  is  faulty:  it  has  little  dra- 
matic interest.  The  conception  of  a  peddler  who  can 
converse  like  a  poet,  philosopher,  and  scholar  on  the 
highest  themes,  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  probabili- 
ties; but  the  poem  is  full  of  some  of  the  grandest  pas- 
sages in  the  whole  range  of  English  verse.  Notwith- 
standing the  ridicule  launched  at  it  by  Byron,  its  fame 
has  been  daily  extending;  and  it  will,  perhaps,  outlast 
the  brilliant  "Childe  Harold"  of  his  lordship.  It  has 
certainly  liad  more  influence  upon  the  poetical  culture 
and  taste  of  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century 
than  all  that  Byron  ever  wrote. 

In  1815  "The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone"  appeared.  In 
1819  "The  Wagoner,"  dedicated  to  Charles  Lamb,  and 
" Peter  Bell,"  to  Southey,  were  published.  In  ISi.'Z  "Me- 
morials of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent,"  containing  poems 
and  sonnets,  was  produced  ;  and  in  1835  ai)peared  "  Yar- 
row Revisited,"  dedicated  to  Rogers.  "The  Prelude," 
a  fragment  of  autobiography,  was  not  published  uutil 
the  author  was  dead. 

"In  my  ode  on  the  'Intimations  of  Immortality,'" 
says  Wordsworth,  "I  do  not  profess  to  give  a  literal 
representation  of  the  state  of  the  affections,  and  of  the 
moral  being  in  childhood.  I  record  my  own  feelings  at 
that  time — my  absolute  spirituality — my  uU-souhiess,  if  I 
may  so  speak.  At  that  time  I  could  not  believe  that  I 
should  lie  down  quietly  in  the  grave,  and  that  my  body 
would  moulder  into  dust."  Elsewhere  he  says  of  it:  "I 
took  hold  of  the  notion  of  pre-existenee  as  having  suf- 
ficient foundation  iu  humanity  for  authorizing  me  to 
make,  for  my  purpose,  the  best  use  of  it  I  could  as  a 
poet."  The  ode  referred  to  stands  unapproached  in 
sublimity  by  any  similar  work  in  the  English  language. 

In  his  Sonnets  (a  poetic  form  of  which  he  was  fond), 
Wordsworth  is  unexcelled,  even  by  Milton.  His  higher 
efi'orts  are  described  by  Coleridge  as  beiug  characterized 
by  "an  austere  purity  of  language,  both  grammatically 
and  logically."  No  English  poet  who  has  dealt  with 
lofty  themes  is  more  thoroughly  English  in  his  style. 

In  1842  the  now  venerable  poet  resigned  his  oflice  as 
distiibutor  of  stamps  in  favor  of  one  of  his  sons.  A 
pension  of  £1500  a  year  was  bestowed  on  him ;  and,  on 
the  death  of  his  friend  Southey,  in  1843,  he  was  appoint- 
ed poet-laureate.  He  died  a  few  days  after  the  comple- 
tion of  his  eightieth  year. 

Wordsworth  tells  us  that  when  he  first  thought  seri- 
ously of  being  a  poet,  he  looked  into  himself  to  see  how 
far  he  was  fitted  for  the  work,  and  seemed  to  find  then 
"the  first  great  gift,  the  vital  soul."  In  this  self-esti- 
mate he  did  not  err.     He  was  thoroughly  in  earnest. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  wiindcrecl  lonely  a.s  a  cloud 

That  floats  ou  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
Wbcu  all  at  onco  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daflbdils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  iu  the'  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 

They  stretched  in  nevcr-euding  Hue 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay; 

Teu  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dauce. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee ; — 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
Iu  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  uie  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  ray  couch  I  lie. 
In  vacant  or  iu  pensive  mood, 

Thej'  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  tills. 

And  dances  with  the  dafiodils. 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

O  blithe  new-comer!   I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 
O  Cuckoo!   shall  I  call  thee  bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  ou  the  grass, 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear. 
That  seems  to  fdl  the  whole  air's  space. 

As  loud  far  oil'  as  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 
Thou  briiigest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


283 


The  same  Avboin  iu  my  scliool-boy  days 

I  listened  to  ;   that  cry 
Wliicli  uiado  me  look  a  tlionsand  ways 

In  bu.sh  ami  tree  and  sky. 

To  seek  tliec  did  I  often  rove 

Through  Avoods  and  on  the  green  ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love, 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen  ! 

And  I  can  li.ston  to  thee  yet— 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  begot 

That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird !   the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
Au  unsubstantial,  fairy  place, 

That  is  lit  home  for  thee ! 


ODE   TO   DUTY. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity ; — ■ 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;    who,  in  love  and  truth. 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts !   without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not. 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 
But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stand 
fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days,  and  bright. 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  iu  the  spirit  of  this  creed. 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried. 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 


Yet  .being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust; 
And  ofr,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control, 
But  iu  tlie  quietness  of  thought. 
Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chauce-desires  : 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name  ; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  law-giver!   yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  Ave  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thj'  face. 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  iu  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And   the  most  ancient   heavens  through  thee   are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power ! 
I  call  thee :   I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  au  end ! 
Give  unto  nie,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And,  iu  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman  let  me  live! 


SHE   WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF   DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament : 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  Maj^-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  j 

A  dancing  shape,  au  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her,  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 


284 


CTCLOrjiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEUICAN  rOETRY. 


A  coiiutenaiico  in  wliich  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  proniiseH  ;»s  sweet ; 
A  creatine  not  too  brijjlit  or  good 
For  linnian  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  son'ows,  sini|ilo  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breatli, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason   thin,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  sjiirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something!-  of  an  aujiel  li":ht. 


CHARACTER   OF   THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

W^lio  is  the  happy  warrior  ?     Who  is  he 

That  every  raau  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? — 

It  is  the  generous  spirit  who,  when  brought 

Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 

Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  childish  thought : 

W^hosc  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light, 

That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  blight; 

Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 

What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 

lint  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care: 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain 

And  Fear  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 

Which  is  our  human  nature's  higliest  dower; 

Controls  tluMU,  and  subdues,  Irausuuites,  bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives: 

By  objects  Avhich  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling  rendered  more  compassionate  ; 

Is  placable,  because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  dennmd  such  saerilice  ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 

As  tempted  more  ;   more  able  to  endure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 

Thence,  also,  more  alivo  to  tenderness. — 

'Tis  ho  Avhose  law  is  reason  ;   who  depends 
Upon  tliat  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 
W^lience,  iu  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil   fur  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  (piality  or  act  is  best 
DotU  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 


Ho  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows:  — 

W^ho,  if  ho  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  bj'  open  means,  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire : 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keci)s  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim, 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  wculdly  state  ; 
Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all: 
Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  iutluence,  a  peculiar  grace; 
But  who,  if  he  bo  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  humankind. 
Is  happy  as  a  lover,  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired  ; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calnmess  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 
Or,  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: — 

He  who,  though  thus  endued,  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 
Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  liomefelt  ideasnres  and  to  gentle  scenes; 
Sweet  images!   which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart ;   and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love. — • 

'Tis,  finally,  the  man  who,  lifted  high. 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye. 
Or  left  nuthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot. 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, — 
Plays,  in  the  nuiny  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won  : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  : 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast. 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last. 
From  well  to  better,  dailj'  self-surpassed; 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth. 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame. 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name, — 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause  ,- 
Ami,  while  the  nnirtal  nust  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  : — 
This  is  the  happ3'  warrior  ;   this  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


WILLIAM  IVORDSWOIITU. 


285 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 
A   COXVERSATIOX. 

We  talked  with  opeu  heart,  and  tongue 

Attectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 

And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  bcueath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke. 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"Now,  Matthew,"  said  I,  "let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch, 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

"Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade — 

Tliat  half-uiad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made." 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  ejed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied. 
The  gray-haired  man  of  glee  : 

"  Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers ; 

How  merrily  it  goes  I 
'Twill  mnrmur  ou  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears. 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred: 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

AVhich  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"The  blackbird  in  the  summer  trees, 

The  lark  upon  the  hill. 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 


"With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife  ;   they  see 
A  happy  yonth,  and  their  old  ago 

Is  beautiful  and  free. 

"But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws; 

And  often,  glad  no  more. 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone; 

My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me ;   but  by  none 

Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains ; 

"And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 

I'll  be  a  son  to  thee !" 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 

"Alas!   that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fouutain-side  ; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide. 

And  through  the  wood  we  weut : 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock. 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


FROM  LINES 

COMPOSED   A   FEW  MILES   ABOVE   TINTEUN   ABBEY,  ON 

liEVlSITIXG   THE    BANKS   OF  THE    WYE   DURING 

A   TOUi:,  JULY   13,  1798. 

Five   years   have   passed;    five   summers   with   the 

length 
Of  five  long  winters!   and  again  I  hear 
These  waters  rolling  from  their  nionntain-spriugs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.     Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  clifls. 
That  on  a  wild  seclnded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;   and  connect 


286 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  tlio  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  ajj;ain  repose 
Hero,  under  tliia  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage-sionnd,  these  orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  Avoods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  Hues 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door ;   and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods. 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  lire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms. 
Through  a  long  abseuce,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  trau(iuil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :   such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  iiiHuence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life. 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust. 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;   that  bless(5d  mood, 
lu  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  hcavj'  aud  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 
Is  lightened  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame. 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  aud  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  ami  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
Wo  see  into  Die  life  of  things. 

For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoMghlless  youth  ;    but  hearing  oftentiuies 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;   a  sense  sublime 


Of  sonu'thing  far  more  deeplj*  interfused, 
Wliose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
Aud  mountains ;   and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;   of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive ;   well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  aud  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart, — and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Sutler  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;   thou,  my  dearest  friend, 
My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  iu  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh,  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once. 
My  dear,  dear  sister !   and  this  prayer  I  nuike, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;   'tis  her  privilege. 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy;   for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  ns,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  fiiith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 
Aud  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :   and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Siiall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  aud  iiarmonies  ;    oh,  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts- 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 
And  these  mv  exhortations! 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORin. 


287 


LAODAMIA. 

"With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  inorii 

\'()\v,s  hiive  I  made  by  fniith'ss  hope  iii.si)iie<l ; 

Aud  from  the  infernal  gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I  required  : 

Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  ; — 

Restore  him  to  my  sight — great  Jove,  restore !" 

So  spoakiug,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her 
hands ; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud. 

Her  couutenauce  brightens,  and  her  eye  expands : 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows ; 

Aud  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0  terror!   what  hath  she  fierce  i  ved  ? — O  joy! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ?  whom  doth  she  behold  ? 

Her  hero  slain  upon  tlie  beach  of  Troy  ? 

His  vital  presence?  his  corporeal  mould? 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — 'tis  he  ! 
Aud  a  god  leads  him — winged  Mercurj'! 

Mild  Hermes  spake,  aud  touched  her  with  his  wand. 
That  calms  all  fear:  "Such  grace  hath  crowned 
tliy  prayer, 

Laodamia !  that  at  Jove's  command 

Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air : 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space  ; 

Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face !" 

Forth  sprang  the   impassioned  queen  her  lord  to 
clasp ; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed : 
But  unsubstantial  form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 
The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  reunite. 
And  reassume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

"  Protesilaus,  lo,  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 

Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice ! 
Tins  is  our  palace,— -yonder  is  thy  throne : 

Speak,  aud  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appall  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon,  and  blessed  a  sad  .abode." 

"Great  Jove,  Laodamia,  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect.     Spectre  though  I  be, 

1  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee,  or  deceive, 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity  : 

Aud  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 


"  Tliou  knowest  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That    the   first   Greek  who   touched  the  Trojan 
strand 

Should  die;  but  me  the  tlireat  could  not  witlihohl: 
A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand ; 

Aud  forth  I  leaped  upon  the  saudy  plain, 

A  self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain." 

"  Supreme  of  heroes  !   bravest,  noV)lest,  best ! 

Tliy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more, 
Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  depressed 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore. 
Thou  found'st — aud  I  forgive  thee — here  thou  art — 
A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  jioor  heart. 

"  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 
Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 

And  he  whose  power  restores  thee  hath  decreed- 
That  thou  shouldst  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave  : 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessaliau  air. 

"No  spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  shadow  this: 
Come,  blooming  hero,  i)lace  thee  by  my  side  ! 

Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride  !" 

Jove    frowned   in    heaven  ;    the    conscious    Parcfe 
threw 

Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"  This  visage  tells  thee  that  mj^  doom  is  passed : 
Know  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

Aud  surely  as  they  vanish. — Earth  destroys 

Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains : 

Calm  j)leasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

"Be  taught,  O  fiiithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion!   for  the  gods  approve 

The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul, — 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate,  and  meekly  mourn 

When  1  depart — for  brief  is  my  sojourn — " 

"Ah,  wherefore?     Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
W^rest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 

Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse. 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years. 

And  ^sou  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  jieers. 

"The  gods  to  us  are  merciful — aud  they 
Yet  further  may  relent;  for  mightier  far 


288 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  JUilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tli.an  streiijjth  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 

Of  niaj;ic  potent  over  Hnn  and  star, 
Is  love,  tliongh  oft  to  aj^ony  distressed, 
And  tliou,<;h   his  favorite   seat   be  feeble  -woinan's 
breast. 

"  IJnt  if  Ihoii  goest,  I  follow — "    "Peace  !"'  ho  said — 
She    looked    npon    him,   and    was    ealined    and 
clieered. 

The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  lied ; 
In  bis  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 

Elysiau  beanty,  melancholy  grace, 

Bronght  from  a  pensive  thongli  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  snch  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal, — 
•The  past  unsighcd-for,  and  the  future  sure;  — 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  luuunony  pursued; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous,  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty:   more  pellucid  streams, 

Au  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air. 

And  fields  invested  with  pnrpureal  gleams; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 
That  ])rivilege  by  virtue. — "111,"'  said  he, 

"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned. 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  wo  had  parted,  vain  dc^liglit, 

While  tears  Avere  thy  best  pastime  day  and  night : 

"And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  teut, 

Chieftains  and  kings  iu  council  were  detained. 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained  : 

"The  wislied-for  wind  was  given.     I  then  revolved 

The  oracle  npon  the  silent  sea; 
And,  if  no  Avoi'thier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
Tiie  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand, — 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"Yet  bitter,  ofttimcs  bitter,  was  the  l)ang 
When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  belovdd  wife ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 
And  on  the  joys  we  shared  iu  mortal  life, — 


The   paths   which   we  hail   tro<l, — these  fountains, 

ll()\v«>rs, — 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

"But  should  suspense  permit  the  foo  to  cry, 
'  Behold  they  tremble  ! — haughty  their  array. 

Yet  of  tlieir  number  no  one  dares  to  die?' 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away: 

Old  frailties  then  recurred;    but  lofty  thought, 

In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

"And  thou,  tliongh  strong  iu  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow  : 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blessed  reunion  iu  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathized; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 

"Learn  by  .1  mortal  yearning  to  ascend 
Toward  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given. 

Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end  ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 

That  self  might  be  annulled, — her  bondage  prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream  opposed  to  love." 

Aloud  she  shrieked!   for  Hermes  reappears! 

Kound  the   dear   shade   .she   would  have    clung : 
'tis  vain  : 
The  hours  are  past — too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain. 
Swift  toward   the   realms  that   know   not  earthly 

day. 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 
And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  gods  be  moved  : 
Siie  Avho  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 

Of  lovers  that  in  reason's  spite  have  loved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time 

Apart  from  happy  ghosts — that  gather  flowers 

Of  blissful  (piiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  huinan  sutfering  are  due; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 

Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 

As  fondly  ho  believes. — Upon  the  side 

or  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died; 

And  «'vcr,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 

That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 

The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight, 

A  coustaut  interchange  of  growth  and  blight. 


WILLI  J  M  WORDS  WOE  TH. 


289 


ODE. 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY,  FKOM  RECOLLECTIONS 
OF   EARLY   CHILDIIOOU. 


There    Avas    a    tinio    ■s^■hcu    meadow,  grove,  and 

stream, 
The  eartli,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  cau  see  no 
more  I 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 
Waters  ou  a>  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; — 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  aloue  there  came  a  thought  of  grief; 
A  timely  iitterauce  gave  that  thought  relief; 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The    cataracts    blow    their    trumpets    from    the 

steep — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong : 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep ; 
Aud  all  the  earth  is  gaj'. 
Laud  aud  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity; 

Aud  witli  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  child  of  joy. 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
shepherd-boy  ! 


Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;   I  see 
19 


The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee: 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fuluess  of  your  bliss  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh,  evil  day  !   if  I  were  sullen. 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May  morning; 
Aud  the  children  are  culling, 

Ou  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  aud  wide, 
Fi'esh  flowers ;   Avhile  the  sun  shines  Avarui, 
Aud  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm: — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joj'  I  hear! 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  manj^  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon — ■ 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 
Tlie  pansj^  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  aud  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  aud  a  forgetting : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

Aud  Cometh  from  afar ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancj' ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows. 

Ho  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth,  who  dailj'  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest. 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  tlie  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  conuuou  dav. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  ideasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unwortliy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  d(jth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
Aud  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


290 


CYCLOPJEDTA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Behold  the  cliihl  amonj?  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six-years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'raid  work  of  his  owu  hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  npon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  di-eam  of  linman  life, 
Shaped  bj'  himself  with  newly-learn6d  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  monrniiig  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  nnto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

And  Avith  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  dost  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thj'  heritage;   thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  readest  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !     Seer  blessed ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find ; 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom,  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthlj'  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 


O  joy!   that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 


That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benedictions:   not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blessed ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simi>le  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast, — 
Not  for  f  liese  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  al)out  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instiucts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble,  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  bo  they  wliat  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :   truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man,  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  wo  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Wliich  brought  us  hither ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  children  sport  n])on  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

X. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds — sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  biiglit 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, — 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


291 


In  the  primal  syiiipatliy, 
Wliicli,  having  boon,  must  ever  be; 
lu  the  sootliiug  thougbts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  pliilosophic  miuil. 


And  oh,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves. 

Forebode  not  auy  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  luj^  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  reliuquislied  oue  delight. 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  : 
Another  race  hath  been  and  other  i)alms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  bj'  which  we  live  ; 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


EXTEMPORE   EFFITSION   UPOX  THE   DEATH 
OF  JAMES   HOGG. 

Of  those  referred  to  iu  these  stanzas,  Walter  Scott  died  Sep- 
tember 21st,  1S32 ;  S.  T.  Coleridge,  July  25th,  1S34 ;  Charles 
Lamb,  December  2Tth,  1S34  ;  George  Crabbe,  February  3d,  1S32  : 
Felicia  Ilemaus,  May  IGth,  1S35;  James  Hogg,  November  21st, 
1S35. 

When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands, 
I  saw  the  stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

^Yhen  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered. 
Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 

Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  patliways, 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
'Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies ; 

And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 
Has  closed  the  sheplierd-poet's  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign  its  steadfast  course, 

Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source  ; 


The  rapt  one  of  tlie  godlike  forehead, 

Tiio  lieaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  iu  earth  : 

And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  tlie  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain  summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand. 

How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  laud! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 

A  timid  voice,  that  asks  iu  whispers, 
"  Who  next  shall  drop  and  disappear '?" 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 
Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath, 

On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe !   forth-looking, 
I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed. 

Thou  too  art  gone  before  ;   but  why, 

O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ? 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  spirit. 
Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep ; 

For  her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded, 
Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep. 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows, 

For  slaughtered  youth  or  love-lorn  maid  I 
With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten, 

And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  poet  dead. 
Rydal  Jlouut,  November  30th,  1S35. 


THE  SONNET'S  SCANTY  PLOT. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room  ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells, 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels: 
Maids  at  tlie  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy;   bees  that  soar  for  bloom 
High  as  the  higiiest  peak  of  Farness  Fells 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 
In  truth,  the  prison  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves  no  prison  is ;   and  hence  to  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground; 
Pleased  if  some  souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


292 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


SCORN  NOT  THE  .SONNET. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet.     Critic,  you  liavc  iVownctl, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors:   with  this  key 
Shakspeiire  unlocked  his  heart;   the  iiiclndy 
Of  this  small  Into  gave  case  to  I'elrarch's  wonnd  ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ; 
Camiiens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's  grief; 
Tlie  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle-leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  cro\Aned 
His  A'isionary  hrow  ;   a  glowworm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  fairy-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  i)ath  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence  he  Itlew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 


EVENING. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 

lireathless  with  adoration  ;   the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea. 

Listen  !   the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  souiul  like  thunder — ^everlastingly. 

Dear  child!  dear  girl,  that  walkest  with  mo  here! 

If  thou  appcarest  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year. 

And  worshippest  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


TO  SLEEP. 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  ^lass  by, 
One  after  one;   the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;   the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas. 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  wat(M',  and  pure  sky, — 
By  turns  have  all  been  thougiit  of,  yet  I  lie 
Sleepless;   and  soon  the  small  birds'  nudodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees. 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melaneh(dy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay 
And  eonld  not  win  thee.  Sleep !   by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-niglit  away : 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  moridng's  wealth? 
Come,  bless('>d  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  nu)ther  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 


THE   WORLD   IS   TOO   MLX'H   WITH  US. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;   late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 

Little  wo  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 

Wo  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; — 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tnne  ; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!   I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn. 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  mo  less  forlorn  ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


THE   FAVORED   SHIP. 

With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 

Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed; 

Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road. 

Some  veeriiig  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  whj'. 

A  goodly  vessel  did  I  then  espy 

Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad  ; 

And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 

"Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high." 

This  ship  was  naught  to  me,  nor  I  to  her, 

Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  lover's  look  ; 

This  ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer: 

When  will  she  turn,  ami  whither?     She  will  brook 

No  tarrying;  where  she  comes  the  winds  must  stir: 

On  went  she,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 


THE   MIND   THAT   BUILDS   FOR  AYE. 

A  volant  tribe  of  bards  on  earth  are  found, 
Who,  while  the  flattering  zephyrs  round  them  play, 
On  "coigncs  of  vantage"  hang  their  nests  of  clay; 
How  quickly,  from  that  aerie  hold  unbound. 
Dust  for  oljlivion  !     To  the  solid  ground 
Of  nature  trusts  the  Mind  that  builds  for  aye. 
Convinced  that  there,  there  only,  she  can  lay 
Secure  fiuiudations.     As  the  year  runs  round. 
Apart  she  toils  within  the  chosen  ring, 
While  the  stars  shiue,  or  while  day's  purple  eye 
Is  gently  closing  with  the  flowers  of  spring ; 
Where  even  the  motion  of  an  angel's  wing 
Would  interrupt  the  intense  tranquillity 
Of  silent  hills,  and  more  than  silent  sky. 


WILLIAM  WOIiDSWOBTH: 


293 


WESTxMINSTER   BRIDGE,  SEPTEMBER   3,  1803. 

Earth  lias  not  anything  to  show  inoro  fair : 
Dull  woukl  ho  bo  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  iu  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;   silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Xe'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God!   the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; — 
O  miserable  chieftain !   where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;   do  thou 
Wear  rather  iu  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that   will  work  for  thee  :    air,  eai'th,  and 

skies  : 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee;   thou  hast  great  allies; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


PHILOCTETES. 

When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle 

Lay  couched, — upou  that  breathless  monument, 

Ou  him,  or  on  his  fearful  bow  unbent, 

Some  wild  bird  oft  might  settle,  aud  beguile 

The  rigid  features  of  a  transient  smile, 

Disperse  the  tear,  or  to  the  sigh  give  vent. 

Slackening  the  pains  of  ruthless  banishment 

From  home  affections  aud  heroic  toil. 

Nor  doubt  that  spiritual  creatures  round  us  move, 

Griefs  to  allay  that  reason  cannot  heal ; 

And  very  reptiles  have  sufficed  to  i»rove 

To  fettered  wretchedness  that  no  Bastilo 

Is  deep  enough  to  exclude  the  light  of  love. 

Though  man  for  brother-mau  has  ceased  to  feel. 


TIIY  ART   BE  NATURE. 

A  poet  .'^Ile  hath  put  his  heart  to  school. 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  ujiou  the  staff 
Which    art    hath    lodged    within    his    hand ;    must 

laugh 
B3'' precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule! 
Thy  art  be  nature  ;   the  live  current  (lualf, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 
Iu  fear  that  else,  when  critics  grave  and  cool 
Have  killed  him,  scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 
How  does  the  meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold! 
Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  that  freedom  bold ; 
And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest-tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  fornuil  mould, 
But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


LONDON,  1802. 

Milton!    thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour! 

England  hath  need  of  thee :   she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower. 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men : 

Oh,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power ! 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea ; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 

In  cheerful  godliness ;   and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


WE   MUST  BE   FREE,  OR  DIE. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 

Of  British  freedom,  which  to  the  opeu  sea 

Of  the  world's  praise  from  dark  antiquity 

Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters  unwithstood," 

Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 

Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, — 

That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and  sauds 

Should  iierish,  and  to  evil  and  to  good 

Be  lost  forever!     In  our  halls  is  hung 

Armory  of  the  invincible  kniglits  of  old  : 

Wo  must  be  free  or  die  who  speak  the  tongue 

That  Shakspeare  spake,  the  faith  and  morals  hold 

Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 

Of  earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 


294 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAX  FOETIiY. 


OCTOBER,  1803. 

These  limes  toneli  moneyed  worldlinjjs  with  dismay  : 

Even  rich  men,  brave  by  iiatnre,  taint  the  air 

AVitb  words  of  apprehension  and  despair; 

While  tens  of  thousands,  thinking  on  the  affray,— 

Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day, 

And  minds  not  stinted  or  uutilled,  are  given, — 

Sound,  healtliy  children  of  the  God  of  heaven, — 

Are  cheerful  as  the  rising  sun  in  May. 

What  do  wo  gather  beuce  but  firmer  faitb 

That  every  gift  of  noble  origin 

Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath  ? 

That  virtue  and  the  faculties  within 

Are  vital, — and  that  riches  are  akin 

To  feai",  to  change,  to  cowardice,  and  death. 


ON  PERSONAL  TALK. 
IX  FOUR  SONNETS. 


I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk, — 
Of  friends  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  neighbors  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,  for  my  chaucc-acquaiutauce,  ladies  bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk  ; 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  forms,  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barreu  silence,  square  w  ith  my  desire  ; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aiui. 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 
Or  kettle,  whispering  its  faint  under-song. 


"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life  ;  we  have  seen  and  sec, 
And  with  a  living  pleasure  wo  describe  ; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activitj'. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee, 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe." 
Even  bo  it  so :  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 
Our  daily  worhl's  true  worldlings,  rank  not  me! 
Children  are  blessed,  and  powerful  ;  their  world  lies 
More  justly  balanced ;   partly  at  their  feet 
And  part  far  from  them  :   sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 
W^hose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 
Ho  is  a  slave — the  mcauest  wo  can  meet! 


Wings  have  we — and  as  far  as  we  can  go. 
We  may  find  pleasure  :   wilderness  and  wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which,  with  the  lofty,  sanctifies  the  low  ; 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world ;  and  books,  we 

know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good  : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store 
Matter  wherein  riglit  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  readj'  car; 
Two  shall  be  named,  prc-eminentlj'  dear, — 
The  gentle  ladj-  married  to  the  Moor; 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  lamb. 


Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  liercl)y 
Great  gains  are  mine  ;   for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking  ;  rancor,  never  sought. 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth     passions,   smooth    discourse,    and    joyous 

thought : 
And  thus,  from  day  to  day,  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceably. 
Blessings  be  with  them — and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares — 
The  poets— who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays! 
Oh,  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs. 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


ilo5C}]l)  tjopl\iiiGon. 

AMERICAN. 

Ilopkinson  (17T0-184'2)  was  a  native  of  Philadelphia, 
son  of  Francis  Hopkiuson,  a  member  of  the  Continental 
Congress,  and  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of 
Iiulopendence.  Francis  was  also  the  author  of  several 
liuniorous  pieces  in  verse,  of  which  "The  Battle  of  the 
Kegs"  is  the  best  known.  Joseph  became  a  member  of 
Congress,  and  in  1828  was  appointed  United  States  Dis- 
trict Judge.  His  one  patriotic  song  of  "  Hail,  Colum- 
bia" possesses  but  slight  lyrical  merit,  and  owed  much 
of  its  popularity  to  the  felicitous  music  of  "The  Presi- 
dent's ^larch,"  to  wliich  it  M-as  adapted.  It  was  written 
in  1798,  when  a  war  with  France  was  thouglit  imminent. 
The  song  drew  large  audiences  to  tlie  theatres  where  it 
was  sung  night  after  night  for  a  wliole  season.  It  has 
made  the  melody  one  of  the  national  airs. 


josErn  iioPEixsox.—nox.  william  robfait  spencer. 


295 


HAIL,  COLUMBIA! 

Hail,  Columbia  !   liappy  laiul ! 

Hail,  yo  lioroes !   Leaven-boiu  band! 

Who  fought  aud  bled  iu  Freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
Aud  when  the  storm  of  war  Avas  gone, 
Eujoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 
Let  independence  be  our  boast, 
Ever  miudful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

Firm,  united  let  us  be, 
Eallyiug  round  our  Liberty ; 
As  a  baud  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots  !   rise  once  more  : 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore ; 
Let  uo  rude  foe  with  impious  hand. 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand, 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  aud  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just. 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  aud  justice  will  prevail, 
Aud  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 
Firm,  united  let  us  be,  etc. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame  ! 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 
Eing  through  the  world  with  loud  applause; 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear! 

With  equal  skill  aud  godlike  power. 
He  governed  iu  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war ;   or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 
Firm,  united  let  ns  be,  etc. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands. 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands — 

The  rock  ou  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat. 
But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true. 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  iu  dismay, 
Aud  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day. 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free. 
Resolved  ou  death  or  liberty. 

Firm,  united  let  us  be,  etc. 


^)Q\\.  lUilliam  llobcrt  Spencer. 

Spencer  (1770-1834),  a  younger  son  of  Lord  Charles 
Spencer,  was  educated  at  Harrow  and  Oxford.  He  held 
for  some  time  the  appointment  of  Comuiissioner  of 
Stamps.  He  became  a  society-man,  and  his  poetical  fame 
rests  chiefly  on  three  short  stanzas,  beginning  "Too  late 
I  stayed."  His  ballad  of  "Beth  Gelert"  is  also  well 
known.  His  poems  are  mostly  ephemeral  "society 
verses."  Falling  into  pecuniary  difficulties  he  removed 
to  Paris,  where  he  died.  His  poems  were  collected  and 
published  in  1835.  As  a  companion  ho  was  courted  by 
the  brilliant  circles  of  the  metropolis;  but  if  we  may 
credit  the  account  given  of  liim  by  Rogers,  he  was  heart- 
less and  artificial — less  a  friend  than  a  pleasure-seeker. 


TO  THE   LADY  ANNE   HAMILTON. 

Too  late  I  stayed, — forgive  the  crime ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours ; 
How  uoiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time, 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  the  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  j)ass ! 

Oh,  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  briugs. 

When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wiugs ! 


BETH  GELERT;  OR,  THE  GRAVE  OF  THE 
GREYHOUND. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound. 

And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn  ; 
And  many  a  brach,  aud  many  a  houud, 

Attend  Llewelyn's  horn. 
Aud  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast. 

And  gave  a  louder  cheer : 
"  Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear! 
Oh,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam — 

The  flower  of  all  his  race : 
So  true,  so  brave — a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  ?" 

'Twas  only  at  Llewelyn's  board 
The  faithful  Gelert  fed ; 


296 


CYVLOVJ^DIA    OF  BIIITISU  AND  AMElllCAX  rOETRY. 


He  watched,  he  served,  lie  cheered  liis  lord, 

And  sentinelled  his  bed. 
In  sootli  he  Avas  a  j)eerl<'ss  hound, 

Tlic  f^ift  of  royal  .Joim  ; 
IJiir  now  no  (ielert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chaso  vodo  on. 
And  now,  as  o'er  the  rocks  and  dells 

The  gallant  ehidings  rise. 
All  Snowdon's  eraugy  chaos  yells 

Tiic  inany-niingled  cries! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare  ; 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved, 

For  Gelert  was  not  there, 
llnpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied, 

When,  near  the  portal-seat, 
His  truant  Gelert  he  espied. 

Bounding  liis  lord  to  greet. 
But  when  ho  gained  his  castle  door. 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
Tiie  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with  gore; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood ! 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise. 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet ; 
His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouched  and  licked  his  feet. 
Onward  iu  haste  Llewelyn  passed. 

And  on  went  Gelert  too  ; 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  Avere  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view ! 
O'crturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found. 

With  blood-staiued  cover  rent, 
And  all  around,  the  walls  and  ground 

With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  cliild— no  voice  replied — 

He  searched  witli  terror  wild  ; 
Blood,  blood,  he  found  ou  every  side. 

But  nowhere  found  his  child  ! 
"  Hell-hound  !   my  child's  by  thee  devoured  !'' 

The  frantic  father  cried; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert's  side ! 
His  suppliant  looks,  as  proue  he  fell. 

No  pity  could  impart ; 
But  still  his  Gelert's  dying  yell 

Passed  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell, 
Some  sluml)erer  -wakened  nigh  : 


What  words  the  parent's  joy  could  tell, 

']"()  hear  his  infant's  cry! 
Concealed  beneath  a  tumbled  heap. 

His  hurried  search  had  missed. 
All  glowing  fnmi  his  rosy  sleep, 

The  cherub  boy  ho  kissed ! 
Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  <lread. 

But,  the  same  conch  beneath, 
Laj'  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead — 

Tremendous  still  in  deatii! 

Ah  !    what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear; 
His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 
Vain,  vain,  was  all  Llewelyn's  avoc  ; 

"Best  of  thy  kind,  adieu  ! 
The  frantic  blow  which  laid  thee  low, 

Tliis  heart  shall  ever  rue !" 
And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 

With  costly  sculpture  decked ; 
And  marbles,  storied  with  his  praise. 

Poor  Gelert's  bones  protect. 

There,  never  could  the  spearman  pass 

Or  forester  unmoved ; 
There  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 

Llewelyn's  sorrow  proved. 
And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear. 

And  there,  as  evening  fell. 
In  fancy's  ear  he  oft  would  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 
And  till  great  Snowdon's  rocks  grow  old, 

And  cease  the  storm  to  brave, 
The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 

The  name  of  "  Gelert's  Grave." 


C)cnnj  Cuttrcll. 


Lultrcll  (1770-1S.'J1),  said  to  have  been  a  natural  son 
of  Lord  Carhanipton,  was  well  educated,  and  grew  to  be 
a  man  of  wit  and  fashion  in  London.  He  i>ul)lislicd  '-Ad- 
vice to  Julia:  a  Letter  iu  Rhyme"  (1820),  and  "Crock- 
ford  House"  (1S27).  Rogers,  the  poet,  said  of  him: 
"  None  of  the  talkers  whom  I  meet  in  London  society 
can  slide  in  a  brilliant  thing  witli  such  readiness  as  he 
does."  Tiie  following  epigram  was  made  by  Luttrcll  ou 
the  once  famous  vocalist,  Miss  Maria  Tree  : 

"On  this  tree  when  a  nightingale  settles  and  sings, 
The  tree  will  return  her  as  good  as  she  brings." 

Luttrcll's  graphic  and  truthful  description  of  a  London 
fog  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  passages  to  be  found  iu  the 


HEXRY  LUTTllELL.—Slll    IVALTEIl  SCOTT. 


297 


poems  of  Dean  Swift.  But  his  literary  ambition  was 
slight.  It  was  as  a  conversationist  tliat  lie  excelled,  and 
he  gave  to  society  talents  that  might  have  won  for  him 
a  lastin;^'  fame  as  a  man  of  letters. 


THE  NOVEMBER  FOG  OF  LONDON. 

First,  at  the  clawu  of  lingering  day, 

It  rises  of  au  ashy  gray ; 

Then  deepening  with  a  sordid  staiu 

Of  yellow,  like  a  lion's  mane. 

Vapor  importunate  and  dense, 

It  TFurs  at  once  A\ith  every  sense. 

The  ears  escape  not.     AU  aronud 

Returns  a  dull  unwonted  sound. 

Loath  to  stand  still,  afraid  to  stir, 

Tiie  chilled  and  puzzled  jiassenger, 

Oft  blundering  from  the  pavement,  fails 

To  feel  his  way  along  the  rails ; 

Or  at  the  crossings,  in  the  roll 

Of  everj"^  carriage  dreads  the  pole. 

Scarce  au  eclipse,  with  pall  so  dun. 
Blots  from  the  face  of  heaven  the  sun. 
But  soon  a  thicker,  darker  cloak 
Wraps  all  the  town,  behold !  iu  smoke. 
Which  steara-compelliug  trade  disgorges 
From  all  her  furnaces  and  forges 
In  pitchy  clouds; — too  dense  to  rise, 
It  drops  rejected  from  the  skies ; 
Till  struggling  day,  extinguished  quite, 
At  uoon  gives  place  to  candle-light. 

O  Chemistry,  attractive  maid ! 
Descend  in  pity  to  our  aid: 
Come  with  thj^  all-pervading  gases, 
Thy  crucibles,  retorts,  and  glasses, 
Thy  fearful  energies  and  wonders, 
Thy  dazzling  lights  and  mimic  thunders : 
Let  Carbon  iu  thy  train  be  seen, 
Dark  Azote  and  fair  Oxygen, — • 
And  Wollaston  and  Davy  guide 
The  car  that  bears  thee,  at  thy  side. 
If  any  power  can,  anyhow, 
Abate  these  nuisances,  'tis  thou  ; 
And  see,  to  aid  thee  in  the  blow, 
The  bill  of  Michael  Angelo  ; 
Oh  join — success  a  thing  of  course  is — 
Thy  heavenly  to  his  mortal  forces ; 
Make  all  our  chimneys  chew  the  cud 
Like  hungry  cows,  as  chimneys  should ! 
And  since  'tis  only  smoke  we  draw 
Within  our  lungs  at  common  law, 
Into  their  thirsty  tubes  be  sent 
Fresh  air,  by  act  of  Parliament ! 


Sir  IValtcr  Scott. 


Walter  Scott  (1771-1832),  a  younger  son  of  a  Writer  to 
the  Signet,  was  born  iu  Edinburgh,  on  the  1.5th  of  August, 
1771.  Some  of  his  earliest  years  were,  on  account  of  a 
malady  that  caused  lameness,  i)asscd  on  the  farm  of  his 
paternal  grandfather  in  Roxburghshire.  Here  he  ac- 
quired his  taste  for  border  legends  and  stories  of  chival- 
ry. In  1779  he  entered  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh, 
and  in  1783  the  University.  In  neither  did  he  display 
much  ability;  his  Latin  was  little,  and  his  Greek  less. 
Before  his  sixteenth  year  he  had  run  through  a  vast  cir- 
cle of  miscellaneous  reading,  including  many  works  of 
fiction. 

In  1786  Scott  was  apprenticed  to  his  father,  and  in  171)3 
was  admitted  to  the  Bar;  but  of  his  legal  profession  he 
says,  in  the  language  of  Slender  to  Anne  Page,  "  There 
was  little  love  between  us  at  first,  and  it  pleased  God  to 
decrease  it  on  better  acquaintance."  His  first  serious 
efforts  in  composition  were  some  translations  of  German 
ballads.  In  1797  he  married  Miss  Carpenter,  a  lady  of 
some  beauty,  and  with  a  small  fortune.  In  1799  he  be- 
came Sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  and  in  1806  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal clerks  of  the  Court  of  Session.  He  now  resolved 
to  make  literature  the  basis  of  his  fortunes.  In  180:3  ap- 
peared his  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border;"  in  1804 
he  edited  the  metrical  romance  of  "Sir  Tristrem."  In 
1805  appeared  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  which 
was  enthusiastically  received,  and  added  largely  to  his 
growing  fame.  This  poem  was  followed  in  1803  by 
"Marmion;"  in  1809,  by  the  "Lady  of  the  Lake;"  in 
1811,  by  "Don  Roderick;''  in  1813,  by  "Rokeby;"  and 
in  1814,  by  the  "Lord  of  the  Isles." 

Seeing  that  his  poetical  star  was  now  beginning  to 
pale  before  the  rising  fame  of  Byron,  Scott  prudently 
retired  from  the  field  where  he  was  no  longer  wiLliont 
a  rival,  and  commenced  his  series  of" Waverley  Novels," 
so  memorable  in  literature.  For  fifteen  years  he  kept 
the  authorship  of  them  a  secret,  and  was  referred  to  as 
the  "Illustrious  Unknown."  In  1814  "Waverley"  ap- 
peared. Within  four  years  it  was  followed  by  "Guy 
]\[annering,"  "The  Antiquai-y,"  "Old  Mortality,"  "  Rob 
Roy,"  and  "  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian."  From  1814  to 
18:36,  during  the  publication  of  these  novels,  Scott  was  at 
the  summit  of  his  fame  and  worldly  success.  In  1820  he 
was  created  a  baronet.  Meanwhile  he  had  purchased  an 
estate  at  a  price  much  above  its  value,  and  built  liis  house 
at  Abbotsford,  "  a  romance  in  stone  and  lime,"  and  thith- 
er the  family  removed  in  1812.  The  house  had  cost  him, 
with  the  garden,  £:30,000. 

But  Scott's  wealth  was  wholly'  illusory.  lie  had  been 
paid  for  his  works  chielly  in  notes,  which  proved  value- 
less. His  connection  with  the  publisliing  firm  of  Bal- 
lantyne  &  Co.  had  entangled  him  in  the  responsibilities 
of  an  ill-conducted  business ;  and  the  disastrous  year  1826 
involved  him  in  the  ruin  of  his  latter  publishers.  Con- 
stable &  Co.  The  poet's  liabilities  from  his  relations 
with  these  two  houses  amounted  to  more  than  £1:30,000. 
Nothing  could  be  more  admirable  than  the  attitude  in 
which  his  adversity  exhibited  him.  He  sat  down,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-five,  with  the  heroic  determination  of  labor- 
ing to  pay  off  his  debts  and  redeem  his  fair  fame.    "Wood- 


298 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


stock"  alone,  tlic  labor  of  three  months,  cleared  to  his 
creditors  £8000.  But  tiie  busy  brain  and  the  big,  manly 
form  did  not  sulHce.  Before  he  could  reach  the  longed- 
for  goal,  he  sank  in  the  struggle;  a  jiaralytic  attack  ai- 
restcd  his  work.  A  journey  to  Italy  did  not  restore 
his  shattered  constitution.  Returning  in  haste,  that  he 
might  be  under  the  shade  of  his  own  trees,  he  expired 
September  21st,  lSi2,  after  fourteen  days  of  prostration 
and  insensibility,  with  occasional  flashes  of  consciousness. 

One  of  the  most  pathetic  incidents  of  the  last  two 
months  of  his  life  was  the  failure  of  his  attempt  to  write. 
On  the  17th  of  July,a\vaking  from  sleep,  he  called  for  his 
writing  materials.  When  the  chair,  in  which  he  lay 
propped  up  with  pillows,  was  moved  into  liis  study  and 
placed  before  the  desk,  his  daughter  put  i\^cn  into  his 
hand ;  but  there  was  no  power  in  the  lingers  to  close  on 
the  too  familiar  instrument.  It  dropped  upon  the  paper, 
and  the  helpless  old  man  sank  back  to  weep  in  silence. 

"The  great  strength  of  Scott,"  says  Dr.  Carruthers, 
"undoubtedly  lay  in  the  prolific  richness  of  his  fancy,  in 
his  fine  healthy  moral  feeling,  and  in  the  abundant  stores 
of  his  remarkable  memory,  that  could  create,  collect,  and 
arrange  such  a  multitude  of  scenes  and  adventures  ;  that 
could  find  materials  for  stirring  and  romantic  i)oetry  in 
the  most  minute  and  barren  antiquarian  details;  and 
that  could  reanimate  the  past,  and  paint  the  present,  in 
scenery  and  manners,  with  a  vividness  and  cnergj'  un- 
known since  the  period  of  Homer." 


LOCHINVAE. 

Lady  Heron's  Sokg,  from  "Marmion." 

Oh,  young  Locliinvar  is  come  out  of  tbe  west ; 
Tlirongli  all  the  wide  Boixlor  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
Anil  save  his  good  broadsword  ho  weapon  had  none; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  aloue. 
So  faithful  iu  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Tliere  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake   and  he   stopped  not  for 

stone ; 
He  swam  the  Esk  Elver  where  ford  there  was  none ; 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  ; 
For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 
Among  bridesmen  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and  all : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 
"  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here  or  come  ye  in  war. 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochiuvar  ?" 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied: 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ; 


And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar!" 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet,  the  knight  took  it  up ; 
He  quatiVd  ofJtho  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  sn)ile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eje. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar ; 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  .said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 
plume. 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twerc  better, 
by  far. 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Loch- 
invar ! ' 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the  charger 

stood  near ; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 
"  She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bnsh,  and  scaur : 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow !"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Grammes  of  the  Netherby 

clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and 

thej-  ran  ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Canonbie  Lee, — 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see! 
So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 


SCENE   FROM   "MARMION." 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide  ; 
The  ancient  earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered,  in  an  undertone, 
"Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT. 


299 


The  train  fii>m  out  tlie  castlo  drew, 
Ijiit  Marniion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  : — 
"Thouj^h  something  I  might  'plain,"  he  said, 
"Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 
While  in  Tantallou's  towers  I  stayed, — 
Part  we  iu  friendship  fiom  your  laud  ; 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." 
But  Douglas  rouud  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  : — 
"My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will, 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone. 
From  tuiTct  to  foundation-stone ; 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmiou  clasp." 

Burnt  Marmiou's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire  ; 

And — "  This  to  me  !"  he  said, — 
"An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  haud  as  Marmiou's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head ! 
And  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  iu  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate  : 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

E'en  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, — 
Here,  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 

And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword), — 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  i)eer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !" 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercarae  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth  :  "And  darcst  thou,  then. 
To  beard  the  lion  iu  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ? 
No,  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! — 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms — what,  warder,  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall." 
Lord  Marmiou  turned — well  was  his  need— 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed; 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung ; 
The  ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung  : 


To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  Hies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 
Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 
And  when  Lord  Marmiou  reached  his  band. 
He  halts  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 


ALLEN-A-DALE. 


Song  froji  "IIokebt." 


Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning. 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  Avinniug. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle !  come,  hearken  my  tale ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride. 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side. 
The  mere  for  his  net,  aud  the  land  for  his  game. 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  tlie  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale. 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a-Dale ! 

Alleu-a-Dalo  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  aud  his  blade  be  as 

bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord. 
Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word  ; 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  veil. 
Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allen-a-Dale. 

Alleu-a-Dalo  to  his  wooing  is  come  ; 

The  mother,  she  asked  of  his  household  and  home : 

"Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on  the 

hill. 
My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "shows  gallauter  still; 
'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent  so 

pale. 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles!''  said  Alleu-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  tlie  mother  was  stone; 
Tliey  lifted  the  latch,  and  tiiey  l)ade  him  begone; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  aud  their  cry! 
He  had  laughed  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black  eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale. 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by,  was  Allen-a-Dale  ! 


300 


CTCLOPjEDIA    of  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  I'OETRY. 


IIKLVELLYN. 

Ill  the  spring  of  1S05  a  yonni;  man  lost  his  way  on  the  moun- 
tain llclvc'.lyu  ;  and  three  monllis  afterward  Ills  remains  were 
discovered,  guarded  by  a  failliful  terrier  bilch,  the  companion 
of  liis  rambles. 

1  clinibfd  tlio  (l;uk  Inow  of  llic  luiglity  Ht'lvcllyn, 
Lakes  and  niomitaiiis  beticatli  mo  glciuned  misty 
and  wide  ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 

And  starting  aronnd  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Strideu-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 

bending, 
And  Catchedicam  its  loft  vorgo  was  dofonding, 
One  hnge  nanioloss  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending. 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer 
had  died. 

Dark  green  was  the  spot  'mid  the  brown  mountain 
heather, 
Where   the   pilgrim    of   nature   lay  stretched  in 
decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather. 
Till  the  mountain  winds  Avasted  the  tenautless 
clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  loiioly  extended : 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill  fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst   tlioii   think   that    his   silonce   was 
slllliibor  ? 
When  tlio  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst 
thou  start? 
How  miiiiy  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou 
niiiiibor 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And  oh,  was  it  meet  that,  no  rc([uioni  road  o'or  him, 
No  mother  to  woop,  and  no  friend  to  dophjio  him, 
And  thou, little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before  him, 
Unhonorcd  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

When  a  juiiico  to  tlic  fate  of  the  peasant  has  yielded, 
Tiie  Injjostry  waves  dark  roniid  the  dim-lighted 
liall; 
With  'soutoheons  of  silver  the  cofliii  is  sliioldod, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches 

arc  gleaming; 
In  tlio  luondly-arehod  chapel  the  banners  are  beam- 
ing ; 
Tar  adown  the  lone  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming. 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 


But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature. 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain 

lamb. 

When,  wildered,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in 

stature, 

And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam  : 

And   more   stately  tiiy  couch  liy  this  desert   lake 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  graj^  jilover  flying. 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying 
In  the  arms  of  Uelvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


JOCK   OF   IIAZELDEAN.' 

"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  hy  the  tide? 
Ill  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride ; 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldeau. 

"Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  ciieek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Erringtou, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale  ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair ; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 
And  you,  the  foremost  of  them  a'. 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldeau. 

The  kirk  was  dock(Ml  at  morning-tide. 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  songiit  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha'; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen  ! 
She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldeau. 


•  Suggested  by  the  old  ballad  of  "Jock  o'  Ilazelgreen,"  which 
see,  page  1C2. 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT. 


301 


CORONACH. 

Ho  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried* fountain, 

When  onr  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
I3nt  to  ns  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary. 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing, 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  iu  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,' 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Ked  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  tlie  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 


PIBROCH   OF  DOXUIL   DHU. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhn,  pibroch  of  Donuil, 
AVake  thy  wild  voice  anew,  summon  Clan-Counil. 
Come  away,  come  away,  hark  to  the  summons ! 
Come  iu  your  war  array,  gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  gleu,  and  from  monntaiu  so  rocky. 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon  are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and  true  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  everj-  steel  blade,  and  strong  hand  that  bears 
one. 

Leave  nntended  the  herd,  the  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  the  corpse  uuiuterred,  tiie  bride  at  the  altar; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer,  leave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear,  broadswords  and 
targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when  forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when  navies  are  stranded : 

'  The  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game  usually  lies. 


Faster  come,  faster  come,  faster  ami  faster. 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom,  tenant  and  master. 

Fast   they   come,  fast   they   come ;    see    how   they 

gather ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  pluiue,  blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades,  forward  each 

man  set  I 
Pibroch  of  Duuuil  Dim.  knell  for  the  onset! 


BORDER   BALLAD. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale  ; 

Why  the  deil  diuna  ye  march  forward  iu  order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border, 
Many  a  banner  spread 
Flutters  above  your  head. 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  iu  story. 
Mount  and  make  ready  then. 
Sous  of  the  mountain  glen  : 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing. 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  cmg  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lauce,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order ; 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray. 
When  the  Blue  Boiinets  came  over  the  Border. 


REBECCA'S   HYMN. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  from  the  laud  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy'  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  liery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  pr.'iise, 
Ami  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen; 

And  Ziou's  daughters  poured  their  lays. 
With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 

No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze  ; 
Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 


302 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAX  POETRY. 


0(ir  fathers  voulil  not  know  Tliy  waj's, 
And  Thou  ha.st  left  them  to  their  own. 

lint  present  still,  though  now  unseen! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  oh,  Avhen  stoojis  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long-snfl'ering,  slow  to  wratli, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  liarps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  aud  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize ; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrilicc. 


SONG. 
From  "  The  Ladt  of  the  Lake." 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed. 
The  bracken,'  curtain  for  my  head, — 
My  lullaby,  the  warder's  tread. 

Far,  far,  from  love  and  thee,  Mary  ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stillj'  laid, 
My  couch  maj'^  be  my  bloody  plaid. 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Marj* ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow ; 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  f()e, 
Ilis  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ; 
For,  if  I  fall  iu  battle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

.Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 
And,  if  returned  from  conquered  foes. 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose, 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary ! 

'  Fern. 


NORA'S  VOW. 

Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said: 
"The  Earlie's  sou  I  will  not  wed, 
Should  all  the  race  of  nature  die, 
And  none  be  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear. 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near, 
That  ever  valor  lost  or  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  sou  !'' 

"A  maiden's  vows,"  old  Galium  spoke, 
"Are  lightly  made  aud  lightly  broke; 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light : 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  aud  brae ; 
Yet  Nora,  ere  its  bloom  be  gone. 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 

"  The  swan,"'  she  said,  "the  lake's  clear  breast 
Slay  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest ; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward  turn, 
Ben-Cruaichau  fall  and  crush  Kilchuru  ; 
Our  kilted  clans,  when  blood  is  high. 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly; 
But  7,  were  all  these  marvels  done. 
Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  sou." 

Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 

Her  wonted  nest  the  wild-swan  made ; 

Ben-Crnaichau  stands  as  fast  as  ever, 

Still  downward  foams  the  Awe's  fierce  river; 

To  shun  the  clash  of  foeman's  steel. 

No  Highland  brogue  has  turned  the  heel ; 

But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  aud  won — 

She's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  sou ! 


liamcs  illoutgonunj. 

Montgomery  (ITTl-lS-^i),  son  of  a  Moiavian  mission- 
ary, was  a  native  of  Irvine,  in  Ayrshire,  Scotland.  While 
at  school  in  Yorkshire,  he  heard  of  the  death  of  both  his 
parents  in  tlie  East  Indies.  He  began  life  as  assistant  iu 
a  village  shop;  went  to  London,  tried  to  get  a  volume 
of  poems  published,  bnt  failed.  He  then  entered  the 
service  of  Mr.  Joseph  Gales,  of  Shcllield,  father  of  the 
much -esteemed  gentleman  of  the  same  name  who  be- 
came one  of  the  founders  of  the  Xatioiiril  IntcUifjencer, 
long  the  leading  newspaper  in  Washington,  D.  C.  In 
\~',n  Montgomery  started  the  Sheffldd  Jri.%  and  was  im- 
prisoned three  months  for  printing  some  verses  by  an 
entire  slranijer,  that  proved  otTensive  to  government. 
The  following  year  he  was  imprisoned  six  months  and 


JAMES  MONTGOMEBT. 


303 


fined  bccaufee  of  seditious  remarks  ou  a  riot  at  Slicffield, 
wliere  two  men  were  shot  by  soldiers. 

Tiie  chief  poetical  works  of  Montgomery  are,  "The 
Wanderer  in  Switzerland"  (180G) ;  "The  West  Indies" 
(1809);  "Greenland"  (1810);  "  The  World  before  the 
Flood"  (1812);  "The  Pelican  Island,  and  Other  Poems" 
(1827).  lu  addition  to  these  he  published  "Songs  of 
Ziou"  (182:2) ;  "  Prose  by  a  Poet"  (1824).  But  his  strength 
lies  rather  in  his  lyrics  than  in  his  long  poems.  Many 
of  his  short  pieces  are  distinguished  for  their  tenderness 
and  grace,  and  in  some  of  his  hymus  high  literary  art  is 
united  with  deep  religious  feeling.  Mrs.  Sigourney,  the 
American  authoress,  who  saw  him  in  1840,  describes  him 
as  "small  of  stature,  with  an  amiable  countenance,  and 
agreeable,  gentlemanly  manners." 


THE   COMMON  LOT. 

Once  in  tbe  flight  of  ages  past 

There  lived  a  man  ;   and  who  ^vas  he  ? 

Mortal!  howe'er  thj^  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown  : 

His  name  hath  perished  from  the  earth ; 
This  truth  survives  alone  : — 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear, 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast; 

His  bliss  and  Avoe, — a  smile,  a  tear ! 
Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  lauguid  limb, 
The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall, 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him, 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  snifered — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 

Enjoyed — but  his  delights  are  fled; 
Had  friends — his  friends  are  now  no  more  ; 

And  foes — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved — but  whom  he  loved  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb  ; 

Oh !   she  was  fair !   but  naught  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  ; 
He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 

He  is — what  thou  shalt  be ! 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  aud  night, 

Suu,  moon,  aud  stars,  the  earth  and  main. 


Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vaiu. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shade  aud  glory  threw, 

Have  left,  in  yonder  silent  sky. 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Their  ruins  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 

Than  this — Tiikke  lived  a  man. 


FOREVER  WITH  THE  LORD. 

Forever  with  the  Loid ! 
Amen  !   so  let  it  be  ! 
Life  from  the  dead  is  iu  that  word, 
And  immortality. 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 
Absent  from  him  I  roam. 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  teut 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  high. 
Home  of  my  soul !   how  near 
At  times  to  Faith's  foreseeing  eye 
Thy  golden  gates  appear ! 

Ah !   then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  tlie  land  I  love, 
The  bright  iuheritaiice  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  ai)ove ! 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene. 
And  all  mj'  prospect  flies ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  aud  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  depart. 
The  winds  and  waters  cease ; 
While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladdened  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch. 
Along  the  hallowed  ground, 
I  see  cherubic  armies  inarch, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noou  and  midnight  hour. 


304 


CYCLOPAnJlA    OF  BIUTISU  A^D  AAIERICAX  rOETRY. 


Tlie  choral  harmonics  of  heaven 
Earth's  Bahel  tougucs  o'crpowcr. 

Then,  tlicn  I  iw\  tliat  he, 
Rememberetl  or  forgot, 
The  Lord  is  never  far  from  me, 
Thongh  I  perceive  him  not. 

In  darkness  as  in  light. 
Hidden  alike  from  view, 
I  8lei')i,  I  wake,  as  in  his  sight 
Who  looks  all  natnre  throngh. 

All  that  I  am,  have  been, 
All  that  I  yet  may  be. 
He  sees  at  once,  as  he  hath  seen, 
And  shall  forever  see. 

"Forever  with  the  Lord:" 
Father,  if  'tis  thy  will, 
The  promise  of  that  faithful  word 
Unto  thy  child  fulfil ! 

So,  when  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rend  the  veil  in  twain. 
By  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 
And  life  eternal  gain. 


YOUTH   RENEWED. 

Spring  flowers,  spring  birds,  spring  breezes 

Are  felt,  and  heard,  and  seen  ; 

Light  trembling  transport  seizes 

My  heart, — with  sighs  between  : 

These  old  enchantments  till  the  mind 

With  scenes  and  seasons  far  behind  : 

Childhood,  its  smiles  and  tears, 

Yonth,  with  its  flnsh  of  years, 

Its  morning  clouds  and  dewy  i)rime. 

More  exquisitely  touched  by  Time. 

Fancies  again  are  springing. 
Like  May-llowers  in  the  vales; 
While  hopes,  long  lost,  are  singing, 
From  thorns,  like  nightingales  ; 
And  kindly  spirits  stir  my  blood, 
Like  vernal  airs  that  curl  the  Hood : 
Tliere  falls  to  manhood's  lot 
A  joj',  which  yonth  has  not, 
A  dream,  more  beautiful  than  truth, 
— Returning  Spring  reuewing  Youth. 


Thus  sweetly  to  surrender 

The  present  for  the  past ; 

\\\  sprightly  mood,  yet  tender, 

Life's  burden  down  to  cast, 

— This  is  to  taste,  from  stage  to  stage, 

Yonth  on  the  lees  retiued  by  age: 

Like  wine  well  kept  and  long, 

Heady,  nor  harsh,  nor  strong. 

With  every  annual  cup,  is  quall'ed 

A  richer,  purer,  mellower  draught. 


LIFT  T^P   TIIIXE   EYES,  AFFLICTED   SOUL. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  afflicted  sonl ! 

From  earth  lift  up  thine  eyes, 
Thongh  dark  the  evening  shadows  roll. 

And  daylight  beauty  dies ; 
One  sun  is  set — a  thousand  more 

Their  rounds  of  glory  run. 
Where  science  leads  thee  to  explore 

In  every  star  a  sun. 

Thus,  when  some  long-loved  comfort  ends, 

And  natnre  would  despair, 
Faith  to  the  heaven  of  lieaveus  ascends. 

And  meets  ten  thousand  there  ; 
First  faint  and  small,  then  clear  and  bright. 

They  gladden  all  the  gloom, 
And  stars  that  seem  but  points  of  light 

The  rank  of  suns  assume. 


SONNET:    THE   CRUCIFIXION. 

IMITATED   I'UOM   THE   ITALIAN  OF  CRESCIMBEXI. 

I  asked  the  Heavens, — "What  foe  to  God  hath  done 

This  unexampled  deed  ?"     The  Heavens  exclaim, 

" 'Twas  Man; — and  we  in  horror  snatched  the  sun 

From  such  a  spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame." 

I  asked  the  Sea  ; — the  Sea  iu  fury  boiled. 

And  answered   with  his  voice   of  storms,  "'Twas 

Man  : 
My  waves  in  panic  at  his  crime  recoiled, 
Disclosed  the  abyss,  and  from  the  centre  ran." 
I  asked  the  Earth ; — the  Earth  replied,  aghast, 
"  'Twas  Man  ;   and  such  strange  pangs  my  bosom 

rent. 
That  still  I  groan  and  shudder  at  the  past." 
— To  Man,  gay,  smiling,  thoughtless  Man,  I  went, 
And  asked  him  next : — He  turned  a  scornful  eye, 
I  Shook  his  iiroud  head,  and  deigned  me  no  reply. 


I 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY.— SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


305 


HUMILITY. 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing, 
BiiiUls  ou  the  grouml  lier  h)\vly  iiest ; 

And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing, 
Sings  in  the  shade  when  all  things  rest : 

— In  lark  and  nightingale  \ve  see 

What  honor  hath  hnniility. 

When  Mary  chose  "  the  better  part," 

She  meekly  sat  at  Jesns'  feet ; 
And  Lydia's  gently  opened  heart 

Was  made  for  God's  own  temple  meet ; 
— Fairest  and  best  adorned  is  she, 
Whose  clothing  is  hnniility. 

The  saint  that  wears  heaven's  brightest  crown, 

In  deepest  adoration  bends ; 
The  weight  of  glory  bows  him  down, 

Then  most  when  most  his  sonl  ascends  : 
— Nearest  the  throne  itself  must  be 
The  footstool  of  humility. 


Samuel  i^aiilor  Coleridge. 

The  son  of  a  vicar,  Coleridge  (1773-1834)  was  born  at 
Ottery,  Devonshire,  October  31st.  Left  an  orphan  at 
nine  years  of  age,  he  became  a  pupil  at  Christ's  Hospi- 
tal, where  he  had  Charles  Lamb  for  a  school-fellow.  In 
1791  he  entered  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  where  he 
obtained  the  prize  for  a  Greek  ode  ou  the  subject  of  the 
slave-trade.  Becoming  a  Unitarian  in  his  religious  opin- 
ions, he  deserted  the  University  in  the  second  year  of 
his  residence,  and,  after  Meandering  about  the  streets  of 
London  in  a  state  of  destitution,  at  last  enlisted  in  the 
15th  Dragoons.  From  this  position  he  was  rescued  by 
his  friends,  and  returned  to  Cambridge.  Eventually  he 
left  the  University  without  taking  a  degree.  At  Bris- 
tol he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Southej'  and  Robert 
Lovell.  They  planned  the  founding  of  a  i)antisocracy 
(an  all-equal  government)  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna ;  but  lack  of  means  compelled  them  to  give  up 
the  wild  scheme.  The  ideal  republic  evaporated  in  the 
more  matter-of-fact  event  of  love  and  matrimony ;  and 
the  three  pantisocrats  mari-ied  three  sisters  of  the  name 
of  Fricker,  daughters  of  a  small  Bristol  tradesman. 

In  1794  Coleridge  published  a  volume  of  poems,  for 
which  Cottle  gave  him  £30.  It  was  while  occupying  a 
cottage  at  Nether- Stowcy  that  he  became  acquainted 
with  Wordsworth;  and  here  he  composed  his  "Ancient 
Mariner"  and  his  "Christabel."  In  1796  he  published 
another  volume  of  poems,  interspersed  with  pieces  \>y 
Charles  Lamb.  In  1798,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Wedgwood,  he  was  enabled  to  pursue  his  studies  in  Ger- 
many. On  his  return  to  England,  he  went  to  live  at  the 
Cumberland  Lakes,  where  Southey  and  Wordsworth 
were  already  settled.  The  three  friends  were  called  the 
20 


Lake  poets  ;  and  the  Lake  School  of  poetry  became  an 
object  of  attack  to  Byron  and  others.  Here  the  Jaco- 
bin became  a  Royalist,  and  the  Unitarian  a  devoted  be- 
liever in  the  Trinity. 

In  1810  Coleridge  removed,  but  not  with  his  family,  to 
London.  Leaving  his  wife  and  children  dependent  on 
the. kindness  of  Southc)-,  he  settled  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
James  Gillman,  at  Higligate,  where  he  lived  the  remain- 
der of  his  life.  He  had  become  addicted  to  opium-eat- 
ing, and  a  painful  estrangement  ensued  between  himself 
and  his  family.  Mr.  Gillman,  who  was  a  surgeon,  under- 
took the  cure  of  this  unfortunate  habit.  At  Higligate 
Coleridge  wrote  his  "Lay  Sermons,"  his  "Aids  to  Re- 
flection," and  the  "Biographia  Literaria."  There,  like- 
wise, he  studied  the  German  metaphysicians,  and  became 
noted  for  his  rare  conversational  powers.  Tlie  winter 
preceding  his  death  he  wrote  the  following  epitaith  for 
himself: 
"Stop,  Christian  pnsser-by  !  stop,  child  of  God  ! 

And  read  with  gentle  breast.    Beneath  this  sod 

A  pnet  lies,  or  tliat  which  ouce  seemed  he — 

Oh,  lift  a  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ! 

Tliat  he  who  many  a  year  with  toll  of  breath 

Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death! 

Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 

He  asked  and  hoped  through  Christ — do  thou  the  same !"' 

The  poems  of  Coleridge  are  various  in  style  and  man- 
ner, embracing  ode,  tragedy,  and  love-poems,  and  strains 
of  patriotism  and  superstition.  His  translation  of  Schil- 
ler's "  Wallenstein  "  is,  in  many  parts,  less  a  translation 
than  a  paraphrase,  and  often  shows  a  lavishness  of  orig- 
inal power.  As  a  Shakspearian  critic,  he  stands  deser- 
vedly high  ;  and  among  philosophers,  his  fame  as  an  ex- 
pounder of  the  thoughts  of  others  is  still  considerable. 

The  most  original  of  Coleridge's  poems,  "The  Ancient 
Mariner,"  has  a  weird  charm  which  has  given  it  much 
celebrity.  The  hymn  on  "Chamouni,"  fervid,  stately, 
and  brilliant,  is,  in  parts,  a  paraphrase  from  the  German 
of  Friederike  Brun's  "Chamouni  at  Sunrise."  The  ed- 
itor of  Coleridge's  "Table  Talk"  admits  the  obligation, 
but  excuses  it  on  the  ground  that  it  is  too  obvious  to 
be  concealed.  We  append  the  original,  and  a  transla- 
tion of  it  by  John  Sullivan  D  wight,  of  Boston. 

"Ans  tiefem  Schatten  des  schweigenden  Tauneiihaiiis 
Eiblick  ich  bebend  dich,  Scheitel  dec  Ewigkeit, 
Blendender  Gipfel,  von  dessen  Ibihe 
Ahneud  meiii  Geist  ins  Uneudliche  schwebet ! 

"  Wer  senkte  den  Pfeiler  tief  in  der  Erde  Schoos, 
Der  seit  Jahrtanseuden,  fest  deine  Masse  stutzt? 
Wer  thurmte  hoch  in  des  Aethers  Wolhiiiig 
Miichtig  und  kuhn  deiii  umstrahltes  Antlit/.  ? 

"Wer  goss  Each  hoch  ans  des  ewigen  Winters  Reich, 
O  ZackenstriJme,  mil  Donnergetiis',  herab  '! 
Und  wer  gebietet  lant  niit  der  Allmacht  Slimme: 
'  Ilier  sollen  nihen  die  starrendeu  Wogeu  ?' 

"Wer  zeichnct  dort  dem  Morgensterue  die  Bahn? 

Wer  kianzt  niit  BUithen  des  ewigen  Frostes  Saum  ? 
Wem  tout  in  schrecklichcn  Harmonien, 
Wilder  Arveiron,  deiu  Wogentummel  ? 

"Jehovah!  Jehovah!  kracht's  im  berstendeu  Els; 
Lavinendonner  rollen's  die  Kliift  hinab: 
Jehovah  !   ranscht's  in  den  helleii  Wipfelri, 
Fliihsterl's  an  rieselden  Silbeibachen."' 


306 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  IlIUTISn  AM)   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


TRANSLATION. 

"Fn)in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  still  rtr-groves 
Tienihlinn;  I  look  to  thoc,  etoriial  lieij^ht  ! 
Thou  diizzliiig  suminit,  from  whose  top  my  soul 
Floats,  with  dimmed  vision,  to  the  iuftiiite! 

"Who  sauk  in  earth's  firm  hip  the  pillars  deep 
Which  hold  throu;4h  a^^es  thy  vast  pile  iu  place? 
Who  reared  on  hi<j:h,  in  the  clear  ether's  vault, 
Lofty  and  stroug,  thy  ever-radiant  face  ? 

"Who  poured  you  forth,  ye  mountain  torrents  wild, 
Down  thundering  from  eternal  winter's  breast? 
And  who  cijmmanded,  with  almighty  voice, 
'Here  let  the  stifleuing  billows  lind  their  rest?' 

"Who  ))oiuts  to  yonder  morning-star  his  path? 

Borders  with  wreaths  of  flowers  the  eternal  frost? 
To  whom,  in  awful  music,  cries  thy  stream, 
O  wild  Arveiron  !  iu  lierce  tumult  tossed? 

"Jehovah!  God!  bursts  from  the  crashing  ice; 
The  avalanche  thunders  down  its  steeps  the  call : 
Jehovah  !  rustle  soft  the  bright  tree-tops. 
Whisper  the  silver  brooks  that  murmuring  fall." 

The  fame  of  Coleridge  has  suffered  no  diminution  since 
liis  death.  Great  as  a  thinker  and  critic,  he  is  yet  more 
cmineut  for  his  natural  gifts  as  a  poet. 


LOVE. 

All  tbonglits,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stir  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  food  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
AVlion  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  Avitb  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  loaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armdd  kuight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  uiy  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  uiy  joy,  my  Gencvievo  ! 
She  loves  mo  best  whene'er  I  slug 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  phiycd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoarv. 


She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  sho  knew  I  could  not  chooso 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  lior  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand, 
And  how  for  ten  long  years  ho  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land: 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :   and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pletuling  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  how  he  crossed  tla;  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  augel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  how  he  knew  it  was  a  flend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  how,  unknowing  Avhat  he  did. 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Laiul  ;  — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  sho  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

And  how  she  nursed  liini  in  a  cave; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  ho  lay; — 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tendercst  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
5Iy  faltering  voice  and  ])ausiiig  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


307 


All  impulses  of  soul  aiul  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Gciiovieve  : 
The  mnsic  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  aud  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  aud  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  uudistinguishable  throng ; 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  Mvept  \%ith  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  aud  maiden  shame ; 
And,  like  the  munuur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside 
As  couscious  of  my  look  she  stepped ; 
Then  suddeulj-,  with  timorous  ej'e. 
She  tlew  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  euclosed  mo  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
Aud,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partlj'  love,  and  partl^^  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 


HYMX  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IX  THE  VALE  QF 
CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 

In  his  steep  course  ?     So  loug  ho  seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald,  awftd  head,  O  sovran  Blanc ! 

The  Arve  and  Arvciron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly  ;   but  thou,  most  awful  form  ! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 

How  silently!     Around  thee  aud  above 

Deep  is  the  air,  aud  dark,  substantial,  black. 

An  ebon  mass  :   methinks  thou  piercest  it 

As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

O  dread  and  silent  mount!   I  gazed  upon  thoo 

Till  thou,  still  preseut  to  the  bodily  sense, 


Didst  vanish  from  my  thought:  entranced  in  prayer 
I  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody. 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 

Thou,  the    mean    while,  wast   blending    with    my 

thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy, 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  eurapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  i^assing — there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul  I   not  onlj^  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !   not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy!     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  clifts,  all  join  my  liynui ! 

Thou  lirst  aud  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale ! 
Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink  : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  stai",  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :   wake,  oh  wake,  aud  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  suuless  pillars  deep  iu  earth  ? 
Who  tilled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  i^arent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  uiglit  and  utter  death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  yon  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Y'our  streugth,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

Aud  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-fiills !   ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  aniain^ 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  nughtj^  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !   silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full-moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clotho    you    with    rainbows  ?     Who,   with    living 

flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
God!     Let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !   and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 


30B 


CYCJJU'.KDJ.l    OF  lililTlSlI   AM)   AMERICAS   roKTIlY. 


Yo  pilie-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soiil-like  sounds! 
And  tbey  too  liave  a  voit<',  yon  jiilcs  of  snow , 
And  in  their  iiorilons  fall  shall  thiiiKh  r,  (uxl  ! 

Vc  livinjj;  llowcrs  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  floats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  i>layniates  of  the  inonntaiu-storni  I 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clonds ! 
Yc  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
irtter  forth  (Jod.  and  fill  tlu;  hills  with  praise! 

Thou  too,  hoar  nionnt !  w  ith  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanehe,  unheard. 
Shoots    downward,    glittering    through     the    ])ure 

serene. 
Into  the  depth  of  elouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  mountain  !   thon 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awliile  bowed  low 
III  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
blow  tnivelling,  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me,— rise,  oh  ever  rise ! 
Rise  like  a  eloud  of  incense  from  the  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch!   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  snn, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God! 


COMPLAINT. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  i)ains! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits. 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he  merits, 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 

liKPISOOK. 

For    shame,  dear    friend!     renoiuiee    this    canting 

strain  ! 
What  wouldst  tlnui  have  a  good  great  man  obtain  ? 
Place — titles — salary — a  gilded  chain  — 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? — 
Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  nu-ans,  but  ends! 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends. 
The  good  great  man  ? — Three   treasures,  love,  and 

light. 
And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infant's  breath;  — 
And   three   lirni   fiiends,  more   sure   than    day    and 

night— 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 


HOIAX   LIFE. 
ON  Till-:  i)i;xiAL  Of  immoi:tamtv. 

If  dead,  we  cease  to  be  ;   if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  tlash  for  aye,  we  fare 
As  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom, 

Whose  sound  and  motion  iiot  alone  declare, 
But  are  the  tchole  of  being!     If  the  breath 

Be  life  itself,  and  not  its  task  and  tent; 
If  e'en  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death  ; 

O  man  !   thon  vessel,  purposeless,  unmeant, 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  iihantom  purposes! 

Surplus  of  Nature's  dread  activity, 
Wliich,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finislied  va.se, 
Retreating  slow,  Avitli  meditative  pause, 

She  formed  with  restless  bands  unconsciously! 
Blank  accident!   nothing's  anomaly! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substauceless  thy  state, 
Go,  Aveigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  th^'  hopes,  thy  fears. 
The  counter-weights! — Thy  laughter  and  thy  tears 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  tittest  to  create. 
And  to  repay  the  other !     Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner's  hood  ? 
Why  waste  thj^  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices. 

Image  of  image,  ghost  of  ghostly  elf. 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold  ? 
Yet  Avhat  and  whence  thy  gain  if  thon  withhold 

These  costly  shadows  of  thj'  shadowy  self? 
Be  sad!   be  glad!   be  neither!   seek  or  shun! 
Thon  hast  no  reason  why  ;  thou  canst  have  none  ; 
Thy  being's  being  is  a  contradiction. 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS;  OR,  THE  POET  IN 
THE  CLOUDS. 

Oh,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ea.se, 

Just  after  sunset  or  by  moonlight  skies, 

To  make  the  shifting  clonds  be  what  you  please. 

Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 

Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 

Of  a  friend's  fancj' ;   or,  with  head  bent  low. 

And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  How  of  gold 

'Twixt  crimson  banks;    and  then,  a  traveller,  go 

Fron\  mount  to  mount  through  Clondland,  gorgeous 

land! 
Or,  listening  to  the  tide  with  closed  sight, 
Ke  that  blind  bard  who.  on  the  Chian<iStraud, 
By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  Avith  inward  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 
Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 


i 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLEIiWdE. 


309 


LOVE,  HOPE,  AND  PATIENCE  IN  EDUCATION. 

OVt  Avaywanl  cbiUlhooil  woiildst   thou  hold   firm 

rule, 
Auil  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces, 
Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven's  starry  globe,  and  tlicre  sustains  it, — so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  ^Yorld  below 
Of  Education, — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 
Methinks  I  see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show, 
The  straitened  arms  npraised,  the  palms  aslope, 
And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embo.ssed  in  snow. 
O,  part  them  never!     If  Hope  prostrate  lie, 
Love  too  "will  sink  and  die. 
Jjut  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive  ; 
And,  bending  o"er  with  soul-transfusiug  eyes, 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother-dove, 
Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit  and  half-supplies ; — 
Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  tirst  gave 

to  Love. 
Yet  haply  there  will  come  a  Tveary  day, 

When,  overtasked  at  length. 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 
Then,  with  a  statue's  smile,  a  statue's  strength, 
Stands  the  mute  sister,  Patience,  nothing  loath, 
And  both  supporting,  does  the  work  of  both. 


FKOM   ''DEJECTION:    AN  ODE." 

O  lady !  we  receive  but  what  we  give. 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live  : 
Onrs  is  her  wedding  garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold  of  higher  worth 
Than  that  inanimate,  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd. 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair,  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  earth  ; 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  .sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 
O  pure  of  heart !   thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  he  ; 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair,  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power! 

Joy,  virtuous  lady!  joy  that  ne'er  was  given 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour; 


Life  and  life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower, 

Joy,  lady,  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 

Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower ; 

A  new  earth  and  new  heaven. 
Undreamed  of  by  the  seusual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice. 
All  colors  a  suflfusion  from  that  liirht. 


DEATH    OF    MAX    PICCOLOMINI. 

From  Schiller's  "  Death  of  Wallessteis." 

Ill  his  translation  of  "  Wallenstein,"  Coleridge  has  occas-ioii- 
ally  taken  great  liberties  with  the  origin.il.  The  following 
beautiful  passage  has  iu  it  more  of  Coleridge  thau  of  Schiller. 

He  is  ffone — is  dust. 


He  the  more  fortunate  !   yea,  he  hath  finished  ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  anj-  future. 

His  life  is  bright — bright  without  spot  it  teas, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 

Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 

Of  the  unsteady  planets.     Oh,  'tis  well 

With  him!   but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour. 

Veiled  iu  thick  darkness,  brings  for  ns  ? 

I  shall  grieve  down  this  blow  ;  of  that  I'm  con- 
scious : 
What    does    not    man    grieve    down?     From    tlic 

highest. 
As  from  the  vilest,  thing  of  every  day 
He  learns  to  wean  him.self ;   for  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him.     Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 
In  him.     The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life. 
For  oh,  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth. 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  (oils, 
The  beautiful  is  vanished — and  returns  not. 


EPITAPH  ON  AN   INFANT. 

Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care. 

The  opening  bud  to  heaven  conveyed. 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 


310 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  BRITISH   AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE  KIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

IN   SEVEN   PARTS. 

"Facile  nctlo,  pliires  esse  Niitmas  invisibiles  quam  visiljiles 
in  renim  univer6.itnte.  Set!  honim  oniuiuin  faniiliam  qnis  no- 
bis euainibit,  et  •jradiis  et  coujiiationes  et  disfiimiiia  et  sin-jii- 
loriiin  miincra?  Quid  ac;iu)t  ?  qiiw  loca  habitant  ?  Ilariim  re- 
nim notitiani  semper  aml)ivit  in;4cuiiim  Ininianum,  niinqiiaiu 
nttii^it.  Jiivat,  interea,  non  clifflieor,  qiianrti)qiie  in  aninio,  tan- 
qilam  in  tabula,  niajoris  el  incHi)ris  niiUKli  iinai^incm  coiitcjn- 
plari:  ne  mens  assuelacta  liodierniB  vit*  minntiis  se  contialiat 
nimis,  et  tota  snbsidat  in  pnsillas  cogitalinnes.  Sed  veritati 
interea  invigilandiim  est,  modusqne  servaudiis,  ut  certa  ab  in- 
certis,  dicin  a  uocle,  dislingiianiiis.""  —  T.  Burnkt:  Arclireo!. 
Phil.,  p.  6S. 


It  is  an  iiiiciciit  iiuuiiicr, 

Aud  be  stoppeth  one  of  three  : 
"By  thy  long  gray  board  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wbcrcforo  stopp'st  thou  nie  ? 

"The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 

ilayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  : 

'•There  was  a  sliip,"  quoth  he. 
■•  Hokl  off!   uidiaiid  me,  gray-beard  loon!" 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropped  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three-years'  child  ; 

The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
Aud  thus  spake  ou  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner: — 

The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  W(>  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below   the  hill, 

Below  the  light-hou.se  top. 

The  sun  eami'   up  tijion  the  left. 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  — 
The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
■    For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast. 

Yet  he  cannot  clioo.se  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner  ; — 

And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  ho 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong; 
He  struck  Avith  his  o'ertaking  wiugs, 

And  chased  lis  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow. 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  ))low 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast. 

And  southward  aye  we  lied. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow. 

And  it  grew  womlrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  lloating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 

Aud  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 

The  ice  Avas  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 

The  ice  was  all  around : 
It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  aud  howled. 

Like  noises  in  a  swouud! 

At  length  did  cross  an  albatross  : 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul. 

We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne't-r  had  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  Hew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  lis  through ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 

The  albatross  did  follow, 
Aud  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 
It  perched  for  vespers  niue : 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERllJUK. 


311 


^Yhile.s  all  the  iiiglit,  through  fog-smoke  Avhite, 
Gliuiiiiered  the  white  niooiisliine. 

"God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner! 

From  the  liends  that  jilagne  thee  thus ! 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ?" — With  my  cross-bow 

I  shot  the  albatross. 


The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right  : 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  aiul  ou  the  left 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 

Bat  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Xor  any  day  for  food  or  play 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hullo  I 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  "cm  woe  ; 
For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Ah  wretch !   said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Xor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist : 
Then  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
'Twas  right,  said  thej',  such  birds  to  slay 

That  bring  the  fog  aud  mist. 

The  fair  bi'eeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

The  furrow  followed  free  ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  sileut  sea. 

Down  dropped  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropped  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
Aud  we  did  speak  ouly  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  sun,  at  noon. 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  staml, 

No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 

We  stuck,  uor  breath  nor  motion ; 

As  idle  as  a  i)ainfed  ship 
Upon  a  i^aiuted  ocean. 


Water,  water,  everywhere, 

Aud  all  the  boards  did  shrink  : 

Water,  water,  everywhere. 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :   O  Christ  I 

That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  Avith  legs 

Upou  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-tires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  aud  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 

Nine  fathoius  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  suow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 

Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
AVe  could  not  speak,  uo  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah!   well-a-day !   what  evil  looks 

Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 

About  my  neck  was  hung. 


There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  x>ai'ched,  aud  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !    a  weary  time ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  iu  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  aud  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 

Aud  it  still  neared  and  ueared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 

It  plunged  and  tacked  aud  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  not  laugh  nor  wail ; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood; 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail !   a  sail  I 


312 


CYCLOPJEDIA    or  liUITISll  AM)  JMERICAX  J'OKTHY. 


With  throats  mislakud,  with  black  lips  baked, 

Ajxapc  they  heard  lue  call  : 
rJraniercy  !    they  for  Joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  oiico  their  breath  drew  in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See!   see!   (I  cried)   she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  woric  us  weal ; 
Witiiiiut  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

tSlio  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

Tiio  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 

'I'hc  day  was  well-nigh  done, 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As  if  through  a  duugeou-grate  he  peered 
With  1)road  and  burning  face. 

Alas!   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud,) 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 

Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Arc  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death,  and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  hxdcs  were  free. 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 
The  nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  Ijlood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  along-side  came. 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  : 
"  The  game  is  done  !     I've  wn)n — I've  won  I" 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips;    the  stars  rush  out: 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 

Oft"  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 


My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip! 
The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 
The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clondj  above  the  eastern  bar 
Tiie  horndd  moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within   the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon. 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Eacl)  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang. 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 

(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan). 

With  heavy  thnmp,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dro])i)ed  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 

Tiiey  tied  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by 

Like  the  whizz  of  ni}-  cross-bow ! 


••  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner ! 

I  fear  thj'  skinny  hand ! 
And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 

As  is  th(^  ribbed  sea-sand.' 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thj'  glittering  eye. 
And  Ihy  skinny  hand  so  brown." — 

Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest  ! 
This  body  dropped  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 
And  a  thous;ind  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;    and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea. 

And  drew  my  (*yes  away; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

'  For  the  Inst  two  lines  of  tliis  sfniiza  I  nni  iiidcbteil  to  Mr. 
Wordswoith.  Il  was  on  a  (luli;^lUfiil  walk  from  Ketlier  .Stowcy 
to  Diilverton,  wiili  liiin  and  his  sister,  in  the  aiUmnn  of  IT'JT, 
tliat  this  poem  was  planned,  and  in  part  composed. 


1 


HAM V EL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


:5i:J 


I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gushed, 
A  \vicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

^ly  lieart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

Tiie  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs. 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 
The  look  with  whicb  they  looked  on  me 

Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 
Hut  oh  !   more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  nowhere  did  abide : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 
Dut  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay 
The  chaimed  water  burnt  alway, 

A  still  and  aw^ful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  the  water-snakes : 
They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white. 
And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire  : 
Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coiled  and  swam ;   and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things !   no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware  : 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 


The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray  ; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


0  sleep!   it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck. 
That  had  so  long  remained, 

1  dreamed  that  they  were  filled  with  dew  ; 
And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 

My  garments  all  Avere  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 

I  was  so  light— almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 

And  Avas  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 

It  did  not  come  anear; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen. 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  aiul  still 

The  moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
Tiie  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 


314 


CYCLOl'.KDIA   OF  JilUTISH  AM)   AMEUU'AX  I'OETRY 


They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Xor  Kpakc,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 

It  Iiail  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  liave  .seen  those  dead  int;n  rise. 

Tlie  liclnisnian  steered,  tlie  ship  moved  on  ; 

Vet  never  a  breeze  np  blew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  Averc  wont  to  do  ; 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  ; 
Tiie  body  and  I  pnlled  at  one  rope, 

15nt  he  said  nanglit  to  me. 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner!" 

Be  calm,  thou  wcdding-gnest : 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  lied  in  pain, 
Wiiieh  to  tlieir  corses  came  again. 

But  a  troop  of  spirits  blessed: 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 

And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths. 

And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  sun  ; 
Slowly  tlie  sounds  came  back  again. 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  cue. 

Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 

I  heard  the  skylark  sing  ; 
vSometimes  all  little  birds  that  are. 
How  they  seemed  to  till  the  sea  and  air 

Willi  tlicir  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  llute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;   yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  i)leasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  iu)is»!  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  Jnne, 
That  to  the  sleejting  woods  all  night 

Singcth  a  (juiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  : 


Slowly  aud  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  bcneatli. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid  ;   and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  loft  otf  their  tuue, 
And  tiio  sliii)  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  th(^  mast. 

Had  lixed  her  to  the  ocean  : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  to  stir. 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backward  and  forward  lialf  her  length 

Witli  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 

She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  thing  the  blood  into  my  head. 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  he  ?"  quoth  one  ;  "  is  this  the  man  ? 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 

Tiie  harmless  albatross. 

"The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 
Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

Aud  penance  more  will  do." 

TAUT   VI. 

FIRST     VOICE. 

But  tell  me,  tell  me !   speak  again. 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 

What  is  the  Ocean  doing? 

SECOND    VOICE. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  Ocean  hath  no  blast ; 


i 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


315 


His  great  Ijiigbt  eye  most  silcutly 
Up  to  tbe  luoou  is  cast — 

If  lie  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 

For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
Sec,  brother,  see  !  bow  graciously 

She  lookcth  dowu  on  him. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Witliont  or  wave  or  wind? 

SECOND     VOICE. 

The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  I   more  bigh,  more  high  ! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated ; 
For  slow  and  slow  tbat  ship  will  go. 

When  tbe  mariners  trance  is  abated. 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather : 
'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high  ; 

Tbe  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  togetber  on  the  deck 

For  a  cbaruel-duugeou  fitter : 
All  fixed  OQ  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  tbe  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died. 

Had  never  passed  away : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 

Xor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  the  spell  was  snapped :   once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green. 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 
And  having  once  turned  round  Avalks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  bead  ; 
Because  be  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 

Xor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  npon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


It  raised  ray  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship. 

Yet  she  sailed  softly,  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh,  dream  of  joy  !   is  this,  indeed. 

The  light-bouse  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  liilH   is  this  tbe  kirk? 

Is  this  my  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor  bar. 

And  I  witb  sobs  did  pray — - 
Ob  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 

Or  let  me  sleej)  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  tbe  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  tbe  kirk  no  less 

That  stands  above  tbe  rock : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentuess, 

The  steady  weather-cock. 

And  tbe  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till,  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes  tbat  shadows  were. 

In  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 

I  turned  my  eyes  npon  the  deck — 
O  Christ !   what  saw  I  there  ? 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 

And,  by  tbe  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph  band,  each  waved  bis  hand: 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 

Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph  l)and,  eacli  waved  his  hand. 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;   but  oh  !   the  silence  sank 

Like  music  on  my  heart. 


316 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  JfltlTIfSH  AM)  AMKRICAX  I'OETRY 


But  soon  I  heard  tlio  dash  of  oars, 

I  heard  the  ]>il(>t's  cheer; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot's  hoy, 

I  lieard  them  coiniii"^  Cast  : 
Dear  Lord  in  lieaven  !    it  was  a  joy 

Tiic  dead  men  eonld  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  hermit  j^ood  ! 
Ho  singeth  h>ud  his  j;odly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  Avood. 
He'll  shrievc  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  albatross's  blood. 


This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

Wiiich  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  mariners 

That  come  from  a  far  couutree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump: 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak  stump. 

The  skiif-boat  iieared  :   I  heard  them  talk, 

"  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights,  so  many  and  fair. 

That  signal  made  but  now  ?'' 

"  Strange,  by  my  faith  I''  the  hermit  said — 
"And  they  answered  not  our  cheer! 

The  planks  looked  warped !    and  see  those  sails, 
How  thin  they  are,  and  sere! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 
Unless  perchauee  it  were 

"  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  w<df  l)elow, 

Tliiit  eats  the  she-w(df's  young." 

"Dear  Lord!    it  luith  a  ti<'n(lisli   locdv — 

(Tiie  ]iilot  made  reply,) 
I  am  a-feared." — "Push  on — push  on!"' 

Said  the  hermit,  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship. 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 


The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on. 

Still  huider  and  more  dread: 
1 1  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay — 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote. 
Like  cue  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned, 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  i)ilol's  boat. 

V\w\\  the  whirl,  Avhcre  sank  the  .ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shrieked. 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :   the  pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go. 
Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro: 
"Ha!   ha!"  quoth  he,  "full  plain  I  see 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  noAv,  all  in  my  own  couutr<5e, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 
The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  Oh  slirieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  !"' 

The  hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee  say — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?" 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  wofnl  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale  ;  • 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 

This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land: 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   C0LE1UDGE.—M1:.S.  MAIiY  {BLACKFOIID)   TIC.HE. 


317 


Til  at  inoiiieut  that  bis  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  tbat  must  lieur  me : 
To  him  my  talc  I  toach. 

AVhat  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there  ; 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  brideniaids  singing  are  : 
Ami  bark!   the  little  vesper-bell, 

Which  biddetb  me  to  prayer. 

O  wedding  guest !   this  soul  hath  beeu 

Alone  on  a  wide,  Avide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemtSd  there  to  be. 

Oh  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

With  a  goodly  company ! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 
AVbile  eacb  to  bis  great  Father  bends. 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
He  prayeth  well  who  lovetb  well 

Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  suuill ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
"Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 

Is  gone  :   and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


TO   THE   AUTHOR  OF   "THE  ANCIENT 
MARlNEPt." 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  sir;   it  cannot  fail! 

For  'tis  incomprehensible, 
And  without  head  or  tail. 


illrs.  illanj  (Ulackforbj   (ticiljc. 

The  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Blackford,  Wicklow 
Couuty,  Ireland,  Mary  was  born  in  1773,  and  died  in 
1810.  Her  principal  poem,  "Psyche,"  in  si.^  cantos, 
shows  a  very  skilful  command  of  the  Spenserian  meas- 
ure, and  contains  many  graceful  and  elegant  stanzas. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  says  of  the  last  three  cantos : 
"They  are  beyond  all  doubt  the  most  faultless  scries 
of  verses  ever  produced  by  a  woman."  The  value  of 
the  praise  depends  on  the  meaning  we  give  to  the  word 
faultless.  Moore's  song,  "I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful 
prime,"  was  written  in  recollection  of  Mrs.  Tighe.  The 
longer  piece  we  publish,  written  within  the  year  preced- 
ing her  death,  was  the  last  she  ever  produced,  and  per- 
haps the  best.  Her  husband,  Henry  Tighe,  M.P.,  edited 
an  edition  other  poems  after  her  death. 


ON   RECEIVING  A  BRANCH  OF  MEZEREON, 

WHICH  FLOWEIiEU  AT  WOODSTOCK,  DECEMBEI!,  1809. 

Odors  of  spring,  my  sense  ye  charm 

"With  fragance  premature. 
And,  'mid  these  days  of  dark  alarm. 

Almost  to  hope  allure. 
Methinks  with  purpose  soft  ye  come. 

To  tell  of  brighter  hours. 
Of  May's  blue  skies,  abundant  bloom, 

Her  sunny  gales  and  showers. 

Alas !   for  me  shall  Maj'  in  vain 

The  powers  of  life  restore  ; 
These  eyes  that  weeji  and  watch  in  pain 

Shall  see  her  charms  no  more. 
No,  no,  this  anguish  cannot  last ! 

Beloved  friends,  adieu  ! 
The  bitterness  of  death  were  past, 

Could  I  resign  but  you. 

But  oh,  in  every  mortal  pang 

That  rends  my  soul  from  life. 
That  sonl,  which  seems  on  you  to  hang 

Through  each  convulsive  strife. 
Even  now,  with  agonizing  grasp 

Of  terror  and  regret. 
To  all  in  life  its  love  would  clasp 

Clings  close  and  closer  yet. 

Yet  why,  immortal,  vital  spark  ! 

Thus  mortally  oppressed  ? 
Look  up,  my  soul,  through  prospects  dark. 

And  bid  thy  terrors  rest ; 
Forget,  forego  thy  earthly  part, 

Thiue  heavenly  being  trust: — 


318 


CYCLOI'.KIHA    OF  JiniTISll   AM)   AMKRICAX  FOKTRY. 


All,  vaiii  attempt!   my  coward  heart, 
Still  sliiulderiiig,  clings  to  dust. 

Oh  ye  Avho  soothe  the  pangs  of  (h-ath 

With  love's  own  patient  care, 
Still,  still  retain  this  lleeting  breath. 

Still  ponr  the  fervent  prayer: — 
And  ye  whose  sniilo  ninst  greet  uiy  eye 

No  more,  nor  voice  my  ear, — 
Who  breathe  for  uie  the  tender  sigh. 

And  shed  the  pitying  tear, — 

Whose  kindness  (though  far,  far  removed) 

My  grateful  thoughts  perceive. 
Pride  of  my  life,  esteemed,  beloved. 

My  last  sad  claim  receive  ! 
Oh,  do  not  quite  your  friend  forget, 

Forget  alone  her  faults; 
And  speak  of  her  -with  fond  regret 

Who  asks  your  lingering  thoughts. 


WRITTEN  AT   KILLARNEY,  JULY  29,  1800. 

How  soft  the  pause !  the  notes  melodious  cease 
Which  from  each  feeling  could  au  echo  call. 
Rest  on  your  oars,  that  not  a  sound  may  fall 
To  interrupt  the  stillness  of  our  peace  : 
The  fanning  west  wind  breathes  upon  our  cheeks, 
Yet  glowing  with  the  sun's  departed  beams. 
Thro'  the  blue  heavens  the  cloudless  moon  pours 

streams 
Of  pure,  resplendent  light,  in  silver  streaks 
Reflected  on  the  still,  unrntHed  lake; 
The  Alpine  hills  in  solemn  silence  frown, 
While  the  dark  woods  night's  deepest  shades  em- 
brown. 
And  now  once  more  that  soothing  strain  awake! 
Oh,  ever  to  my  heart  with  magic  power 
Shall  those  sweet  sounds  recall  this  rapturous  hour! 


Uobcrt  ilrcat  JJainc,  jJr. 

AMERICAN. 

Paine  (177.3-1811)  was  a  native  of  Taunton,  Massaeliu- 
ectts,  and  a  son  of  Robert  Treat  Paine,  one  of  the  signc-rs 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  His  original  name 
was  Thomas;  but,  not  wishing  to  be  conlounded  with 
that  other  Thomas  Paine,  the  theist,  who  criticised  the 
Bible,  he  had  his  name  clianged  by  the  Legishiture  to 
that  of  his  father.  lie  graduated  at  Harvard  in  the  ehiss 
of  1792,  and  be;:an  writing  verso  at  an  early  age.  He  en- 
tered a  countinii-liousc,  but  neglected  his  mercantile  du- 
ties for  the  tlicatic  and  the  gayelics  of  life.     His  fatlier 


repudiated  him  for  marrying  an  actress,  but  was  final- 
ly reconciled.  In  \'!\)T>  Paine  delivered  at  Caml)ridge  a 
poem,  entitled  "Tiie  Invention  of  Letters,"  from  the 
sale  of  which  he  got  ^l.'iOO.  For  his  poem  of  "The  Rul- 
ing Passion"  he  got  ^1200;  while  for  his  famous  song 
of  "Adams  and  Liberty"  he  got  more  than  *7.50.  Tliis 
was  rare  success  for  a  poet  in  his  day.  There  is  little 
of  true  lyrical  worth  in  any  of  Paine's  writings ;  and  his 
one  song,  wliile  it  lias  some  faint  flashes  of  jjoetie  lire,  is 
memorable  chielly  for  the  sensation  it  produced  in  its 
day. 


ODE:    ADAMS  AND   LIBERTY. 

Written  for  and  sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Massachu- 
setts Charitable  Fire  Society,  1709. 

Ye  sons  of  Columbia,  who  bravely  have  fought 
For  those  rights  which  unstained  from  your  sires 
had  descended, 
May  you  long  taste  the  blessings  your  valor  has 
bought. 
And  your  sons  reap  the  soil  which  your  fathers 
defended. 

'Mid  the  reign  of  mild  Peace, 
May  your  nation  increase. 
With  the   glory   of  Rome,  and   the   wisdom    of 

Greece  ; 
And  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Colnmbia  be  slave.s, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

In  a  clime  whose  rich  vales  feed  the  marts  of  the 
world. 
Whose  shores  are  nnshaken  by  Europe's  commo- 
tion, 
The  trident  of  Commerce  should  never  be  hurled, 
To  increase  the  legitimate  powers  of  the  ocean. 
But  should  pirates  invade. 
Though  in  thunder  arrayed, 
Let  yoi'.r  cannon  declare  the  free  charter  of  trade  ; 
For  ne'er  will  the  sous  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 
AVhilc  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

The  fame  of  our  arms,  of  our  laws  the  mild  sway, 

Had  justly  ennobled  our  nation  in  story. 
Till  the  dark  clouds  of  faction  obscured  our  young 
day. 
And  enveloped  the  sun  of  American  glory. 
But  let  traitors  bo  told. 
Who  their  country  have  sold. 
And  bartered  their  God  for  his  image  in  gold. 
That  ne'er  will  the  .sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 


BOBERT  TREAT  I'AINE,  JR.— ROBERT  SOUTHET. 


319 


While  Frauco  her  bugo  limbs  batbes  recmnbeut  in 
blood, 
And  society's  base  threats  with  Avidc  dissolution, 
May  Peace,  like  the  dove  ■nho  returned  from  the 
Hood, 
rind  an  ark  of  abode  in  our  mild  Constitution. 
But  tbough  peace  is  ouv  aim, 
Yet  the  boon  we  disclaim. 
If  bought  by  our  sovereignty,  justice,  or  fame; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sous  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 
While  the  earth  bears  a  iilaut  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

'Tis  the  fire  of  the  flint  each  American  warms : 

Let  Rome's  haughty  A'ictors  beware  of  collision; 
Let  them  bring  all  the  vassals  of  Europe  in  arms — 
We're  a  world  by  ourselves,  and  disdain  a  pro- 
A'ision. 

While  with  patriot  pride. 
To  our  laws  we're  allied, 
'        No  foe  can  subdue  us,  no  faction  divide  ; 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 
While  the  earth  bears  a  i)lant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

Our  mountains  are  crowned  \^iih  imperial  oak, 
Whose  roots,  like  our  liberties,  ages  have  nour- 
ished ; 
But  long  e'er  our  nation  submits  to  the  yoke, 
Not   a   tree   shall  be  left   on   the  tield  where  it 
flourished. 

Should  invasion  impend, 
Every  grove  would  descend 
From  the   bill -tops  they   shaded,  our  shores  to 

defend  ; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

^Let  onr  patriots  destroy  Anarch's  pestilent  worm, 
Lest  our  liberty's  growth  should  be  checked  by 
corrosion  ; 
Then  let  clouds  thicken  rouiid  us :  we  heed  not  the 
I  storm ; 

[        Onr  realm  feels  uo   shock  but  the   earth's  own 
explosion. 

Foes  assail  us  in  vain, 
Though  their  fleets  bridge  the  main  ; 
For   our   altars    and   laws   with    our   lives   we'll 

maintain  ; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Cobunbia  be  .slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 


Should  the  tempest  of  war  overshadow  our  land. 
Its    bolts    could    ne'er    rend    Freedom's    temple 
asunder ; 
For,  unmoved,  at  its  portal  would  Washington  stand. 
And  repulse,  with  his  breast,  the  assaults  of  the 
thunder ! 

His  sword  from  the  sleep 
Of  its  scabbard  would  leap, 
And  conduct,  with  its  iioint,  every  flash  to  the 

deep  ! 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  C(dumbia  be  slaves. 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

Let  fame  to  the  world  sound  America's  Aoice ; 
No  intrigues  can  her  sons  from  their  government 
sever : 
Her  pride   are  ber  statesmen — their  laws   are  her 
choice. 
And  shall  flourish  till  Liberty  slumbers  forever. 
Then  unite  heart  and  hand. 
Like  Leonidas'  band. 
And  swear  to  the  God  of  the  ocean  and  land 
That  ne'er  shall  the  sous  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 


Uobcrt  Soutljcri. 


Associated  with  the  names  of  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge is  that  of  the  poet-laureate,  Southey  (1774-1&13). 
His  fame  has  not,  like  that  of  his  associates  of  the  Lake 
School,  gone  on  increasing.  The  son  of  a  linen-dr:q)cr  in 
Bristol,  he  was  intended  for  the  ministry,  but  disqualified 
himself  for  Oxford  by  adopting,  like  Coleridge,  Unitarian 
views  in  religion  and  reijublican  in  politics.  These  he 
soon  outgrew.  Having  published  his  poems  of  "Wat 
Tyler"  and  "Joan  of  Arc,"  he  married,  in  179.5,  Miss 
Fricker,  sister  of  the  wife  of  Coleridge.  After  a  residence 
in  Lisbon,  and  a  brief  course  of  legal  study  in  London, 
he  settled  near  Keswick,  and  his  life  became  a  round  of 
incessant  study  and  voIuuhuous  authorship.  A  list  of 
the  works  in  prose  and  vei-sc  which  he  produced  would 
fill  a  long  page.  Above  one  hundred  volumes  in  all  tes- 
tify to  his  diligence.  In  1837  his  first  wife  died;  and  in 
1839  he  married  Miss  Caroline  Bowles,  who  was  his  peer 
as  a  wiiter  of  poetr}-.  Soon  afterward  his  overtasked 
mind  began  to  show  symptoms  of  decay.  His  end  was 
second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion.  He  left,  as  the 
result  of  his  literary  labors,  about  £12,000,  to  be  divided 
among  his  children,  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  private 
libraries  in  the  kingdom.  Southey  was  a  genuine  poet 
in  feeling  and  aspiration,  thougii  lie  did  not  "wreak 
himself  on  expression  "  with  tliu  folicit}'  of  Byron  and 
Shelley.  Wordsworth  once  mentioned  Southey's  verses 
on  the  holly-tree  as  his  most  perfect  poem;  "but,"  he 
said,  "  the  first  line  is  bad." 


320 


CYCLOPJEDIA    or  liUITlsll   AM)   AMERKAX  roETRY 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLEXIIKnf. 

It  was  a  suinincr  cvoiiiiij^, 

Oltl  Ivaspai's  work   was  (loiif, 
Aiul  be  before  liis  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  siiu, 
And  l)y  liiiii  si)ort«'(l  on  the  grccu 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhehninc. 

She  saw  her  hrolhor  Pctorkin 
Roll  sonietliing  large  and  ronnd, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivnlet, 
In  playing  there,  had  fonnd  ; 

II(!  came  to  ask  wiiat  he  had  lonud, 

Tliat  Avas  so  large,  and  sniootli,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  tlie  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a^  natural  sigh, 
'"Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
'•  Wiio  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden. 
For  there's  many  here  about ; 

And  often,  when  I  go  to  plongh, 
Tiie  plonglishare  tnrns  them  out ! 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"Were  slain  in  tliat  great  victory." 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about,'' 

Young  I'eterkin  lie  cries  ; 
While  little  Wilhelmiuo  looks  up. 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  wliat  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"It  was  tlic  Fjiglish,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"Wlio  put  till'  I'rench  to  rout; 

But  what  tiicy   fought  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,''  quoth  he, 

"That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

"My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then. 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwcdling  to  the  groun<l. 

And  he  was   foi'ced   to  lly  ; 
So  witli   liis  wife  and  (hild  he  lied, 
Nor  had  he  wliere  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  tlie  country  round 
Was  wasted   f;ir  aiul   w  idc  ; 


And  many  a  childing  mother,  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  fann>us  victory. 

"  Tlicy  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in   the  sun  ; 
But  tilings  like  tliat,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won. 
And  our  good  prince  Eugene." 

"W^hy, 'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  I" 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"Nay — nay — my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  tight  did  win.'" 

"And  wiiat  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he; 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


IMMORTALITY   OF   LOVE. 

FisoM  "The  Cirsf.  of    Keiiama,"  Book   X. 

Tiiey  sin  wlio  tell  us  love  can  die. 

With  r^e  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity; 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  iu  the  vaults  of  hell  ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  cartl>, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth  ; 

But  love  is  indestructible  : 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burnetii  ; 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubletl  guest. 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed. 

It  here  is  tried  and  iiuriiied. 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest: 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 

Oh  I    when  a  mother  meets  on  high 

The  babe  she  lost  in   infancy. 

llath  she  not  then,  for  i>aiiis  and  IVars, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight  ? 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


321 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

Frosi  "  JIadoc  in  Wales." 

There  was  not  ou  that  day  a  speck  to  stain 

The  azure  heaven  ;   the  blessed  suu  alone, 

111  unapproachable  divinitj^, 

Careered,  rejoicing  in  his  lields  of  light. 

How  beautiful,  beneath  the  bright  blue  sky, 

The  billows  heave !   one  glowing  green  expanse, 

Save  where,  along  the  bending  line  of  shore, 

Snch  hue  is  thrown  as  when  the  peacock's  neck 

Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of  amethyst, 

Enibathed  in  emerald  glory.     All  the  flocks 

Of  Ocean  are  abroad :   like  floating  foam 

The  sea-gulls  rise  and  fall  upon  the  waves ; 

With  long,  protruded  neck,  the  cormorants 

Wing  their  far  flight  aloft ;  and  round  and  round 

The  plovers  wheel,  and  give  their  note  of  joy. 

It  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 

A  summer  feeling :   even  the  insect  swarms 

From  their  dark  nooks  and  coverts  issued  forth. 

To  sport  through  one  day  of  existence  more  ; 

The  solitary  primrose  on  the  bank 

Seemed  now  as  though  it  had  no  cause  to  mourn 

Its  bleak  autumnal  birth  ;   the  rocks  and  shores. 

The  forest  and  the  everlasting  hills. 

Smiled  in  that  joyful  sunshine, — they  partook 

The  universal  blessinji. 


THE   HOLLY-TREE. 

0  reader !   hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 
Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen  ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear. 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblem  see 
Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  jileasant  rhyme — 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 
21 


Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere. 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Reserved  and  rude. 
Gentle  at  homo  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I  know. 

Some  harshness  show. 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green. 
The  hoUj^-leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

Less  bright  than  they ; 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see. 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree  ? 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they. 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 


MY  LIBRARY. 

Having  no  library  within  reacli,  I  live  upon  my  own  stores, 
which  are,  however,  more  ample,  perhaps,  than  were  ever  be- 
fore possessed  by  one  whose  whole  estate  was  in  his  iulcstand. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold. 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast. 

The  mighty  minds  of  old : 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal. 

And  seek  relief  in  woo ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead :  with  thcnr 

I  live  in  long-past  j'ears ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  fiiults  condemn. 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  a  humble  mind. 


322 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BIUTISH  ASD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


My  hopes  are  with  tbo  dead :  auon 
Willi  thcni  my  place  will  \w  ; 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  ou 
Through  all  riiturily  ; 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  DESERT. 

FnoM    "  TllAI.AIlA." 

How  Ijeautifiil  is  night ! 
A  dewy  freshness  lills  the  silent  air ; 
No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain 
Breaks  the  sereue  of  heaven  : 
In  full-orbed  beauty  yonder  nmon  divine 
Rolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths: 
Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert-circle  spreads, 
Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 
How  beautiful  is  uight! 


THE   DEAD   FRIEND. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Descend  to  contemplate 

The  form  that  once  was  dear! 

The  spirit  is  not  there 

Which  kindled  that  dead  eye, 

Which  throbbed  iu  that  cold  heart, 

Which  iu  that  motionless  baud 

Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 

The  spirit  is  not  there! 

It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 

That  moulders  iu  the  grave; 

Earth,  air,  and  water's  ministering  particles 

Now  to  the  elements 

Resolved,  their  uses  done. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 

The  spirit  is  not  there! 

Often  together  Lave  we  talked  of  death  ; 

How  sweet  it  were  to  sec 

All  doubtful  things  made  clear; 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 

To  view  the  depth  of  heaven  ! 

O  Edmund !   thou  hast  lirst 

Begun  the  travel  of  eternity ! 

I  look  upon  the  stars. 

And  think  that  thou  art  there, 

Unfettered  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 


And  wo  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were, 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power. 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

Edmund !    we  did  not  err  ! 

Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence!     Thou  hast  given 

A  birth  to  holy  thought. 

Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstained  and  pure. 

Edmund!   we  did  not  err! 

Our  best  affections  here, 

They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy; 

The  soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  ofl"; 

Oh,  if  it  could  be  so. 

It  were,  indeed,  a  dreadful  thing  to  die ! 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul. 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ! 

But  in  the  lonely  hour. 

But  iu  the  evening  walk. 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude; 

Think  that  he  holds  Avith  thee 

Mysterious  intercourse  ; 

And  though  remembrance  wake  a  tear, 

There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 

Lord!    who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just. 
Incline  thine  ear  to  me,  a  child  of  dust! 
Not  what  I  would,  O  Lord,  I  ofier  thee, 
Alas !   but  what  I  can. 
Father  Almighty,  who  hast  made  me  man, 
And  bade  me  look  to  heaven,  for  thou  art  there, 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer : 
Four  things  which  are  not  in  thy  treasury 
I  say  befuie  thee.  Lord,  with  this  petition — 

My  nothingness,  my  wants. 
My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 


THE   MORNING   MIST. 

Look,  William,  how  the  morning  mists 
Have  covered  all  the  scene  ; 

Nor  house  nor  hill  canst  thou  behold. 
Gray  wood  or  meadow  green. 

The  distant  spire  across  the  vale 
These  floating  vapors  shroud ; 

Scarce  are  the  neighboring  poplars  seen, 
Pale  shadowed  in  the  cloud. 


ROBERT  SOUTREY. 


323 


But  sccst  tlioii,  William,  where  the  mists 

Sweep  o'er  the  southern  sky, 
The  dim  eli'nlgence  of  the  sua 

That  lights  them  as  they  fly? 

Soou  shall  that  glorious  orb  of  day 

In  all  his  strength  arise, 
And  roll  along  his  azure  way, 

Through  clear  and  cloudless  skies. 

Then  shall  we  see  across  the  vale 

The  village  spire  so  white, 
And  the  gray  wood  and  meadow  green 

Shall  live  again  in  light. 

So,  William,  from  the  moral  world 

The  clouds  shall  pass  away ; 
The  light  that  struggles  through  them  now 

Shall  beam  eternal  day. 


Be  healed  and  harmonized,  and  thou  wouldst  feel 
God  always,  everywhere,  and  all  in  all. 


KEFLECTIOXS. 
From  "  Acrors." 

To  you  the  beauties  of  the  autumnal  year 
Make  mournful  emblems ;    and  you  think  of  man 
Doomed  to  the  grave's  long  winter,  spirit-broken. 
Bending  beneath  the  burden  of  his  years, 
Sense  -  dulled    and    fretful,    "  full    of    aches    and 

pains," 
Yet  clinging  still  to  life.     To  me  thcj'  show 
The  calm  decay  of  nature,  when  the  mind 
Retains  its  strength,  and  in  the  languid  eye 
Religion's  holy  hopes  kindle  a  joy 
That  makes  old  age  look  lovely.     All  to  you 
Is  dark  and  cheerless ;   jou,  in  this  fair  world. 
See  some  destroying  principle  abroad — 
Air,  earth,  and  Avater,  full  of  living  things. 
Each  on  the  other  preying ;   and  the  ways 
Of  man  a  strange,  perjilexing  labyrinth, 
Where  crimes  and  miseries,  each  producing  each. 
Render  life  loathsome,  and  destroy  the  hope 
That    should    in    death    bring    comfort.       Oh,  my 

friend, 
That  thy  faith  were  as  mine !  that  thou  couldst  see 
Death  still  producing  life,  and  evil  still 
Working  its  own  destruction !   couldst  behold 
The  strifes  and  troubles  of  this  troubled  world 
With  the  strong  eye  that  sees  the  promised  day 
Dawn  through  this  night  of  tempest  I     All  things 

then 
Would  minister  to  joy;   then  should  thine  heart 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

IXQUIEIXG   IF   I   WOULD   LIVE   OVER   MY  YOUTH   AGAIN. 

Do  I  regret  the  past  ? 

Would  I  again  live  o'er 

The  morning  hours  of  life  ? 

Nay,  William,  nay,  not  so  ! 
In  the  warm  joyaunce  of  the  summer  sun 

I  do  not  wish  again 

The  changeful  April  day. 

Nay,  William,  nay,  not  so! 

Safe  havened  from  the  sea 

I  would  not  tempt  again 

The  uncertain  ocean's  wrath. 
Praise  be  to  Him  who  made  me  what  I  am, 

Other  I  would  not  be. 

Why  is  it  pleasant,  then,  to  sit  and  talk 

Of  days  that  are  no  more  ? 

When  in  his  own  dear  home 

The  traveller  rests  at  last. 
And  tells  how  often  in  his  wanderings 

The  thought  of  those  far  otf 

Has  made  his  eyes  o'erflow 

With  no  unmaulj'  tears  ; 

Delighted  he  recalls 
Through  what  fair  scenes  his  lingering  feet  have  trod. 
But  ever  when  he  tells  of  perils  past, 

And  troubles  now  no  more, 
His  eyes  are  brightest,  and  a  readier  joy 

Flows  thankful  from  his  heart. 

Xo,  William,  no,  I  would  not  live  again 

The  moruiug  hours  of  life  ; 

I  would  not  be  again 

The  slave  of  hope  and  fear ; 

I  would  not  learn  again 
The  wisdom  by  experience  hardly  taught. 

To  me  the  past  presents 

Xo  object  for  regret ; 

To  me  the  present  gives 

All  cause  for  full  content. 
The  future — it  is  now  the  cheerful  noon, 
And  on  the  sunny-smiling  fields  I  gaze 

With  eyes  alive  to  joy; 

When  the  dark  night  descends, 
I  Avillingly  shall  close  my  weary  lids 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  to  wake  again. 


324 


CYCLOIU'IHA    <)l'  liUlTISll  AND  AMERICAN  I'OETIiY 


illrs.  illargarct  iHanucll  ifnc\li5. 

Mrs.  Inglis,  chiughtcr  of  Dr.  Alexander  Maxwell,  was 
born  at  Lanquiiar,  Seotlaiid,  in  1774.  In  I8O0  she  mai- 
lied  Mr.  John  Inj^lis,  who  died  in  182C.  She  was  emi- 
nentlj-  gifted  as  a  niusieian,  and  was  complimented  by 
Burns  for  the  effect  she  gave  to  his  songs.  In  1838  she 
l)ublishcd  a  "  Miscellaneous  Collection  of  Poems."  She 
died  in  Edinburgh,  1843. 


FROM  "LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HOGG." 

Sweet  bai'cl  of  Ettrick's  glen  ! 

Where  art  tboii  waucleriug  ? 
Missed  is  thy  foot  on  the  monntaiu  and  lea! 

Why  round  yon  craggy  rocks 

Wander  thy  lieedlcss  flocks, 
While  Iambics  arc  listening  and  bleating  for  thee? 

Cold  as  the  mountain-stream, 

Pale  as  the  moonlight  beam. 
Still  is  thy  bosom,  and  closed  is  thine  e'e. 

Wild  may  the  tempest's  Avave 

Sweep  o'er  thy  lonely  grave  : 
Thou'rt  deaf  to  the  storm — it  is  harmless  to  thee. 

Cold  on  Benlomond's  brow 

Flickers  the  drifted  snow, 
While  down  its  sides  the  wild  cataracts  foam  ; 

Winter's  mad  ■winds  may  sweep 

Fierce  o'er  each  glen  and  steep. 
Thy  rest  is  unbroken,  and  peaceful  thy  home. 

And  when  on  dewy  wing 

Comes  the  sweet  bird  of  spring, 
Chanting  its  notes  on  the  bush  or  the  tree. 

The  Bird  of  the  Wilderness, 

Low  in  the  waving  grass. 
Shall,  cowering,  sing  sadly  its  farewell  to  thee. 


Uobcrt  (Ltiunaljill. 

A  favorite  lyrical  poet,  Tannahill  (1744-1810)  was  bom 
in  Paisley,  Scotland.  Ilis  education  was  limited,  and  he 
followed  the  trade  of  a  weaver  till  bis  twenty-sixth  year, 
when  he  removed  to  Lancashire.  In  1807  he  publislied 
a  volume  of  poems,  and  an  edition  of  nine  hundred  was 
sold  in  a  few  weeks.  Falling  into  a  state  of  morbid 
despondency  and  mental  derangement,  he  committed 
suicide,  by  drowning,  in  his  tiiirty-sixlh  year.  In  1S74 
a  centenary  edition  of  his  poems  was  published,  which 
was  exhausted  within  a  few  days  of  its  appearance. 
James  Hogg  visited  Tannahill  in  the  spring  of  1810. 
"  Farewell,"  said  the  latter  at  parting,  as  he  grasped  the 
shepherd's  hand;  "we  shall  never  meet  again.  I  shall 
never  sec  you  more.'' 


THE   FLOWER  O'  DUMBLANE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Beidomond, 

AikI  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the  scene. 
While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  summer  gloamin', 

To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dnmblane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  sauft  fauldin'  blos- 
som ! 

And  sweet  is  the  birk  wi'  its  maulle  o'  green, 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bo-som, 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dnmblane. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she's  bonny ; 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  ; 
And  far  bo  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 

Wha'd  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flower  o' 
Dnmblane. 
Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hynni  to  the  e'euing; 

Thon'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen  : 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning. 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dnmblane. 

How  lost  were  my  daj'S  till  I  met  wi'  my  Jessie  I 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would  ca'  my  dear  lassie 

Till  charmed  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 
Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  grandeur, 

Amid  its  profusion  I'd  languish  in  pain, 
And  reckon  as  naethiug  the  height  o'  its  splendor, 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dumbhuie. 


THE  BRAES  O'  BALQUHITHER. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go. 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhither, 
Where  the  blae-berries  blow 

'Mang  the  bonnio  Highland  heather ; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  rae' 

Lightly  bounding  together. 
Sport  the  lang  snnuuer  day 

On  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain. 
Ami  I'll  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flowers  o'  the  mountain  ; 
I  will  range  through  the  Avilds, 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 
And  return  wi'  their  spoils 

To  the  bower  o'  my  dearie. 

>  Roc. 


JOSEPH  BLANCO   WHITE. 


:32C 


Wlieu  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  uight-breeze  is  swelling, 
So  merrily  we'll  sing 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  ns, 
Till  the  dear  shelling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  choi'us. 

Now  the  summer's  in  prime, 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming  ; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 

Let  us  journey  together, 
Whei'e  glad  innocence  reigns 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 


Joscpl)  Blanco  llUjitc. 

A  native  of  Seville,  son  of  an  Irish  Roman  Catholic 
merchant  settled  in  Spain,  White  (1775-1841)  was  the 
author  of  what  Coleridge  calls  "  the  finest  and  most 
grandly  conceived  sonnet  in  our  language" — words 
which  he  slightly  modifies  by  adding,  "  at  least  it  is 
only  in  Milton's  and  in  Wordsworth's  sonnets  that  I 
recollect  any  rival;"  and  he  adds  that  this  is  the  judg- 
ment of  J.  H.  Frere  also.  Leigh  Hunt  says  :  "  It  stands 
supreme,  perhaps  above  all  in  any  language :  nor  can  we 
ponder  it  too  deepl}',  or  with  too  hopeful  a  reverence." 
White's  biography,  edited  by  John  Hamilton  Thom  (Lon- 
don, 1S15),  in  wliicli  his  sceptical  and  religious  strug- 
gles are  unfolded,  is  of  the  deepest  interest.  He  was  the 
friend  or  correspondent  of  Coleridge,  Arnold,  and  the 
great  American  preacher,  Channing.  Ordained  a  Cath- 
olic priest  in  1799,  he  abjured  the  faith  in  which  he  had 
been  bred,  and  published  in  1825  a  work  entitled  "Inter- 
nal Evidence  against  Catholicism."  He  seems  to  have 
wavered  to  the  last  in  his  religious  belief,  but  to  have 
been,  nevertheless,  an  earnest,  sincere  seeker  after  the 
truth,  as  well  as  a  vigorous  writer. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  compare  this  famous  sonnet 
in  its  present  state  with  its  original  form,  as  it  appears 
in  the  London  Gentleman'' s  Magazine  (May,  1835),  and  as 
it  was  supplied  by  the  Rev.  R.  P.  Graves,  of  Dublin,  who 
knew  White,  to  David  M.  Main  for  his  "Treasury  of  Eng- 
lish Sonnets"  (1880): 

"  My.storious  Niglit !  when  the  first  ^Maii  hnt  knew 
Thee  by  report,  uuseeii,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  Frnmc, 
This  glorious  canojjy  of  Lij^ht  and  151ue? 
Yet  'iieath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  Flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven  carae. 
And  lo  !  Creation  widened  on  his  view! 
Who  conid  have  thought  what  Darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  ?  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  endless  Orbs  thou  mad'st  ns  blind  ? 


Weak  man  !  why  to  shun  Death  this  anxious  strife? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life?" 

Some  critics  prefer  the  original  form  of  White's  son- 
net to  the  amended.  Coleridge's  daughter,  Sara,  wrote 
the  following  on  the  death  of  White.  In  it  she  refers 
to  the  scepticism  of  his  latter  days  in  regard  to  revealed 
religion. 

BLANCO  WHITE. 

"Couldst  thou  in  calmness  yield  thy  mortal  breath, 
Without  the  Christian's  sure  and  certain  hope? 
Didst  thou  to  earth  confine  our  being's  scope, 
Yet,  fixed  on  One  Supreme  with  fervent  faith. 
Prompt  to  obey  what  conscience  witnesseth. 
As  one  intent  to  fly  the  eternal  wrath, 
Decline  the  ways  of  sin  that  downward  slope? 
O  thou  light-searching  spirit !  that  didst  grope 
In  such  bleak  shadows  here,  'twixt  life  and  death, — 
To  thee  dare  I  bear  witness,  though  in  ruth 
(Brave  witness  like  thine  own  !), — dare  hope  and  pray 
That  thou,  set  free  from  this  imprisoning  clay, 
Now  clad  in  raiment  of  perpetual  youth. 
May  find  that  bliss  untold,  'mid  endless  day, 
Awaits  each  earnest  soul  that  lives  for  Truth !" 

We  give  from  the  autobiography  of  White  another 
sonnet  from  his  pen,  not  before  included,  we  believe,  in 
any  collection.  He  wrote  but  two.  Mr.  Thom  says  of 
him:  "He  never  stepped  off  any  old  ground  of  Faith 
until  he  could  no  longer  stand  on  it  without  moral  cul- 
pability." 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

Mysterious  Night!   when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame. 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And  lo !   creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who   could  have   thought  such  darkness  lay  con- 
cealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  sun  !   or  Avho  could  lind, 
Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
Tiiat  to  sucli  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind! 
Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 


SONNET, 

ON  IlE.iUING  MYSELF  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME  CALLED  AN 
OLD   MAN.     iET.  50. 

Ages  have  rolled  within  my  breast,  though  yet 
Not  nigh  the  bourn  to  fleeting  man  assigned : 
Yes:   old — alas!   how  .spent  the  struggling  mind 
Wiiich  at  tlie  noon  of  life  is  fain  to  set ! 
My  dawn  and  evening  liavc  so  closely  met 


326 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


That  mcu  the  sha«lcs  of  iiij^ht  begin  to  fiud 
Darkening  my  brow;   and  heedless,  not  unkind, 
Let  the  sad  warning  drop,  withont  regret. 
Gone  Youth !   had  I  thus  missed  thee,  nor  a  liope 
Were  K'ft  of  thy  return  bej-ond  the,  tomb, 
I  cotihl  curse  life: — Hut  ghuious  is  tlie  scope 
Of  an  immortal  soul ! — O  Death  !   thy  gloom. 
Short,  and  already  tinged  with  coming  light, 
Is  to  the  Christian  but  a  Summer's  night ! 


Jolju  Ccnbcn. 


A  distinguished  Oriental  scholar,  as  well  as  poet,  Ley- 
dcn  (1775-1811)  was  a  native  of  Denliolm,  in  Scotland. 
The  son  of  humble  parents,  lie  fouglit  his  way  bravely  to 
knowledge.  An  excellent  Latin  and  (ircek  scholar,  he 
acquired  also  the  French,  Spanisli,  Italian,  and  German, 
besides  studying  tlie  Persian,  Arabic,  and  Hebrew.  Li 
1800  he  was  ordained  for  the  Church,  but  wishing  to 
•visit  India,  qualified  himself  as  assistant-surgeon  on  the 
Madras  cstablislinient,  and  in  1802  left  Scotland  forever. 
He  finally  received  tlie  appointment  of  judge  in  Cal- 
cutta. In  1811  he  accompanied  tiie  expedition  to  Java, 
took  cold  in  a  damp  library  in  Batavia,  and  died  in  tliree 
days.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  "Lord  of  the  Isles,"  throws 
a  wrcatli  on  his  grave.  The  "Poetical  Remains  of  Ley- 
den"  were  published  in  1819,  with  a  memoir  by  the  Rev. 
James  Morton.  His  longest  poem  is  his  "Scenes  of  In- 
fancy," descriptive  of  his  native  vale  of  Teviot.  His  ver- 
sification is  smooth  and  melodious,  and  his  style  rallier 
elegant  than  forcible.  Ilis  ballad  of  "Tiie  Mermaid" 
is  praised  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  "for  mere  melody  of 
sound  seldom  excelled  in  English  poetry."  Leyden  had 
a  presentiment  of  his  early  death  in  a  tbreign  land. 


ODE   TO   AN   INDIAN  GOLD   COIN. 
WKITTEN   IN   M.\LABAn. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so  dear? 

The  tent-ropes  llajiping  lone  I  hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal's  slirit-k  buists  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark,  wandering  streams, 

AVhcre  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 
Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 

Of  Teviot  loved  wiiilo  still  a  child; 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
IJy  Ksk  or  Eden's  classic  wave. 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendships  smiled 
Uncnrsed  bv  thee,  vile  vcllow  slave! 


Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade ! 

The  perished  bliss  of  youth's  first  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 

Kevives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  suldimo 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  Avave. 

Slave  of  the  mine!   thy  yellow  light 
Glooms  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear : 

A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely,  widowed  heart  to  cheer : 
Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine  ; 
ll(;r  fond  heart  throl)s  with  many  a  fear! 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I  left  a  beart  that  loved  me  true ! 
I  crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart;   the  grave. 

Dark  and  untimely,  met  my  view — 
And  all  for  thee,  vile  j'ellow  slave ! 

Ha.'   com'st  thou  now,  so  late  to  mock 

A  wanderer's  banished  heart  forlorn, 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipped  with  death  has  borne  ? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  rorn, 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  tiie  prey, — • 

Vile  slave,  thj'  yellow  dro.ss  I  scorn  ! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay! 


SONNET   ON   THE   SABBATH   MOKNING. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn. 

That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still  ; 

A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 

A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill. 

And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill, 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  th<U'n  ; 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene!   hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn! 

The  rooks  fioat  silent  by  in  airy  drove  ; 

The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws: 

The  gales,  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove, 

Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clmids  forgets  to  move: — 

So  smiled  the  dav  when  the  first  morn  aro.se. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


327 


Cljarlcs  £amb. 


Lamb  (1775-1834)  was  born  in  London,  February  lOlh, 
of  liuinblc  parentage.  From  bis  seventh  to  his  lil'teenth 
j'car  he  was  an  inmate  of  tlie  sehool  of  Christ's  Hospital. 
He  had  an  impediment  in  liis  speech,  wliicli  prevented 
his  aspiring  to  University  honors.  In  1793  he  became  an 
accountant  in  the  ofiice  of  tlie  East  India  Company;  and 
after  the  death  of  his  parents  devoted  himself  to  the  eaie 
of  his  sister  Mary.  A  sad  tragedy  was  connected  with 
the  early  history  of  this  devoted  pair.  There  was  a  taint 
of  hereditary  madness  in  the  family;  Charles  bad  him- 
self, in  1705,  been  confined  six  weeks  in  an  asylum  at 
Iloxton ;  and  in  September  of  the  following  year,  Mary 
Lamb,  in  a  paroxysm  of  insanity,  stabbed  her  mother  to 
death  with  a  knife  snatched  from  the  dinner-table.  She 
Mas  soon  restored  to  her  senses.  Charles  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  love  and  marriage,  and  at  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  with  an  income  of  little  more  than  £100  a  year, 
set  out  cheerfully  on  the  journey  of  life.  He  bore  his 
trials  meekly,  manfully,  and  witli  prudence  as  Avell  as 
fortitude.  The  school  companion  of  Coleridge,  Lamb 
enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Hazlitt, 
and  other  literary  celebrities  of  his  day.  In  1S25  he  re- 
tired from  the  drudgery  of  his  clerkship  with  a  hand- 
some pension,  which  gave  him  literary  leisure  and  the 
comforts  of  life.  His  series  of  essays  signed  "Elia"  es- 
tablished his  literary  reputation.  His  kindliness  of  nat- 
ure, his  whims,  puns,  and  prejudices  give  a  marked  indi- 
viduality to  his  writings.  He  died  of  erysipelas,  caused 
!))•  a  fall  which  slightly  cut  his  face.  His  "  Life  and  Let- 
ters," by  Mr.  Justice  Talfourd,  appeared  in  1837.  Lamb's 
poetical  writings  are  not  numerous,  but  what  he  has 
written  shows  genuine  taste  and  culture.  His  sister 
Mary  was  joint  author  with  him  of  "Poetry  for  Chil- 
dren" (1809) ;  republished  in  New  York  (1878). 


THE   OLD   FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  Lave  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  uiy  joyful  school-days, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  langhing,  I  have  been  caronsing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  ; 
Like  an  ingrate  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood ; 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  botmd  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 


Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  wo  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces; — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left 

me. 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;   all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   MY   OWN  ALBUM. 

Fresh  clad  from  heaven  in  robes  of  white, 

A  young  probationer  of  light, 

Thou  wert,  my  soul,  an  album  bright, 

A  spotless  leaf;    but  thought,  and  care. 
And  friend  and  foe,  in  foul  and  fair. 
Have  written  '"strange  defeatures"  there; 

And  Time,  with  heaviest  hand  of  all. 
Like  that  tierce  writing  on  the  wall. 
Hath  stamped  sad  dates — he  can't  recall. 

And  error,  gilding  worst  designs — 
Like  speckled  snake  that  strays  and  shines- 
Betrays  his  path  by  crooked  lines. 

And  vice  hath  left  his  ugly  blot; 
And  good  resolves,  a  moment  hot. 
Fairly  begun — but  finished  not ; 

And  fruitless  late  remor.se  doth  trace — 
Like  Hebrew  lore  a  backward  pace — 
Her  irrecoverable  race. 

Disjointed  numbers;   sense  nnknit; 
Huge  reams  of  folly  ;   shreds  of  wit ; 
Compose  the  mingled  mass  of  it. 

My  scalded  eyes  no  longer  brook 
Upon  this  ink-blurred  thing  to  look — 
Go,  shut  the  leaves,  and  clasp  the  book. 


TO  JAMES   SHERIDAN  KNOWLES, 
ox   HIS   TUAGEDY   OF   "VIRGIXIUS." 

Twelve  years  ago  I  knew  thee,  Kuowles,  and  then 
Esteem6d  you  a  perfect  specimen 
Of  those  fine  spirits  warra-souled  Ireland  sends, 
To  teach  us  colder  English  how  a  friend's 


328 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BIllTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Quick  pulse  should  beat.     I  kuew  you  bravo  aud 

plain, 
Strong-soused,  roush-wittcd,  above  fear  or  gain  ; 
But  nothing  I'lirthor  had  tlio  gift  to  espy. 
Sudden  you  reapixsar.     With  wonder  I 
Hear  my  old  IVicnd  (turned  Shakspeare)  read  a  scene 
Only  to  Im  inferior  in  the  clean 
Passes  of  pathos :  with  such  fence-like  art — 
Ero  we  can  see  the  steel,  'tis  in  our  heart. 
Almost  without  the  aid  language  allord.s, 
Your  piece  seems  wrought.     That  hulling  medium, 

(Which  in  the  modern  Tamburlaines  quite  sway 
Our  shamed  souls  from  their  bias)  in  your  play 
We  scarce  attend  to.     Hastier  i)assiou  draws 
Our  tears  on  credit :   aud  wo  find  the  cause 
Some  two  hours  after,  spelling  o'er  again 
Those  strauge  few  words  at  case,  that  wrought  the 

pain. 
Proceed,  old  friend ;   and,  as  the  year  returns. 
Still  snatch  some  uew  old  story  from  the  urns 
Of  long-dead  virtue.     We,  that  knew  before 
Your  worth,  may  admire,  we  cauuot  love  you  more. 


illattljcvD  (i3i-ccjori)  £cuns. 

Novelist,  poet,  aud  dramatist,  Lewis  (1775-1818),  some- 
times called  "Monk  Lewis"  from  his  novel  of  "The 
Monk"  (published  1795),  was  a  native  of  London,  but 
resided  the  last  five  years  of  his  life  iu  Jamaica.  His 
poetical  productions  are:  "The  Feudal  Tyrants,"  "Ro- 
mantic Tales,"  "Talcs  of  Terror"  (1799),  and  "Tales  of 
Wonder"  (1801).  After  liis  death  appeared  his  "Jour- 
nal of  a  West  Indian  Proprietor,"  also  his  "Life  and 
Correspondence"  (1839) ;  easy  and  entertaining  iu  style, 
and  replete  with  information.  Ills  "Jamaica  Journal," 
says  Coleridge,  "is  delightful.  *  *  *  You  have  the  man 
himself,  and  not  an  inconsidci-able  man — certainly  a  much 
liner  mind  than  I  supposed  before  from  tlic  perusal  of 
his  romances."  Lewis  died,  after  great  suffering,  on  liis 
liomeward  voyage  from  Jamaica. 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND. 

WRITTEN  IN   BOUHOL'RS'  "AUT  DE   BIEN   TENSEII 

Wheu  to  my  Charles  this  book  I  send, 

A  useless  present  I  bestow ; 
Why  should  you  learn  by  art,  my  friend, 

What  you  so  well  by  nature  know  ? 
Yot  read  the  book ; — haply  some  spell 

May  in  its  pages  treasured  be  ; 
Perchance  the  art  of  thinking  well 

May  teach  you  to  think  well  of  me  ! 


THE  HELMSMAN. 

Hark  tiio  bell !   it  sounds  midnight !   all  hail,  thou 

new  heaven ! 

How  soft  sleep  the  stars  on  the  bosom  of  night! 

Wiiihi  o'er  the  full-moon,  as  they  gently  are  driven. 

Slowly  floating,  the  clouds  bathe  their  fleeces  in 

light. 

The  Avarm  feeble  breeze  scarcely  ripples  the  ocean  ; 

And  all  seems  so  hushed,  all  so  happy  to  feel : 
So    smooth    glides    the    bark,  I    perceive    not    her 
motion. 

While  low  sings  the  sailor  who  watches  the  wheel. 

'Tis  so  sad,  'tis  so  sweet,  and  some  tones  come  so 

swelling. 

So  right  from  the  heart,  and  so  pure  to  the  ear, 

That  sure  at  this  moment  his   thonglits   must   be 

dwelling 

On  one  who  is  absent,  most  kind  and  most  dear. 

Oh,  may  she  who  now  dictates  that  ballad  so  tender, 
Difluso  o'er  your  days  the  heart's  solace  and  ease, 

As  yon  lovely  moon  with  a  gleam  of  mild  .splendor, 
Pure,  tranquil,  and  bright,  over-silvers  the  seas  ! 


A  MATRIMONIAL  DUET. 

LADY  TERMAGANT. 

Step  iu,  pray,  Sir  Toby,  my  picture  is  here, — 
Do  you  think  that  'tis  like?  does  it  strike  you  ? 

SIU  TOBY. 

Why,  it  docs  not  as  yet ;  but  I  fancy,  my  dear, 
In  a  moment  it  will — 'tis  so  like  you ! 


lllaltcr  SiTcacjc  faulior. 

Lander  (177.5-lSGl),  tlio  son  of  a  Warwicksliirc  gontU'- 
man,  was  born  to  wealtli,  and  educated  at  Rugby  and 
Oxford.  He  published  his  poem  of  "Gebir"  iu  1797. 
It  was  praised  by  Southey,  but  never  hit  the  popular 
taste.  There  is  one  line  passage  in  it,  descriptive  of  the 
sound  which  sca-sliclls  seem  to  make  wlicn  placed  close 
to  the  car: 

"But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within;  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  p:\lace-porch,  where,  when  unyoked, 
His  chariot-wheels  stand  midw.iy  in  the  wave  : 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens ;   then  apply 
Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  car, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
Aud  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there.'' 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOIi.— JAMES  SMITH. 


329 


Between  18:20  aucl  1830  Landor  was  engaged  iipon  his 
most  suceessful  work,  "Imaginary  Conversations  of  Lit- 
erary Men  and  Statesmen."  A  man  of  uncontrollable 
passions,  a  rampant  republican,  reeliless  and  unscrupu- 
lous in  his  auger,  fierce  and  overbearing  in  his  preju- 
dices, Landor  acted  at  times  like  one  almost  irrespon- 
sible. As  a  poet,  he  often  shows  genuine  power  and 
high  literary  culture;  but  there  is  not  much  in  his  verse 
that  promises  to  be  of  permanent  value.  His  bitter  re- 
sentments plunged  him  into  disgraceful  difficulties.  He 
was  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  others  for  a  support  in 
his  latter  years,  and  reached  the  age  of  ninety.  To  the 
last  he  continued  to  find  solace  in  his  pen. 


TO   TPIE   SISTER   OF   ELIA. 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  awhile ! 

Again  shall  Ella's  smile 
Refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache  uo  more. 

What  is  it  vre  deplore  ? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs  and  years, 
Far  worthier  things  than  tears  ; — 

The  love  of  friends,  without  a  single  foe — 
Unequalled  lot  below  ! 

His  gentle  soul,  his  genius — these  are  thine; 

For  these  dost  thou  repine  ? 
He  may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of  men  ; 

Left  them  he  has — -what  then  ? 

Are  not  his  footsteps  followed  by  the  eyes 

Of  all  the  good  and  wise  ? 
Though  the  warm  day  is  over,  yet  they  seek, 

Upon  the  lofty  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind,  the  roseate  light  that  glows 

O'er  death's  perennial  snows. 
Behold  him  !   from  the  region  of  the  blessed 

He  speaks  :   he  bids  thee  rest  I 


JULIUS  HARE. 

Julius !   how  many  hours  have  we 
Together  spent  with  sages  old ! 

In  wisdom  none  surpassing  thee, 

In  Truth's  bright  armure  none  more  bold. 

By  friends  around  thy  couch  in  death 
My  name  from  those  pure  lips  was  heard  : 

O  Fame !   how  feebler  all  thy  breath 
Than  Virtue's  one  exi^iring  word ! 

January  30th,  1S55. 


ROSE   AYLMER. 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ? 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine  ? 
What  everj^  virtue,  every  grace  ? 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see ! 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


DEATH. 

Death  stands  above  me,  whi.spering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear : 

Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


iJamcs  Siiiitl). 


James  Smith  (17T5-1S39),  known  best  in  connection 
with  his  brother  Hoi-ace,  wrote  clever  parodies  and  crit- 
icisms in  the  popular  magazines.  In  the  JIo/dMy  Mir- 
ror appeared  those  imitations  from  his  own  and  his 
brother's  hand  which  were  published  in  1813  as  "The 
Rejected  Addresses"  —  one  of  the  most  successful  of 
humorous  productions,  for  it  had  reached  its  twenty- 
second  edition  in  ISTO,  and  is  still  in  demand.  James 
wrote  the  imitations  of  Crabbe,  Wordsworth,  Southey, 
Coleridge,  and  Cobbett;  Horace,  those  of  Scott,  Moore, 
Monk  Lewis,  Fitzgerald,  and  Di'.  Johnson.  Having  met 
at  a  dinner-party  Mr.  Strahan,  the  king's  printer,  then 
suffering  from  gout  and  old  age,  though  his  mental  fac- 
ulties remained  bright,  James  sent  him  next  morning 
the  following  jew  d'espril: 

"Tour  lower  limbs  seemed  far  from  stout 

^\'hen  last  I  saw  you  walk  ; 
The  cause  I  presently  found  oat, 

When  you  began  to  talk. 
The  power  that  props  the  body's  length, 

In  due  proportion  spread, 
In  you  mounts  upward,  and  the  strength 

All  settles  iu  the  head." 

Never  was  poet  so  munificently  paid  for  eight  lines  of 
verse.  Mr.  Strahan  was  so  much  gratified  bj-  the  com- 
pliment that  he  at  once  made  a  codicil  to  his  will,  by 
which  he  bequeathed  to  the  writer  the  sum  of  £3000. 
Horace  Smith  mentions,  however,  that  Strahan  had  oth- 
er motives  for  his  generosity  ;  for  he  respected  and  loved 
the  man  as  much  as  he  admired  the  poet.  James  Smith 
died  at  the  age  of  si.xty-five.  Lady  Blessington  said  of 
him:  "If  James  Smith  had  not  been  a  tcitli/  jymn,  he 
must  have  been  a  great  7iia7i."  His  extensive  informa- 
tion and  refined  manners,  joined  to  his  inexhaustible 
fund  of  liveliness  and  humor,  and  a  happy,  uniform  tem- 
per, made  him  a  delightful  companion. 


330 


CYCLUl\EDIA    OF  BRITISU  ASD  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


THE  THEATRi:.' 

Kkom  "The  Uejected  Ai>dj(esses." 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  iVoni  lialf-piist  five  to  six, 
Our  long  wax-eaiidies  with  short  cotton  wicks, 
Touched  by  the  hiniplightcr's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start ; 
To  see  red  Phtrbus,  throngh  the  gallery-pane, 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drnry  Lane, 
While  gradnal  parties  /ill  onr  widened  pit. 
And  gafie  and  gaze  and  wonder  ere  they  sit. 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  I 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  bonor  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Pai)er  Buildings  here  resort, 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Sqviare  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  llaymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 
Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane; 
The  lottery  cormorant,  tlie  auction  shark, 
The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk  ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery-door, 
AVitli   pence   twice   five,  they    want   but   twopence 

more, 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery -stairs. 
Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  balk. 
But  talk  their  minds — we  wish  they'd  mind  their 

talk  ; 
Big-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live, 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give  : 
Jews  from  St.  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary 
That  for  old  clothes  they'd  even  axe  St.  Mary; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pates. 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait, 
Who  oft,  when  we  onr  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  chance  can  joy  bestow, 
Where  scowling  fortune  seemed  to  threaten  woe. 
John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  .Justinian  St nbbs.  Esquire  ; 
But  wlien  Jdlin  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 
Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stnbbs's  shoes: 
Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter — a  safe  employ  ; 
In  Holywell  Street,  St.  Pancras,  ho  was  bred 
(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said), 
Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby's  head. 
He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 
But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come  d<jwn. 
Pat  was  the  urchin's  name,  a  red-haired  youth, 
Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than  truth. 

'  III  imitnliou  of  the  style  of  Ihe  Rev.  George  Crabbe. 


Silence,  yc  gods!   to  keep  your  tongues  iu  awe 
The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw  : 

Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat ; 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat; 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  Hew, 
And  spurned  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?   pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new,  but  four? 
Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait, 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  Mnllins  whispers,  "Take  ray  handkerchief." 
''Tliank  you," cries  Pat,  "but  one  won't  make  aline." 
"Take  mine,"  cried  Wilson;  "And,"  cried  Stokes, 

"take  mine." 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 
Where  Spitallields  with  real  India  vies. 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue, 
Starred,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue. 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand. 
Loops  the  last  'kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band: 
Upsoars  the  prize;  the  yotith,  with  joy  unfeigned, 
Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regained  ; 
While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat. 


TO  MISS  EDGEWORTH. 

We  cvery-day  bards  may  "Anonymous"  sign: 
That  refuge.  Miss  Edge  worth,  can  never  be  thine. 
Thy  writings,  where  satire  and  moral  unite. 
Must  bring  forth  the  name  of  their  author  to  light. 
Good  and  b;!d  join  in  telling  the  source  of  their  birth  : 
The  bad  own  their  edge,  and  the  good   own  their 
xvorih. 


Uicljar^  CC^all. 


Gall  (1770-1800)  v/as  a  printer  in  Edinburgh,  and  wrote 
some  favorite  songs.  "My  Only  Jo  and  Dearie  O" 
gained  great  applause.  "I  remeniber,"  says  Allan  Cun- 
ningliani,  "  when  this  song  was  exceedingly  popular:  its 
sweetness  and  ease,  rather  than  its  originality  and  vigor, 
might  be  the  cause  of  its  success."  Gall  died  before  he 
was  twenty-five. 


MY   ONLY  JO   AND   DEARIE   O. 

Thy  cheek  is  o'  the  rose's  hue. 
My  only  jo  and  dearie  O  ; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  siller-dew 
Upon  the  banks  sae  briery  O ; 


RICHARD   GALL.— WILLIAM  GILLESPIE.— THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


331 


Thy  teeth  are  o'  the  ivorj', 
Oh,  sweet'a  the  twiiikk^  (V  tliine  e'e  ! 
Nae  joy,  iiae  pleasure,  blinks  on  me. 
My  only  jo  aud  dearie  O. 

The  birdie  sings  upon  the  thorn 
Its  sang  o'  joy,  fn'  cheerie  O, 
Rejoicing  in  the  summer  morn, 
Nae  care  to  make  it  eerie  O ; 
But  little  keus  the  saugster  sweet 
Aught  o'  the  cares  I  hae  to  meet, 
Tliat  gar  my  restless  bosom  beat, 
My  onlj-  jo  aud  dearie  O. 

When  we  were  bairnies  on  yon  brae. 
And  youth  was  bliuking  bouuy  O, 
Aft  we  wad  daff  the  lee-laug  day 

Our  joys  fn'  sweet  and  mony  O  ; 
Aft  I  wad  chase  thee  o'er  the  lea, 
Aud  round  about  the  thorny  tree, 
Or  pu'  the  Avild  flowers  a'  for  thee, 
My  onl}^  jo  and  dearie  O. 

I  hae  a  wish  I  canna  tine, 

'Maug  a'  the  cares  that  grieve  me  0 ; 
I  wish  thou  wert  forever  mine. 

And  never  mair  to  leave  me  O : 
That  I  wad  daut  thee  night  and  day, 
Nor  ither  worldly  care  wad  hae, 
Till  life's  warm  stream  forgot  to  play. 

My  onlj'  jo  and  dearie  O. 


lUilliam  (Dillcspic. 

Gillespie  (1776-1825)  was  a  native  of  Kirkcudbright, 
Scotland.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  he 
studied  for  the  Church,  and  became  minister  of  Kells. 
His  poem  of  "Tlic  Highlander"  is  interesting,  not  only 
for  its  own  merits,  but  because  Scott  seems  to  have  bor- 
rowed from  it  much  of  the  music  and  some  of  the  senti- 
ment in  his  poem  of  "  Helvellyn." 


THE   HIGHLANDER. 

From  the  climes  of  the  sun,  all  war-worn  and  weary, 
The  Highlander  sped  to  his  youthful  abode ; 

Fair  visions  of  home  cheered  the  desert  so  dreary, 
Though  fierce  was  the  noon-beam,  and  steep  was 
the  road. 

Till  spent  with  the  march  that  still  lengthened  be- 
fore him. 
He  stopped  by  the  way  in  a  sylvan  retreat ; 


The  light  shady  boughs  of  the  birch -tree  waved 
o'er  him, 
The  stream  of  the  mountain  fell  soft  at  his  feet. 

He  sank  to  repose  where  the  red  heaths  are  blended, 
On  dreams  of  his  childhood  his  fancy  passed  o'er ; 

But  his  battles  are  fought,  and  his  march  it  is  ended, 
The  sound  of  the  bagpipe  shall  wake  him  no  more. 

No  arm  in  the  day  of  the  conflict  could  wound  him, 

Though  war  launched  her  thunder  in  fury  to  kill ; 

Now  the  Angel  of  Death  in  the  desert  has  found 

him, 

And  stretched  him  in  peace  by  the  stream  of  the 

hill. 

Pale  Autumn   spreads  o'er  him  the   leaves  of  the 
forest. 
The  fays  of  the  wild  chant  the  dirge  of  his  rest ; 
And  thou,  little  brook,  still  the  sleeper  dcplorest, 
Aud  moisten'st  the  heath-bell  that  weeps  on  his 
breast. 


olljomas  Campbell. 


The  son  of  a  Glasgow  merchant,  Campbell  (1777-1844) 
was  the  youngest  often  children.  At  the  age  of  thirteen 
he  was  placed  in  the  university  of  his  native  city,  where 
he  was  noted  for  his  Latin  and  Greek  translations,  aud 
his  compositions  in  prose  and  verse.  In  April,  1799,  wlicn 
twenty-one,  he  published  his  "Pleasures  of  Hope,"  a 
remarkable  specimen  of  literary  precocity,  though  mar- 
red by  passages  where  sound  takes  the  place  of  sense. 
Wordsworth  regarded  it  as  "strangely  overrated."  The 
poem  passed  through  four  editions  in  a  year;  and  on  the 
first  seven  editions  the  youthful  poet  received  no  less  a 
sum  than  £900.  After  travelling  on  the  Continent  (where 
he  was  not  a  spectator  of  the  Battle  of  Holicnlinden,  as 
has  been  often  asserted),  he  published,  in  1801,  "Ye  Mari- 
ners of  England,"  witli  several  other  lyrical  pieces;  and, 
in  1803,  "Loehiel,"  "  Hohenlinden,"  "The  Soldier's 
Dream,"  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic:"  so  that  the  noble 
Ijiics  to  which  Campbell  owes  his  fame  were  composed 
within  a  brief  period,  and  when  he  was  quite  young. 
What  he  wrote  after  thirty  has  tlie  marks  of  inferioritj'. 
"Gertrude  of  Wyoming"  appeared  in  1809.  He  appears 
to  liave  been  amiable,  generous,  and  sympatlietic,  though 
irritable,  irresolute,  and  lazy.  His  faults  were  largely 
caused,  no  doubt,  by  physical  infirmity.  He  married  his 
cousin,  Miss  Sinclair,  and  settled  near  London;  but  tlie 
death  of  one  son  and  the  madness  of  another  cast  a  dark 
shadow  on  his  existence.  Though  he  struggled  with 
narrow  circumstances,  he  was  generous  to  his  motiier, 
sisters,  and  otiier  relations.  From  1820  to  1831  he  edited 
the  New  Monthly  Mngazlne.  During  his  later  years,  in  the 
receipt  of  a  merited  pension,  he  resided  chiefly  in  Lon- 
don. He  died  at  Boulogne,  whitlier  he  had  gone  for  his 
health,  in  his  sixty-seventh  year.     His  dust  lies  in  West- 


332 


CYCLOrJiDlA    OF  BUITISII  AMt  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


minster  Abbcj-.  Campbell's  lyrics  are  among  the  finest 
in  all  literature,  and  are  likely  to  last  as  long  as  the  Eng- 
lisli  language,  in  its  piesent  Ibrni,  endures.  In  1849  a  Life 
of  the  poet,  with  selections  from  his  extensive  corre- 
spondence, was  published  in  London  by  his  atfectionatc 
friend  and  literary  executor.  Dr.  Heallie. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

A   NAVAL   ODE. 

Yo  nnuiiiers  of  England, 

That  gnard  our  iiativo  seas, 

Whose  flag  Las  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  agaiu 

To  match  another  foe! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  -sviuds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

Aud  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave : 

For  the  deck  it  Avas  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  ■winds  do  blow. 

Uritannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  Hoods  Ixdow, — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore. 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

When  the  battle  rages  lond  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  -winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  Hag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrilic  burn. 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

(1S()2.) 
AVI/..\I{I). 

Lochiel !   Lochiel !   beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array  ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Cullodeu  are  scattered  in  fight. 
Tiiey  rally,  they  bleed  for  their  country  and  crown  ; 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down! 
I'rond  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  tluj  .slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark!  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war. 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin  !  whose  bride  shall  await. 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning:   no  rider  is  there, 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albiu !   to  death  aud  captivity  led  ! 
Oh,  weep  !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  : 
For  a  merciless  sword  o'er  CuUoden  shall  wave, 
CuUoden!    that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer ! 
Or,  if  gory  Cullodeu  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight. 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

WIZAIJD. 

Ila  !   laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  ! 
Say,  ru.shed  the  bold  eagle  exnltingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the 

North  ? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeediug,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  : 
Ah !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?   Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel!  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whoso  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height. 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling!   all  lonely,  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  fami.shing  brood. 


False  wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshalled  my  clan. 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


3:j:; 


Tlu-y  iiit^  true  to  the  last  of  their  bh)ocl  and  their 

hreatli, 
Aud,  like  reapers,  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the 

rock ! 
Kilt  woe  to  his  kindled,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws; 
When  lier  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanrauald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel  I   Lochiel !   beware  of  the  day  I 
For,  daik  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  maj"  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
"Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  CuUoden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
"With  the  blood-hounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 
Lol  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath. 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight : 
Eise,  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  aud  cover  his  flight ! 
'Tis  finished  I     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the 

moors  ; 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ? — Where  ? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  countrj'  cast  bleeding  aud  torn  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  aud  black  is  the  bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling:  oh!  Mercy,  dispel 
You  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell  I 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs. 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims: 
Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat. 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale  — 


Down,  soothless  insulter !     I  trust  not  the  tale  : 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in 

their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains. 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 


Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low. 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ; 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name. 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  Fame. 


HALLOWED   GROUND. 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  aud  free, 
Uuscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's    hallowed    ground  —  where,   mourned    ami 

missed, 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed ; — 
But  Where's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Yon  church-yard's  bowers  ? 
No  I   in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound : 

The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound. 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

Aud  up  to  heaven ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  toM 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould, 

Aud  will  not  cool. 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom, 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  Avind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind — 

Aud  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light! 


334 


cyvu)1'j:i)1a  of  British  j.\j>  ameukas  roETuv. 


Aud  Murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 
The  sword  he  draws : — 

What  can  alone  ennoble  light  f 
A  nol)lc  cause ! 

Give  that!   and  wt'lconic  AVar  to  brr.co 

Her  dniiMs  !   and  rend  Jlcaven's  reeking  space 

Tile  colors  i)laiited  lace  to  face, 

Tlie  charging  cheer, 
Tiiough  Deatli's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal ! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  (Jod  above ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wiugs  o'er  Devotion's  shrine — 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  aud  temples  shiue, 

Where  they  are  not — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust. 
And  pompons  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt. 
That  man  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples, — creeds  themselves  grow  wan  ! 
But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Tby  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  heaven! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling. 
Where  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmoiiions  spheres 
Make  niiisic,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

15y  mortal  cars. 

Fair  stars!   are  not  your  beings  jiure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Yo  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenlv  love ! 


And  in  your  liarinouy  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn. 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  <lawii. 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! — 
Peace !   Independence !   Truth !   go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEKS. 

(1S32.) 

Again  to  the  battle,  Achaians ! 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ! 

Our  land,  the  tirst  garden  of  Liberty's  tree, 

It  has  been,  and  shall  ijet  be,  the  laud  of  the  free! 
For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  leplanted, 
The  pale,  dying  crescent  is  daunted; 

And  we  march  that   the  footprints  of  Mahomet's 
slaves 

May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers' 
graves. 
Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 
And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Ah,  what  though  no  succor  advances. 
Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretched  in  our  aid  ?  be  the  combat  our  own  ! 

And  we'll  iierish,  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone  ; 
For  we've  sworn  by  our  country's  assaulters, 
Bj'  the  virgins  they've  dragged  from  our  altars. 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 
That,  living,  we  shall  be  victorious, 
Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not: 
The  sword  that  we've  drawn  we  will  sheathe 
not ; 
Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 
And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 
Earth  may  hide,  waves  ingulf,  tire  consume  us, 
But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us  ; 
If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves: 
But  we've  smote  them  already  with  lire  on  the  waves, 
And  new  tiiiimphs  on  laud  are  before  ns. 
To  the  charge ! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 


THOMAS   CAMl'BELL. 


Z?,b 


This  day — shall  yc  blush  for  its  story? 
Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory? 
Our  •women — oh  say,  shall  they  slirick  in  despair, 
Or  embrace  us  from  concxuest,  with  wreaths  iu  their 
hair? 
Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 
If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken. 
Till  we've   trampled   the  turban,  and   shown   our- 
selves worth 
Being  sprung  from,  and  named  for,  the  godlike  of 
earth. 
Strike  home!   and  the  world  shall  revere  us. 
As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion  : 
Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  ocean. 

Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns,  shall  witli  jubilee  ring, 

And  the  Nine  shall  new-hallow  their  Helicon  spring : 
Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness 
That  were  cold,  and  extinguished  in  sadness  ; 

While  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white- 
waving  arms. 

Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms, 
When  the  blood  of  you  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  purpled  the  beaks  of  our  ravens. 


LORD   ULLIN'S   DAUGHTER. 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." — ■ 

"  Xow,  who  bo  ye  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  UUin's  daughter. 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  would  cheer  mj'  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Higliland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready  : 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady : 


"And  by  my  word!   the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  yon  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
Tlie  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  Heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  Avind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adowu  the  glen  rode  arnnSd  men. 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste !"  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  hei-, — 
When,  oh  !   too  strong  for  human  hand. 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  w^aters  fast  prevailing  ; 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore  : 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade. 

His  child  he  did  discover : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!   come  back!"  ho  cried,  in  grief. 

"Across  this  stormy  water; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter! — O  my  daughter!" 

'Twas  vain  :    the  loud  waves  laslied  the  shore. 

Return  or  aid  preventing : 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child. 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

(1S02.) 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  uutrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


336 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


But  Linden  suw  another  sight, 
Wlicii  tlic  (Inuii  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Couinianding  liies  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trninpet  fast  arrayed. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  fnrious  every  charger  neighed. 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Tlion  shook  the  hills  with  thnnder  riven. 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

"Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  flery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

Tlie  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
"Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich  !   all  thy  banners  wave  ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part  when  many  meet! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


FREEDOM  AND  LOVE. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying ! 

Yet  remember,  'mid  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  ruing; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  ho  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries. 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays  when  sorest  chidden  ; 
Laughs  and  flies  when  pressed  and  bidden. 


Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily. 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver, 
Tinn  bind  Lovo  to  last  forever. 

Love's  a  lire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel  ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured  ; 

Only  free,  ho  soars  enraptured. 

•Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging. 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  changing? 
No  I   nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  ti'uce  —  for  the  night -cloud  bad 
lowered, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  woumled  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrico  ere  the  morning  I  dreamed  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array. 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'Twas  autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  ray  fathers,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 
In    life's   morning   march,  when   my  bosom  was 
young ; 
I  iieard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reai)ers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  wo  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  homo   and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part : 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  lier  fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us,  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and 
worn  ;" 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  : 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dix'aming  ear  melted  away. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


337 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS  TO  JOHN  PHILIP 
KEMBLE,  ESQ. 

Piitlc  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  aud  last  adieu ! 
WIioso  image  brought  the  Heroic  Age 

Revived  to  fancy's  view. 
Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wiue  or  music  need  not  swell, 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble ! — fare  thee  well ! 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  acting  lends, — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  bleuds  : 
For  ill  can  poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime  ; 
And  painting,  mute  aud  motionless. 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive. 

But  ne'er  eclipse,  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive. 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resigned  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor  ? 
What  Euglish  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt  ? 
Aud  yet  a  majesty  possessed 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
Aud  to  each  passion  of  the  breast 

The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task — too  high, 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here — 
In  words  to  paint  your  meuu)ry 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear  ; 
But  who  forgets  that  wliite  discrowuM  head. 

Those  bursts  of  reason's  half-extinguished  glare — 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed. 

In  doubt,  more  touching  than  despair. 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt  ? 

Had  Sbakspeare's  self  amid  you  been, 
22 


Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt. 
And  triumphed  to  have  seen  ! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended  kindred  fame, 
When  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride. 

The  columns  of  her  throne  ; 
And  undivided  favor  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richlj'  graced. 
Your  Kemble's  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste^ — 
Taste  like  the  silent  dial's  power. 

That,  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour. 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct. 

His  mind  surveyed  the  tragic  page  ; 
And  what  the  actor  could  eftect 

The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth  : — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now  ? 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly  pleasing  brow  ? 
Alas  !   the  moral  brings  a  tear  ! — 

'Tis  all  a  transient  hour  below ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go ! 
Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  review : 
Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  lone  and  last  adieu  I 


EXILE   OF  ERIN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill  ; 
For  his  country  he  sighed  when  at  twilight  repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 
Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion. 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh  ! 


338 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Sad  is  u)y  fate!"  saiil  tlio  heart-brokou  strauger; 

"  The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  llee  ; 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  faiuiuc  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  rcmaiu  not  to  me. 
Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers 
Where  my  forefathers  lived  shall  I  spend  the  sweet 

hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh ! 

"Erin,  my  country!   though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore  ; 

But  alas!   in  a  fair  foreign  laud  I  awaken. 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more. 

O  cruel  Fate !   wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase  me ! 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

"Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild-wood? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh,  my  sad  heart!   long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ? 
Tears  like  the  raiu-drop  may  fall  without  measure. 

But  rapture  and  beaiTtj'  they  cannot  recall. 

"Yet,  all  its  sad  recollection  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin!   an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing! 
Laud  of  my  forefathers — Erin  go  bragh ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  de- 
votion, 
Erin  mavourueen — Erin  go  bragh  !" 


AUELGITHA. 

The  Ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 

And  sad,  pale  Adelgitha  came, 
AVhen  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 

And  slew  the  slanderer  of  ber  fame. 

She  wept,  delivered  from  her  danger; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 
"Seek  not,"  she  cried,  "oh!   gallant  strauger, 

For  hapless  Adolgitha's  love. 

"For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far-land 

Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me  free ; 


And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 
For  him  that's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"Nay!  say  not  that  his  faith  is  taiuted  !"- 
He  raised  his  vizor, — at  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted: 
It  was,  indeed,  her  own  true  knight. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown. 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold,  determined  hand. 
And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Laj'  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line: 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene, 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"Hearts  of  oak  !"'  our  captains  cried;  wheu  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again!   again!   again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  shack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back. 
Their  .shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  : — • 
Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale. 
Light  the  gloom. 

Outspoke  the  victor  then. 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave : 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


3:51) 


*•  Ye  aio  brothers  !   ye  are  meu  ! 
And  Avo  conquer  but  to  save  : 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring. 
But  yiekl,  proud  foe,  thy  tleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king.'' 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief. 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 
"While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  fuueral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

While  the  wiue-cup  shines  in  light ! 
And  yet,  amid  that  joy  and  uproar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep. 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts !   to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 
On  the  deck  of  Fame  that  died, 
With  the  gallant,  good  Kiou  !' 
Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave ! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 


THE   PARROT. 

A   DOMESTIC  ANECDOTE. 

The  following  incident,  so  strongly  illustrating  the  power  of 
memory  and  association  in  the  lower  animals,  is  not  a  fiction. 
I  heard  it  many  years  ago  in  the  Island  of  Mull,  from  the  fami- 
ly to  whom  the  bird  belonged. 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast. 

That  Heaven  to  living  things  imparts. 

Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 


■  Captain  Rion,  entitled  "the  gallant  and  the  good"  by  Lord 
Nelson,  when  he  wrote  home  his  despatches. 


A  parrot,  from  the  Siiaiiish  Main, 

Full  young,  and  early  caged,  came  o'er, 

With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  MuUa's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves,  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue. 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  suu. 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  ho  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 
A  heathery  land  and  misty  sky. 

And  turned  on  rocks  aud  raging  surf 
His  goldcu  eye. 

But  petted  in  our  climate  cold 

He  lived  and  chattei'cd  many  a  day; 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold 
His  wings  grew  gray. 

At  last,  when  blind  and  seeming  dumb. 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  moi'e, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore : 

He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech, 
Tlie  bird  in  Spanish  speech  'replied. 

Flapped  round  his  cage  with  joyous  screech. 
Dropped  down,  and  died! 


TO   THE   RAINBOW. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky, 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  mo  what  thou  art ; 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight. 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so. 

As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  aud  gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws. 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws ! 


340 


VYCLOl'JUMA    OF  JlUITISll  ASD   AMKHirAS  J'OIJTHY. 


And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams. 
But  words  of  the  Most  Hij^b, 

Have  told  why  first  tliy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

AVlien  o'er  the  green  imdelnged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  tboii  didst  shine. 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  nntrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Mothliiks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  lirst-made  anthem  rang, 

On  earth  delivered  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Xor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Unruptured  greet  thy  beam : 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  poet's  theme  I 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  Avelcmne  sings, 

When  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
OV-r  mountain,  tower,  and  town. 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  I 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  yoinig  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


HOPE'S   KINGDOM. 

From  "The  Pleasires  of  IIofe." 

I'^nfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  i-eturu, — 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour: 
Oh!   then  thy  kingdom  comes,  Immortal  I'ower  I 


What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  lly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  bauds  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  tlicni  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  I'hteuix  spirit  burns  within! 


UNBELIEF  IX   IMMORTALITY. 

Trom  "  The  PLEAsniEs  of  IIofe." 

Oh!  lives  there,  Heaven!  beneath  thy  dread  expanse, 

One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance, 

Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 

The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind  ; 

Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust. 

In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 

Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss. 

And  call  this  barren  world  sufiScient  bliss  ? — 

There  live,  alas!  of  Heaven-directed  mien. 

Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene. 

Who  hail  thee,  Man  !   the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 

Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay. 

Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower. 

Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower; 

A  friendless  slave,  a  child  Avithout  a  sire, 

Whose  mortal  life,  and  momentary  fire. 

Light  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  form. 

As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate  the  storm  ; 

And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er. 

To  Night  and  Silence  sink  for  evermore! — 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim. 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 
Is  this  your  triumph — this  your  proud  applause — 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 
For  this  hath  Science  searched,  on  wearj-  wing. 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  living  thing! 
Launched  Avith  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 
To  worlds  unknown,  ami  isles  beyond  the  deep. 
Or  roniul  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven. 
And  wheeled  in  triumph  through  the  signs  of  heaven  ? 
Oh !   star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wandered  there. 
To  vraft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 
Then  bind  tlie  palm,  tiiy  sage's  brow  to  suit. 
Of  blasted  leaf  and  death-distilling  fruit! 
Ah  me  !  the  laurelled  wreath  that  Murder  rears. 
Blood-nursed,  and  watered  by  the  widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  nightshade  round  the  sceptic  head. 

What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  f 
I  smile  on  death,  if  heavenward  Hope  remain! 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  Strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life. 


XOEL   THOMAS  CJEEIXGTOX.—SIIt   RUMPURY  DAVY. 


341 


If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power! 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  honr, 
Doomed  o'er  the  world's  precarions  scene  to  sweep, 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 
To  know  Delight  bnt  by  her  parting  smile, 
And  toil,  and  Avish,  and  weep,  a  little  -while; — 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  formed  in  vain 
This  tronbled  pnlso,  and  visionary  brain  ! 
Fade,  yo  Avild  llowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb! 


IS^ad  (tijomas  Carrinciton. 

A  native  of  Plymouth,  England,  Cavrlngtou  (1777-1830) 
was  the  author  of  several  poems  exhibiting  a  master^' 
of  blank  verse.  He  published  "The  Banks  of  Tamar" 
(1820),  "Dartmoor"  (182G),  and  "My  Native  Village." 
His  collected  poems  were  published  in  two  volumes, 
12ino.  Of  these  "Dartmoor"  met  with  greater  success 
than  the  author  had  anticipated.  His  account  of  the 
pixies,  or  fairies,  of  Devonshire  is  a  favorable  specimen 
of  the  graceful  ease  to  which  he  had  attained  in  the  met- 
rical flow  of  his  language. 


THE   PIXIES   OF  DEVON. 

They  are  flown, 
Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers,  wove 
In  Superstition's  web  when  Time  was  young. 
And  fondly  loved  and  cherished  :   they  are  flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science !     Hills  and  vales. 
Mountains  and  moors  of  Devon,  ye  have  lost 
The  enchantments,  the  delights,  the  A'isions  all. 
The  elfin  visions  that  so  blessed  the  sight 
In  the  old  days  romantic !     Naught  is  heard 
Xow^  in  the  leafy  world  but  earthly  strains — 
A''oices,  yet  sweet,  of  breeze  and  bird  and  brook 
And  water-fall ;   the  day  is  silent  else, 
And  night  is  strangely  mute  !    The  hymniugs  high, 
The  immortal  music,  men  of  ancient  times 
Heard  ravished  oft,  are  flown  !     Oh,  ye  have  lost. 
Mountains  aud  moors  and  meads,  the  radiant  throngs 
That  dwelt  in  your  green  solitudes,  aud  filled 
The  air,  the  fields,  with  beauty  and  with  joy 
Intense, — with  a  ricli  mystery  that  awed 
The  mind,  and  flung  around  a  thousand  hearths 
Divinest  tales,  that  through  the  enchanted  year 
Found  passionate  listeners ! 

Tlie  very  streams 
Brightened  with  visitings  of  these  so  sweet 
Ethereal  creatures !     They  were  seen  to  rise 
From  the  charmed  waters,  which  still  brighter  grew 
As  the  pomp  passed  to  land,  until  the  eye 
Scarce  bore  the  unearthly  glory.    Where  they  trod, 


Young  flowers,  but  not  of  this  world's  growth,  aro.se, 
And  fragrance,  as  of  amaranthine  bowers. 
Floated  u]ion  the  breeze. 

But  ye  have  flown. 
Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers ! — flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science ! 


Sir  tjumpljrn  Dauii. 

Eminent  as  a  man  of  science,  Davy  (1778-1829)  was 
also  a  poet.  He  was  born  at  Penzance,  in  Cornwall,  and 
educated  at  the  school  of  Truro.  He  was  an  enthusi- 
astic reader  and  student,  fond  of  metaphysics,  fond  of 
experiment,  an  ardent  student  of  nature,  fond  of  poetry. 
All  these  tastes  endured  throughout  life;  business  could 
not  stifle  them,  nor  even  the  approach  of  death  extin- 
guish them.  But  the  physical  sciences  absorbed  his 
most  earnest  attention.  Of  his  splendid  discoveries,  his 
invention  of  the  safety-lamp  is  probably  the  most  use- 
ful to  mankind.  He  was  rewarded  for  it  with  a  baronet- 
cy by  the  Prince-regent  in  1818.  Coleridge  is  reported 
as  saying  that,  "if  Davy  had  not  been  the  first  chemist, 
he  probabl}'  would  have  been  the  first  poet  of  his  age." 
There  is  exaggeration  in  the  remark;  but  it  is  certain 
that  Davy  has  given  proofs  of  a  fine  poetic  sensibility, 
and  that  he  ought  to  be  classed  among  the  potential 
poets. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  DAN- 
GEROUS ILLNESS. 

Lo !   o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  spirits  pour 

The  flames  of  life  that  bounteous  Nature  gives; 

The  limpid  dew  becomes  the  rosy  flower. 

The  insensate  dust  awakes,  and  moves,  and  lives. 

All  speaks  of  cliange :   the  renovated  forms 
Of  long-forgotten  things  arise  again  ; 

Tlie  light  of  suns,  the  breath  of  angry  storms. 
The  everlasting  motions  of  the  main, — 

These  are  bnt  engines  of  the  Eternal  will. 
The  one  Intelligence,  wliose  potent  sway 

Has  ever  acted,  aud  is  acting  still, 

While  stars  aud  worlds  and  systems  all  obey ; 

Without  whose  power  the  whole  of  mortal  things 
Were  dull,  inert,  an  unharmonious  band. 

Silent  as  are  the  harp's  untundd  strings 
Without  the  touches  of  the  poet's  hand. 

A  sacred  spaik  created  by  his  breath, 

The  immortal  mind  of  man  his  image  bears  ; 

A  spirit  living  'mid  the  forms  of  death. 

Oppressed,  but  not  subdued,  by  mortal  cares  ; 


342 


CYCLOPJCDIA    UF  niHTlSll  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


A  germ,  preparing  in  the  ^Yillter'^  frost 

To  rise  aiitl  Imd  and  blossom  in  the  sjiring ; 

An  nnlliMlgcd  eagle,  by  the  tempest  tossed, 
Unconscions  of  his  future  strength  of  \Ying  ; 

The  cliild  of  trial,  to  mortality 

And  all  its  changeful  influences  given  ; 

On  the  green  earth  decreed  to  move  and  die, 
And  yet  1)y  sncii  a  fate  prepared  for  heaven. 

To  live  in  forests,  mingled  with  the  wliole 
Of  natural  forms,  whose  generations  rise 

In  lovely  change,  in  happy  order  roll, 

On  laud,  in  ocean,  in  the  glittering  skies, — 

Their  harmony  to  trace  ;   the  Eternal  Cause 
To  know  in  love,  in  reverence  to  adore; 

To  bend  beneath  the  inevitable  laws. 

Sinking  in  death,  its  human  strength  no  more  ;— 

Then,  as  awakening  from  a  dream  of  pain, 
With  joy  its  mortal  feelings  to  resign  ; 

Yet  all  its  living  essence  to  retain, 

The  undying  energy  of  strength  divine  ; — 

To  quit  the  burdens  of  its  earthly  days. 

To  give  to  Nature  all  her  borrowed  powers, — 

Ethereal  fire  to  feed  the  solar  rays, 

Etlicrcal  dew  to  glad  the  earth  with  showers! 


LIFE. 


Our  life  is  like  a  cloudy  sky  'mid  mountains, 
When  in  the  blast  the  watery  vapors  float. 
Now  gleams  of  light  pass  o'er  the  lovely  hills, 
And  make  the  purple  heath  and  russet  bracken 
Seem  lovelier,  and  the  grass  of  brighter  green  ; 
And  now  a  giant  shadow  hides  tiiem  all. 
And  thus  it  is  that,  in  all  carthlji  distance 
On  which  the  sight  can  fix,  still  fear  and  hope. 
Gloom  and  alternate  sunshine,  each  succeeds. 
So  of  another  and  an  unknown  land 
W^c  see  the  radiance  of  the  clouds  reflected, 
Whicli  is  the  future  life  beyond  the  grave ! 


THOUGHT. 

Be  this  our  trust,  that  ages  (filled  with  light 
More  glorious  far  th.aii  those  faint  beams  which  shine 
In  this  our  feeble  twili;j;]it)  yet  to  come 
Shall  sec  distinctly  what  we  now  but  hope  : 


Tlie  world  immutable  in  which  alone 

Wisdom  is  foMiul,  the  liglit  and  life  of  things, — 

The  breatii  divine,  creating  power  divine, — 

The  One  of  which  tlie  human  intellect 

Is  but  a  type,  as  feeble  as  tliat  image 

Of  the  bright  sun  seen  on  the  bursting  wave — 

IJright,  but  without  distinctness,  yet  in  passing 

Showing  its  glorious  and  eternal  source! 


i^nancis  Scott  Kcij. 

AMERICAN. 

Key  (1779-1843)  owes  his  liimc  to  a  single  patriotic 
song.  The  excellent  music  to  which  its  somewhat  liarsli 
and  intractable  verses  are  set  lias  undoubtedly  done 
much  to  perpetuate  its  popularity.  Key  was  born  in 
Frederick  County,  Maryland,  and  educated  at  St.  John's 
College,  Annapolis.  He  practised  law  first  in  Frederick- 
town,  and  afterward  in  Washington,  where  he  became 
District  Attorney.  A  volume  of  liis  poems  was  pub- 
lished in  Baltimore  after  his  death.  There  is  little  in 
the  collection  that  is  memorable  except  "The  Star- 
spangled  Banner."  This  was  composed  in  1814,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry,  when 
Key,  a  young  midshipman,  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hantln 
oC  the  attacking  British. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

Oh  say !  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the 

perilous  fight. 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  Avatched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in 

air. 
Gave  proof,  through  the  night,  that  our  flag  was 

still  there. 
Oh  !   .say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  tiic  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  tliat  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mi.sts  of  the 

deep. 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host   in   dread   silence 

reposes. 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering 

steej), 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  nmrning's  first  beam. 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream : 
'Tis  tlie  star-spangled  banner — oh, long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY.— JOHN  HERMAN  MERIVALE. 


343 


And  where  is  tliat  band  who  so  vaiiiitiugly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confnsion 

A  home  and  a  country  shouhl  k'avo  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  waslied  out  their  foul  footsteps' 

pollutiou  I 

No  refuge  conld  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  tlie  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh  !   thus  bo  it  ever  when  freemen  shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  deso- 
lation : 
Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven- 
rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved 
it  a  nation  ! 
Thus  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just; 
And  this  be  our  motto — "  In  God  is  onr  trust !" 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  laud  of  the  free  aud  the  home  of  the  brave. 


THE  WORM'S  DEATH-SONG. 

Oh !  let  me  alone, — I've  a  work  to  be  done 
That  can  brook  not  a  moment's  delay; 

While  yet  I  breathe  I  must  spin  and  weave, 
And  may  rest  not  night  or  day. 

Food  and  sleep  I  never  may  know, 

Till  my  blessed  work  be  done ; 
Tiien  my  rest  shall  be  sweet  in  the  winding-sheet 

That  around  me  I  have  spun. 

I  have  been  a  base  and  grovelling  thing, 
And  the  dust  of  the  earth  my  home  ; 

But  now  I  know  that  the  end  of  mj'  woe 
And  the  day  of  my  bliss  is  come. 

In  the  shroud  I  make,  this  creeping  frame 

Shall  peacefully  die  away ; 
But  its  death  shall  be  new  life  to  me, 

In  the  midst  of  its  perished  clay. 

I  shall  wake,  I  shall  Avake — a  glorious  form 

Of  brightness  and  beauty  to  wear ; 
I  shall  bnrst  from  the  gloom  of  my  openimg  tomb. 

And  breathe  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  shall  spread  vay  new  wings  to  the  morning  sun  ; 
On  the  summer's  breath  I  shall  live  ; 


I  shall  bathe  mo  where,  in  the  dewy  air, 
Tlie  flowers  their  sweetness  give. 

I  will  not  touch  the  dusty  earth,— 
I  will  spring  to  the  brightening  sky ; 

And  free  as  the  breeze,  wherever  I  please, 
On  joyous  wings  I'll  fly. 

And  wherever  I  go,  timid  mortals  may  know, 
That  like  me  from  the  tomb  they  shall  rise : 

To  the  dead  shall  be  given,  by  signal  from  heaven, 
A  new  life  'and  new  home  in  the  skies. 

Then  let  them  like  me  make  ready  their  shrouds, 

Nor  shrink  from  the  mortal  strife ; 
And  like  mo  they  shall  sing, as  to  heaven  thej'  spring, 

"  Death  is  not  the  end  of  life !" 


iJoiju  £)crman  illcrbaU. 

Merivale  (1779-1844)  was  a  native  of  Exeter,  England. 
Educated  at  Cambridge,  he  studied  law,  was  a  success- 
ful barrister,  and  in  1826  was  appointed  a  Commissioner 
in  Banlvruptcj".  The  tirst  edition  of  his  "Orlando  in 
Koncesvalles,"  a  poem  in  five  cantos,  appeared  in  1814. 
His  "Poems,  Original  and  Translated,"  were  published 
by  Pickering  in  three  volumes,  1838.  Some  of  his  ver- 
sions from  the  Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  and  German  are 
faithful  and  spirited;  and  his  short  original  poems, 
thougli  quite  nnequal  in  merit,  sliow  no  ordinary  degree 
of  literary  attainment.  For  some  of  these,  he  frankly 
tells  us,  he  is  little  entitled  to  assume  the  merit  of  entire 
originality ;  he  is  "  fully  sensible  of  this  deticiency,  or  of 
what  may  be  called  a  propensity  to  follow  in  the  track 
of  such  preceding  authors  as  were  from  time  to  time 
objects  of  his  admiration."  He  Avas  the  father  of  the 
Rev.  Charles  Merivale  (born  1808),  author  of  a  "History 
of  the  Romans  under  the  Empire"  (1863). 


"EVIL,  BE   THOU  MY   GOOD." 

"Evil,  be  thon  my  good" — in  rage 

Of  disappointed  pride. 
And  hurling  vengeance  at  his  God, 

The  apostate  angel  cried. 

"  Evil,  bo  thon  my  good  " — repeats, 

But  in  a  different  sense, 
The  Christian,  taught  by  faith  tp  trace 

The  scheme  of  Providence. 

So  deems  the  hermit,  who  abjures 
The  world  for  Jesus'  sake  ; 


344 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BUITISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlie  patriot  'mid  bis  dungeon  bars, 
Tbo  martyr  at  bis  stake. 

For  He  wbo  bappiiicss  (trdaliied 

Our  being's  only  end — 
Tbe  God  wbo  made  us,  and  wbo  knows 

Wbitbcr  our  Avisbes  tend, — 

Tbe  glorious  i)rizo  batb  stationed  bigb 
On  Virtue's  ballowed  mound, 

Guarded  by  toil,  beset  by  care, 
Witli  danger  circled  round. 

Virtue  were  but  a  name,  if  Vice 

Had  no  dominion  bcrc, 
And  pleasure  none  could  taste,  if  pain 

And  sorrow  ■were  not  near. 

Tbe  fatal  cup  we  all  must  drain 

Of  mingled  bliss  and  woe  ; 
T'nmixed  tbo  cup  would  tasteless  be, 

Or  quite  forget  to  flow. 

Tbeu  cease  to  question  Heaven's  decree, 

Since  Evil,  understood. 
Is  but  tbe  tribute  Nature  pays 

For  Universal  Good.' 


REASON  AND  UNDERSTANDING. 

From  "  1!f,tiiospectiox,"  —  an  Unpublished  Poem. 

la  (I  tuite  to  this  part  ofliiapoem  the  author  says:  "The  Eng- 
lisli  public  is  not  yet  ripe  to  comprehend  the  essential  differ- 
ence between  the  reason  and  the  nnderstauding — between  a 
principle  and  a  maxim— an  eternal  truth  and  a  mere  conclusion 
generalized  from  a  ^reat  number  of  facts.  A  man,  having  seen 
a  million  nioss-rosen,  all  red,  concludesi,  from  his  own  experi- 
ence and  that  of  others,  that  all  moss-roses  are  red.  That  is  a 
maxim  with  him — the  (trcatent  amount  of  his  knowledge  on  the 
subject.  But  it  is  only  true  until  some  gardener  has  produced 
a  white  moss-rose  — after  which  the  maxim  is  good  for  noth- 
ing. *  •  *  Now  compare  this  with  the  assurance  which  you  have 
that  the  two  sides  of  any  triangle  are  together  greater  than  the 
third,"  etc.    See  Coleridge's  "Table-Talk." 

Tbe  reasoning  faculty,  and  tbat  wo  name 
Tbo  understanding,  are  no  more  tbo  same 
Than  are  a  maxim  and  a  principle — 
A  truth  eterual,  indestructible, 

'  The  author,  in  a  note,  refers  to  the  following  stanza  I)y  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Carter  (ITtT-ISiiC),  which  he  quotes,  "although  serv- 
ing to  convict  him  of  unconscious  plagiarism  :" 

"Throuirh  nature's  ever  varying  scene 
By  different  ways  pursued. 
The  one  eternal  end  of  Heaven 
Is  Universal  Good." 


And  a  bare  inference  from  facts,  bow  great 
Soe'er  their  number,  magnitude,  and  weight. 
— At  best,  how  fallible! — wbo  sees  a  rose, 
Sees  tbat  'tis  red  ;   and  what  ho  sees  bo  knows. 
Day  after  day,  at  each  successive  hour, 
Wbero'er  ho  treads,  tbe  same  love-vermeiled  flower 
Blooms  in  bis  i>atb.     What  wonder  if  be  draw, 
From  facts  so  proved,  a  universal  law. 
And  deem  all  roses  of  tbo  self-.same  hue  ? 
And  this  is  knowledge!     Yet  'tis  only  true 
Until  a  white  rose  gleams  upoii  his  view. 
Where  is  his  reason  then  ? — his  science,  bought 
AVith  long  experience?    All  must  come  to  naught! 

So,  ■when  creation's  earliest  day  liad  run. 
And  Adam  first  beheld  tbe  new-born  sun 
Sink  in  tbo  shrouded  west,  tbe  deepening  gloom 
He  watched,  all  hopeless  of  a  morn  to  come. 
Another  evening's  shades  advancing  near 
He  marked  with  livelier  hopes,  yet  dashed  by  fear. 
Another — and  another^bopes  prevail ; 
Thousands  of  years  repeat  the  ■wondrous  tale  : 
Yet  where  is  man's  assurance  tbat  tbo  light 
Of  day  will  break  upon  the  coming  night  ? 

Without  all  sense  of  God,  eternity, 
Absolute  truth,  volition,  liberty. 
Good,  fiiir,  just,  iullnito — think,  if  you  can. 
Of  such  a  being  in  the  form  of  man  ! 
AVbat  but  tbe  animal  remains? — endowed 
(May  be)  with  memory's  instinctive  crowd 
Of  images — but  man  is  wanting  there. 
His  very  essence,  unimpressive  air ; 
And,  in  his  stead,  a  creature  subtler  far 
Than  all  tbe  beasts  that  in  tbo  forest  are. 
Or  the  green  lield, — but  also  cursed  above 
Them  all — condemned  that  bitterest  curse  to  prove : 
"  Upon  thy  belly  creep,  aud,  for  thy  fee. 
Eat  dust,  so  long  as  thou  bast  leave  to  be." 


FROM  THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY. 

In  wanton  sport  my  Doris  from  her  fair 
And  glossy  tresses  tore  a  straggling  hair. 
And  bouiul  my  liands,  as  if  of  coufiuest  vain. 
And  I  some  royal  captive  in  her  chain. 
At  first  I  laughed:   "This  fetter,  charming  maid, 
Is  lightly  worn,  and  soon  dissolved,"  I  said: 
I  said — but  ah !   I  had  not  learned  to  prove 
How  strong  tbo  fetters  tbat  are  forged  by  Love. 
Tbat  little  thread  of  gold  I  strove  to  sever, 
Was  bound,  like  steel,  around  ray  heart  forever; 
Aud,  from  that  hapless  hour,  my  tyrant  fair 
Has  led  and  turned  me  by  a  single  hair. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


345 


(Ll)omaG  illoorc. 


Moore  (17T'.)-18o2)  was  the  son  of  the  keeper  of  n  small 
wine-store  in  Dublin.  He  was  a  quick  child,  and  rhymed 
and  recited  carl}-.  A  careful  mother  secured  him  the' 
best  education  she  could  get.  By  ISOO  he  had  graduated 
at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  acquired  much  social  re- 
IHite  as  a  singer  to  his  own  accompaniment  at  the  piano. 
He  translated  "Anacrcon,"  and  wrote  amorous  poems, 
which  he  would  have  liked  to  annihilate  in  after-years. 
In  1803  he  went  to  Bermuda, Mhere  he  had  got  an  offi- 
cial situation,  the  duties  cf  which  might  be  performed 
by  proxy  ;  but  his  deputy  proved  unfaithful,  and  Moore 
incurred  annoyance  and  pecuniary  loss  therefrom.  Hav- 
ing made  a  short  tour  in  the  United  States,  aud  visited 
Washington,  Philadelphia,  New  York,  aud  Boston,  he  re- 
turned to  England,  became  a  diner-out  mucli  in  request 
at  Holland  House,  wrote  lively  Whig  satires,  aud,  after 
marrying  a  Miss  Dyke,  with  whom  he  lived  happily,  be- 
gan writing  his  "Irish  Melodies,"  for  which  he  was  to 
receive  £500  a  year  for  seven  years.  He  wrote  "Lalla 
Rookh,"  an  Oriental  tale  in  verse,  for  which  he  got 
£3000.  Among  his  prose  works  are  a  "Life  of  Sheri- 
dan," "  Life  of  Byron,"  aud  "  The  Epicurean."  In  1831 
a  pension  of  £300  a  year  M'as  settled  upon  Moore. 

The  latter  years  of  the  poet's  life  were  embittered  by 
domestic  bereavements.  Two  of  his  children  died.  He 
sank  into  mental  imbecility,  and  died  at  Slopertou  Cot- 
tage, near  Devizes,  in  his  seventy-third  year.  Moore  was 
kind-hearted  aud  emotional;  he  loved  his  mother,  his 
wife,  and  Ireland,  and  had  many  attached  friends ;  but 
"dining-out  did  not  deepen  his  character."  Byron  said 
of  him,  "be  dearly  loved  a  lord."  Moore  was  at  his  best 
in  his  "Irish  Melodies."  They  seem  to  be  inseparable 
from  the  music  to  which  he  skilfully  wedded  them,  and 
many  have  the  elements  of  an  enduring  reputation.  But 
it  would  be  better  for  Moore's  chance  of  future  fame  if 
two-thirds  of  what  he  wrote  could  be  expunged. 

While  in  Philadelphia,  Moore  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Joseph  Deunie  (1768-1813),  an  elegant  scholar  and 
genial  companion,  and  editor  of  the  first  good  American 
magazine,  llie  Portfulio.  Dennie  was  a  native  of  Boston, 
Mass.,  and  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  but  passed  the  latter 
years  of  bis  life  in  Philadelphia.  Here  Moore  was  one 
of  his  guests,  wrote  songs  for  The  Portfulio,  and  joined  in 
the  nightly  gayeties.  In  one  of  his  poems  are  these 
lines,  referring  to  the  friends  he  met  at  Dennie's  : 

"Yet,  yet  forgive  me,  O  ye  sacred  few! 
Whom  late  by  Delaware's  green  banks  I  knew ; 
Whom,  known  and  loved  through  many  a  social  eve, 
'Twas  bliss  to  live  with,  and  'twas  pain  to  leave. 
Not  with  more  joy  tlie  lonely  exile  scanned 
The  writing  traced  upon  the  desert's  sand, 
Where  his  lone  heart  but  little  hoped  to  tiad 
One  trace  of  life,  one  stamp  of  humankind, 
Thau  did  I  hail  the  pure,  the  enlightened  zeal. 
The  strength  to  reason  and  the  warmth  to  feel. 
The  manly  polish  and  the  illnmined  taste, 
Which — 'mid  the  melancholy,  heartless  waste 
My  foot  has  traversed — O  you  sacred  few ! 
I  found  by  Delaware's  green  banks  with  yon." 

Joseph  Dennie  died  in  1813,  at  the  early  age  of  forty- 
four  years.     T/ie  FortfoUo  did  not  long  survive  him. 


THE   MEETING   OF  THE   WATERS.' 

Tliere  is  not  iu  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that   vale  iu  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet  ;* 
Oh  !  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart. 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my 

heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill — 
Oh  no ! — it  Avas  something  more  cxqui.site  still. 

'Twas  that  friends  the  beloved  of  my  bosom  were 

near, 
WIio  made  every  dear  scene  of  eucliantmeut  more 

dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  Aale  of  Avoca !   Iioav  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

W^here  the  storms  that  we  feel  iu  this  cold  world 

should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters, be  mingled  in  peace. 


BELIEVE   ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEAEING 
YOUNG  CHARMS. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  aud  fleet  iu  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fadiug  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou 
art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will ; 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  lieart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  nnprofaned  by  a  tear, 
Tiiat  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  his  god  when  he  sets 

Tlie  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 

'  "The  Meeting  of  the  Waters"  forms  a  part  of  th.it  beanti- 
fnl  scenery  wliich  lies  between  Rathdrnm  and  Arklow,  in  the 
county  of  VVicklow,  and  these  lines  were  suggested  by  a  visit 
to  this  romantic  spot,  in  the  summer  of  1S07. 

-  The  rivers  of  Avon  aud  Avoca. 


346 


CYCLOI'JWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT  SHRINE. 

The  tnrf  shall  bo  uiy  frajirant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord  !  that  arch  of  thine  ; 
My  censer's  breath  tlie  nionntain  airs, 
Aucl  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  bo  the  moonlight  waves, 
When  mnrnmring  homeward  to  their  caves, 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee ! 

I'll  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne! 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look. 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  ilame, 
Tlie  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I'll  read  thy  anger  iu  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy  iu  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness  breaking  through  ! 

There's  nothing  bright  above,  below. 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow. 
But  iu  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  Deity ! 

There's  nothing  dark  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love. 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again! 


Oil!   BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME.' 

Oh!  breathe  not  his  name, let  it  sleep  in  the  shade. 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid  : 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head! 

But  tiie  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it 

weeps. 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he 

sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls. 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 

>  In  rercrence  to  the  eloquent  yoiiug  Robert  Emmet,  executed 
iu  Dublin,  in  1S03,  for  high-lieasou. 


TIIE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA'S 
HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  higli  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

Tlio  harp  of  Tara  swells : 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night. 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  Avakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


OFT,  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

Oft,  iu  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  : 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone. 
Now  dinmicd  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  mo, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
.Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whoso  lights  arc  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  niglit, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


347 


TJIOSE   EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  eveniug  bells !   those  eveuiug  bells  ! 
How  many  a  tale  their  niusic  tells, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothiug  chime. 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  awaj' ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  eveniug  bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone ; 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  eveniug  bells ! 


FAREWELL  !— BUT,  WHENEVER  YOU  WEL- 
COME  THE   HOUR. 

Farewell ! — but,  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
That   awakens  the   night -song  of  mirth  in  j'our 

bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return — not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of 

j)aiu — 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  liugeriug  with 

you! 

And  still  ou  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup. 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul,  happy  friends !  shall  be  with  you  that  night. 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles. 
And    return    to    nie    beaming    all    o'er    Avith    your 

smiles ! — 
Too  blessed  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  murmured,  "I  wish  he  were 

here  !"' 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy ; 
Which  come,  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care. 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joj-  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  tilled! 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  dis- 
tilled— 
You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase,  if  you  will. 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


OH,  COULD   WE   DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD 
OF   OURS. 

Oh,  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  with  thy  garden  bowers, 
Reject  the  weeds,  and  keep  the  dowers. 

What  a  heaven  on  earth  we'd  make  it! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown, 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down. 

By  the  week  or  mouth  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  through  air. 
And  iu  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light  still  ready  there 

Whenever  they  Avish  to  use  it — 
So,  in  this  world  I'd  make  for  thee. 
Our  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be. 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose'  it. 

While  every  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  ;some  shadow  hovering  near, 
Iu  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear. 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted  : — ■ 
Unless  they're  like  that  graceful  one 
Which,  when  thou'rt  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 

Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted! 


REMEMBER  THEE. 

Remember  thee  ?      Yes ;   while  there's  life  iu  this 

heart 
It  shall  never  forget  thee,  all  lorn  as  thou  art ; 
More    dear    iu    thy    sorrow,  thj^    gloom,  and    tiiy 

showers, 
Than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  their  sunniest  hours. 

Wert  thou  all  that  I  wish  thee  —  great,  glorious, 

aud  free, 
First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gem  of  the  sea — 
I  might  hail  thee  with  prouder,  with  happier  brow  ; 
But  oh,  could  I  love  thee  more  deeply  than  now  ? 

No ;   thy  chains   as   thej'   rankle,  thy  blood  as   it 

runs, 
But  make  thee  more  painfully  dear  to  thy  sons. 
Whose  hearts,  like  the  young  of  the  desert-bird's 

nest. 
Drink  love  in  each  life -drop  that  flows  from  thy 

breast. 


348 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  liRITlSlI  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THOU  ART,  O  GOD. 

TIioii  ait,  O  God,  tlio  life  and  lij;;lit 
or  all  this  woiidious  world  wo  see ; 

Its  ylow  l»y  day,  its  smilo  by  ni<;;lit 
Are  but  rellcctioiis  caught  from  thee. 

Where'er  wo  turn  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 

When  Day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  Even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  licaven — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.  Lord,  are  thine. 

AVlien  Night,  w  ith  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies. 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose  plume 
Is  sparkling  with  uuunmbered  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  tires  divine. 

So  grand,  so  countless.  Lord,  are  thine. 

When  y6uthful  Spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  Summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine. 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 


THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone  ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  theo,  thou  lone  one. 

To  pine  on  the  stem; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeiung, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  /  follow, 
W^hen  friendships  decay. 


And  from  Love's  shining  circle 
The  gems  drop  away. 

When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 
And  fond  ones  are  flown. 

Oh  !    who  would  inhabit 
This  bleak  world  alone? 


THE  MODERN  PUFFING  SYSTEM. 

FnoM  AN  Epistle  to  Samuel  Kogers,  Esq. 

T^iilike  those  feeble  gales  of  praise 

Which  critics  blew  iu  former  days, 

Our  modern  putfs  arc  of  a  ]iiiMf ' 

That  truly,  really  "raise  the  wind;" 

And  since  they've  fairly  set  in  blowing, 

We  find  them  the  best  "trade-winds"  going. 

What  steam  is  on  the  deep — and  more — 
Is  the  vast  power  of  Puff  on  shore, 
AVhich  jumi)S  to  glory's  future  tenses 
Before  the  present  even  commences. 
And  makes  "immortal"  and  "divine"  of  us 
Before  the  world  has  read  one  line  of  us. 

In  old  times,  when  the  god  of  song 
Drove  his  own  two-horse  team  along. 
Carrying  inside  a  bard  or  two 
Booked  for  posterity  "all  through," 
Their  luggage  a  few  close-packed  rhymes 
(Like  yours,  my  friend,  for  after-times). 
So  slow  the  pull  to  Fame's  abode 
That  folks  oft  slumbered  on  the  road  ; 
And  Homer's  self  sometimes,  they  say. 
Took  to  his  nightcap  on  the  way. 

But  now  how  dilierent  is  the  story 
With  our  new  galloping  sons  of  glory. 
Who,  scorning  all  such  slack  and  slow  time. 
Dash  to  posterity  in  no  time ! 
Raise  but  one  general  blast  of  puff 
To  start  your  author — that's  enough ! 

In  vain  the  critics  set  to  watch  him 
Try  at  the  starting-post  to  catch  him: 
He's  off — the  putiers  carry  it  hollow — 
The  critics,  if  they  please,  may  follow  ; 
Ere  they've  laid  down  their  first  positions, 
He's  fairly  blown  through  six  editions! 

In  vain  doth  E<linburgli  dispense 
Her  blue-and-yellow  pestilence 
(That  plague  so  awful  in  my  time 
To  young  and  touchy  sons  of  rhyme) ; 
The  Qniirterly,  at  three  months'  date. 
To  catch  the  Unread  One  comes  too  late ; 
And  nonsense,  littered  in  a  hurry. 
Becomes  '"  inunorfal,"  spite  of  Murray. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


34U 


I   SAW   FROM  THE   BEACH. 

I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  glorionslj'  on  ; 

I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining — • 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spriug-tide  of  joy  we  have  known  ; 

Each  wave  that   we  danced  on  at  morning  ebbs 
from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night; 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of 
Morning ! 
Her  clonds  and  her  tears   are  worth  Evening's 
best  light. 

Oh, who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning. 

When  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his 

frame. 

And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in 

burning, 

Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame? 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

Oil!   the  days  are  gone  when  Beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove ! 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night. 

Was  love,  still  love ! 

New  hope  may  bloom, 

And  days  may  come 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam. 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  Love's  young  dream  ! 
Oh  !   there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  Love's  young  dream ! 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar. 

When  wild  youth's  past ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  Avho  frowned  before, 

To  smile  at  last ; 

He'll  never  meet 

A  joy  so  sweet, 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame. 
As  when  first  he  sang  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And,  at  every  clo.se,  she  blushed  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name ! 


Oh !   that  hallowed  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  traced; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

On  memory's  waste ! 

'Twas  odor  fled 

As  soon  as  shed ; 
'Twas  morning's  wingdd  dream  ; 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 
Oh!   'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream. 


OH,  THOU  WHO   DRY'ST   THE  MOURNER'S 
TEAR. 

Oh,  Thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  be. 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here. 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee ! 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

When  Winter  comes,  are  flown  ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  Thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart, 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part. 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimmed,  and  vanished,  too, 
Oh,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 

Our  peace-l)rauch  from  above  ? 
Then  sorrow  touched  by  Thee  grows  bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray ; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

W"e  never  saw  by  day. 


COME,  YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  wlicre'cr  you  languish ; 

Come,  at  God's  altar  fervently  kneel ; 
Here   bring  your  wounded  hearts,  here  tell   your 
anguish — 

Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal. 

Joy  of  the  desolate.  Light  of  the  straying, 
Hope,  when  all  others  die,  fadeless  and  pure, 


350 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  in  God's  name  sayinjj, 
"Earth  lias  no  sorrow  that  lloaven  cannot  cure." 

Go,  ask  the  iniidcl  wliat  boon  lie  brings  ns, 
What  charm  for  aching  hearts  he  can  reveal 

Sweet  as  that  heavenly  promise  Hope  sings  ns, 
"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  God  cannot  heal." 


TO  GREECE  WE  GIVE  OUR  SHINING  BLADES. 

The  sky  is  bright — the  breeze  is  fair, 

And  the  main-sail  flowing,  full  and  free — 

Our  farewell  word  is  woman's  prayer, 
And  the  hope  before  us — Liberty '. 

Farewell,  farewell. 
To  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades. 
And  our  hearts  to  you,  young  Zeau  Maids ! 

The  moou  is  in  the  heavens  above, 
And  the  wind  is  on  the  foaming  sea — 

Thus  shines  the  star  of  woman's  love 
On  the  glorious  strife  of  Liberty ! 

Farewell,  farewell. 
To  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades, 
And  our  hearts  to  you,  young  Zeau  Maids ! 


illasljingtou  ^llston. 

AMERICAN. 

AUston  (1779-1843)  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  was 
educated  at  a  private  school  in  Newport,  R.  I.,  and  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  in  1800.  His  lirst  wife  was  a  sister 
of  Channing.  In  ISoO  lie  was  married  to  a  sister  of  the 
poet  Dana,  and  resided  in  Catnbridgcport,  Mass.,  the 
rest  of  his  life.  While  in  Europe  he  formed  the  intimate 
friendship  of  Coleridge.  Studying  art  in  London  and 
Rome,  he  attained  to  the  highest  eminence  as  a  paint- 
er. He  published  "  The  Sylph  of  the  Seasons,  and  other 
Poems,"  also  "Monaldi,"  a  prose  romance.  Honored 
and  beloved,  he  passed  a  blameless  and  noble  life. 


SONNET  ON  COLERIDGE. 

And  thou  art  gone,  most  loved,  most  honored  friend  ! 
No,  nevermore  thy  gentle  voice  shall  blend 
With  air  of  earth  its  pure  ideal  tones, 
Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones. 
The  heart  and  intellect.     And  I  no  more 
Shall  Avith  thee  gaze  on  that  unfathomed  deep. 
The  Human  Soul ;   as  when,  pushed  oil"  the  shore, 
Thy  mystic  bark  would  through  the  darkness  sweep, 


Itself  the  while  so  bright!     For  oft  we  seemed 

As  on  some  starless  sea — all  dark  above, 

All  dark  below — yet,  onward  as  wo  drove, 

To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  streamed. 

But  ho  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 

Of  all  ho  loved :   thy  living  Truths  are  left. 


AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

All  hail !   thou  noble  land. 
Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 
Oh,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand. 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil. 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  waves  to  our  shore; 
For  thou,  with  magic  might. 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er. 

The  Genius  of  our  clime. 

From  his  piue-ombattled  steep. 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  Milky  Way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home. 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame. 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tamo 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language,  free  and  bold. 

Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sang. 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rang 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet. 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
Fiom  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts 
That  mould  a  nation's  soul 


CLEMENT  C.  MOORE.— CALEB   C.  COLTOX. 


A 


Still  cliug  around  our  hearts, — 
Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  commuuion  breaking  with  tlio  Sun 
Yet  still,  from  either  beach, 
Tlie  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  One!" 


(Clement  C.  iUoore. 

AMERICAN, 

The  son  of  a  bishop,  Moore  (1779-1803)  was  a  native 
of  the  city  of  New  York,  and  a  graduate  of  Columbia 
College  in  1798.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems,  dedi- 
cated to  his  children,  in  1844.  "I  have  composed  them 
all,"  he  writes,  "as  carefully  and  correctly  as  I  could." 
Of  these  productions  oue  at  least,  founded  on  an  old 
Dutch  tradition,  seems  to  have  in  it  the  elements  of 
vitality.    Moore  bore  the  title  of  LL.D. 


A  VISIT   FKOM   ST.  NICHOLAS. 

'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through 

the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse  ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there. 
Tlie  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds. 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  through  their 

heads ; 
And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap. 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  Aviudow  I  flew  like  a  flash. 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow 
Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below ; 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by 

name  : 
"  Now,  Dasher  !   now.  Dancer  !   now,  Prancer !   and 

Vixen  ! 
On,  Comet !   on,  Cupid!   on,  Donder  and  Blitzen  ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch  !   to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away!   dash  away!  dash  away  all!" 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly. 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 


So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleighful  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and 

soot ; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back. 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His   eyes,  how   they   twinkled !    his   dimples,  how 

merry ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ! 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow. 
And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as   Avhite   as  the 

snow  ; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth. 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face,  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right  jolly  old  elf — 
And  I  laughed,  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  mj-self ; 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread ; 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  bnt  went  straight  to  his  work. 
And  filled  all  the  stockings ;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  the  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew,  like  the  down  of  a  thistle, 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Hajipy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night  I" 


Caleb  (E.  Colton. 

Colton  (1779-1832)  \yas,  like  Churchill,  one  of  the 
mauvais  siijets  of  literature  and  the  Church.  A  native 
of  England,  he  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  took  orders, 
and  became  vicar  of  Kew  and  Petersham.  Gambling, 
extravagance,  and  eccentric  habits  forced  him  to  leave 
England,  and  he  resided  some  time  in  the  United  States 
and  in  Paris.  At  one  period  in  France  he  was  so  suc- 
cessful as  a  gambler  that  he  realized  £2.5,000.  He  was 
the  author  of  "  Laeon ;  or.  Many  Things  in  Few  Words  " 
(1820) — an  excellent  collection  of  apothegms  and  moral 
reflections,  which  had  a  great  sale.  He  corresponded  for 
the  Loudon  Morning  Chronkle  under  the  once  famed  sig- 
nature of  O.  P.  Q.  Notwithstanding  his  dissolute  life,  he 
was  the  earnest  advocate  of  virtue.  He  committed  sui- 
cide at  Fontaincblcau  —  it  was  said,  to  escape  the  pain 
of  a  surgical  operation  froin  which  no  danger  could  be 
apprehended.  In  his  "  Lacon  "  we  find  these  words: 
"The  gamester,  if  he  die  a  martyr  to  his  profession,  is 
doubly  ruined.    He  adds  his  soul  to  every  other  loss. 


352 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOKTRY 


and  by  tlic  act  of  suicide  renounces  earth  to  forfeit 
licaveu."  Colton  iJublishcd  several  poems,  of  wliieli  we 
f^ive  the  best,  llis  "Modern  Anti(|uity,  and  other  Lyri- 
cal Pieces,"  appeared  after  his  death. 


LIFE. 


llow  long  shall  inun's  iniprisoued  spirit  gro.an 
'Twixt  doubt  of  heaveu  and  deep  di.sgust  of  earth? 

Where  all  worth  knowing  never  can  he  kiiowTi, 
And  all  that  can  he  known,  alas!  is  nothing  worth. 

Untaught  by  saint,  by  cynic,  or  hy  sage, 

And  all  the  spoils  of  time  that  load  their  shelves, 

"We  do  not  quit,  but  change  our  joys  in  age — 
Joys  framed  to  stifle  thought,  and  load  us  from 
ourselves. 

The  drug,  the  cord,  the  steel,  the  flood,  the  flame. 

Turmoil  of  action,  tedium  of  rest, 
And  lust  of  change,  though  for  the  worst,  proclaim 

How  dull  life's  banquet  is — how  ill  at  ease  the 

guest. 

Known  Averc  the  bill  of  fare  before  we  taste, 
Who  would  not  spurn  the  banquet  and  the  board — 

Prefer  the  etei'nal  but  oblivious  fast 

To  life's  frail  -  fretted  thread,  and  death's  sus- 
pended sword  ? 

He  that  the  topmost  stone  of  Babel  planned, 
And  he  that  braved  the  crater's  boiling  bed — 

Did  these  a  clearer,  closer  view  command 

Of  heaven  or  hell,  we  ask,  than  the  blind  herd 
they  led  ? 

Or  ho  that  in  Yaldarno  did  prolong 

The  night  her  rich  star-studded  page  to  read — 
Could  ho  point  out,  'mid  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

His  fixed  aud  final  home,  from  fleshy  thraldom 
freed  ? 

Minds  that  have  scanned  creation's  vast  domain, 
And  secrets  solved,  till  then  to  sages  sealed, 

While  nature  owned  their  intellectual  reign 

Extinct,  have  nothing  known  or  nothing  have 
revealed. 

Devouring  grave !    wo  might  the  loss  deplore 
The  extinguished  lights  that  in  thy  darkness  dwell, 

Wouldst  thou,  from  that  last  zodiac,  one  restore, 
That  might  the  enigma  solve,  and  doubt,  man's 
tyrant,  quell. 


To  live  in  darkness — in  despair  to  die — 
Is  this,  indeed,  the  boon  to  mortals  given  ? 

Is  there  no  port — no  rock  of  n^fiigo  nigh  ? 

There  is — to  those  who  fix  their  anchor-hope  in 
heaven. 

Turn  then,  O  man  !   and  cast  all  else  aside  ; 

Direct  thy  wandering  thoughts  to  things  above; 
Low  at  the  cross  bow  down — in  that  confide, 

Till  doubt  be  lost  in  faith,  and  bliss  secured  in  love. 


i^orace  Smitij. 


■Horace  Smith  (1779-1849),  a  native  of  London,  and 
son  of  an  eminent  lawyer,  was  a  more  voluminous  writ- 
er than  his  brother  James.  He  was  the  author  of 
"Brambletye  House,"  aud  some  dozen  other  novels — 
no  one  of  marked  merit.  As  a  poet,  he  was  more  suc- 
cessful. His  "Address  to  the  Mummy,"  "Hymn  to  the 
Flowers,"  and  some  smaller  poems,  have  attained  a  mer- 
ited celebrity.  Shelley  once  said  of  Horace  Smith :  "Is 
it  not  odd  that  the  only  truly  generous  person  I  ever 
knew,  who  had  money  to  be  generous  with,  should  be  a 
stock -broker?"  Shelley  also  wrote  these  lines,  more 
truthful  than  poetical,  in  his  praise  : 

"  Wit  and  sense, 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge — all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delij,'ht — 
Aie  all  combined  in  II.  S." 

Horace  Smith  died  at  the  age  of  seventy,  widely  re- 
spected and  beloved.  A  colleetiou  of  his  poems  was 
published  in  London  in  184G,  and  republished  in  New 
York,  1859.     Sue  the  account  of  James  Smith. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE   MUMMY   IN   BELZONI'S 
EXHIBITION. 

And  thou  hast  walked  abont  (how  strange  a  story!) 
lu  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnouium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  arc  tremendous! 

Speak!  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy: 
Thou  hast  a  tongue — come,  let  us  hear  its  tune ; 

Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above-ground,  mummy. 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  ! 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures. 

But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  caust  recollect — 
To  whom  wo  should  assign  the  Sphinx's  furiie. 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name? 


HOE  ACE  SMITH. 


35:{ 


Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misuonier  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  liumlied  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wcrt  a  mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Tlien  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

lu  Memuon's  statue,  which  at  snnriso  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest ;   if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  A'ain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  ver^'  hand,  now  pinioned  Hat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass, 

Or  dropped  a  half-penny  in  Homer's  hat. 

Or  dotied  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed. 
Has  any  Eoman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled ; 

For  thou  wert  dead  and  buried  and  embalmed 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  conldst  develop,  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen. 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green ; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?   then  keep  thy  vows ; 
But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house : 
Siuce  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered. 
What  hast   thou   seen  —  what   strange  adventures 
numbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended. 
We  have,  above-ground,  seen  some  strange  mu- 
tations : 

The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended. 

New  worlds. have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  nations, 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  jiother  o'er  thy  head 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambysos, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 
23 


If  the  tomb's  secrets  luay  not  bo  confessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold: 

A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 
And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled ; 

Have  children  climbed  those  knees  and  kissed  that 
f^ice? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh!   immortal  of  the  dead! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quit'st  thy  narrow  bed. 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its 
warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure. 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  ? 

Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever. 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume. 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 


MORAL   COSMETICS. 

Ye  who  would  save  your  features  florid, 
Lithe  limbs,  bright  eyes,  unwrinkled  forehead, 
From  Age's  devastation  horrid. 

Adopt  this  plan, — 
'Twill  make,  in  climate  cold  or  torrid, 

A  hale  old  man : — 

Avoid  in  youth,  luxurious  diet ; 
Restrain  the  passions'  lawless  riot ; 
Devoted  to  domestic  quiet, 

Be  wisely  gay; 
So  shall  ye,  spite  of  Age's  fiat, 

Resist  decay. 

Seek  not  in  Mammon's  worship  jileasure ; 
But  find  your  richest,  dearest  treasure 
In  books,  friends,  music,  polished  leisure  : 

The  mind,  not  sense. 
Make  the  sole  scale  by  which  to  measure 

Your  opulence. 

This  is  the  solace,  this  the  science — 
Life's  luirest,  sweetest,  best  appliance — 
That  disappoints  not  man's  reliance, 

Whate'er  his  state ; 
But  challenges,  with  calm  defiance. 

Time,  fortune,  fate. 


354 


CTCLOI'JJIHA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


SONNET. 

Eternal  and  Omnipotent  Unseen  ! 

Who  bad'st  the  world,  with  all  its  lives  complete, 

Start  from  the  void  and  thrill  beneath  thy  feet, 

Thee  I  adore  with  reverence  serene: 

Hero  iu  the  fields,  thine  own  cathedral  meet, 

Built  by  thyself,  star-roofed,  and  hung  with  green. 

Wherein  all  breathing  things,  in  concord  sweet, 

Orgaued  by  winds,  perpetual  hymns  repeat — 

Here  hast  thou  si)read  that  Book  to  every  eye, 

Whoso   tongue    and   truth    all,  all    may   read  and 

prove. 
On  whose  three  bless6d  leaves,  Earth,  Ocean,  Sky, 
Thine  own  right  hand  hath  stamped  might,  justice, 

love  : 
Grand  Trinity,  which  binds  in  due  degree 
God,  man,  and  brute  iu  social  unity. 


THE   FIRST   OF  MARCH. 

The  bud  is  in  the  bough,  and  the  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 
And  Earth's  beginning  now  iu  her  veins  to  feel  the 

blood 
Which,  wanned  by  summer  suns  iu  the  alembic  of 

the  vine. 
From  her  founts  will  overrun  in  a  ruddy  gush  of 

wine. 

The  perfume  and  the  bloom  that  shall  decorate  the 

flower 
Are  quickening  iu  the  gloom  of  their  subterraueau 

bower ; 
And  the  juices  meant  to  feed  trees,  vegetables,  fruits, 
Unerriugly  proceed  to  their  preappointed  roots. 

The  Summer's  in  her  ark,  and  this  sunny-pinioned 

day 
Is  commissioned  to  remark  whether  Winter  holds 

Lis  sway : 
Go  back,  thou  dove  of  peace,  with  the  myrtle  on 

thy  wing; 
Say  that  floods  and  temi^ests  cease,  and  the  world 

is  ripe  for  spring. 

Thou  hast  fanned  the  sleeping  Earth  till  hei;  dreams 
are  all  of  flowers. 

And  the  waters  look  in  mirth  for  their  overhang- 
ing bowers  ; 

The  forest  seems  to  listen  for  the  rustle  of  its  leaves, 

Aud  the  very  skies  to  glisteu  iu  the  hope  of  sum- 
mer eves. 


The  vivifying  spell  has  been  felt  beneath  the 
wave, 

By  the  dormouse  iu  its  cell,  aiul  the  mole  Avithin 

its  cav(>  ; 
And  the  summer  tribes  that  creep,  or  in  air  expand 

their  wing 
Have  started  from  their  sleep  at  the  summons  of 

the  spring. 

The  cattle  lift  their  voices  from  the  valleys  and 
the  hills. 

And  the  feathered  race  rejoices  with  a  gush  of  tune- 
ful bills  ; 

Aud  if  this  cloudless  arch  till  the  poet's  song  with 
glee. 

Oh  thou  sunny  First  of  March,  be  it  dedicate  to 
thee ! 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars!     that    ope    your    eyes    with    man,  to 
twinkle. 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation. 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation — 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !   who,  bending  lowly, 
Before  the  uprisen  suu,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

Y'e  bright  mosaics!   that  Avith  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate, — 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Y'our  forms  create ! 

'Neath     clustered    boughs,    each     floral    bell    that 
swiugcth. 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air. 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  for  prayer ! 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  aich  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand  ; 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn. 
Which  God  hath  planued  ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 

Who.se    qiuMichless    lamps    the    sun    and    moon 
supply — 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder. 
Its  dome  the  sky ! 


HOE  ACE  SMITH.— PAUL  MOON  JAMES.— WILLIAM  DIMOND. 


355 


Tliore,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Tliroii>;li  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 

Each  cup  a  i)ulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
Snpplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles!   that  in  dewy  splendor 

"  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a  crime," 
Oh,  may  I  deeply  learn  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

'•'  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory. 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours  : 
How  vain  your  grandeur !   ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  Heavenly  Artist! 
With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread 
hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers,  though  made  for  pleasure, 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night ; 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight ! 

Ephemeral  sages !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope  ! 

Posthumous  glories  !   angel-like  collection  !  v 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth. 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrectiou 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God !   iu  churchless  lauds  remaining. 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and  divines. 

My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining, 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 


}3aul  illoou  ilamcs. 

James  (1780-1854),  who  owes  his  f:\me  to  one  brief 
lyric,  which  has  been  often  claimed  for  Moore,  was  for 
many  years  a  banker  in  Birmingham,  Eni,dand.  "  Though 
quite  a  man  of  business,"  writes  his  niece,  Miss  Lloyd 


(1878),  "my  uncle  never  allowed  it  to  interfere  with  his 
domestic  engagements.  In  the  early  morning  his  gar- 
den, conservatory,  and  pet  birds,  and  in  tlic  evening  read- 
ing and  drawing,  were  among  the  pleasant  resources  of 
his  leisure  hours."  His  earliest  poems  were  published 
in  1798;   "  The  Beacou  "  iu  1810. 


THE   BEACON. 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful,  far,  to  the  eye, 

Thau  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it : 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure-arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it. 
The  murmur  rose  soft,  as  I  silently  gazed 

On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion. 
From  the  dim,  distant  isle,  till  the  light-house  fire 
blazed 

Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 

Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest. 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers. 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope, 

All  hushed  was  the  billow.s'  commotion  ; 
And   o'er   them   the  light -house  looked  lovely  as 
hope, — 

That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet,  when  mj^  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion, 
Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  Mercy  arise, 

Like  a  star  on  eteruitv's  ocean ! 


lUilliam  Pimonb. 


Dimond  was  born  about  the  year  1780,  at  Bath,  Eng- 
land, where  his  father  was  a  patentee  of  tlie  Theatre 
Koyal.  AVilliam  had  a  good  education,  and  was  entered 
a  student  of  the  Inner  Temple,  with  a  view  to  the  Bar. 
He  wrote  dramas,  of  which  "  The  Foundling  of  the  For- 
est" (1809)  seems  to  have  been  the  last.  He  published, 
besides,  a  volume  entitled  "Petrarchal  Sonnets."  His 
poem  of  "The  Mariner's  Dream"  is  the  only  one  of  his 
productions  that  seems  to  be  held  in  remembrance.  lie 
was  living  in  1812,  but  is  believed  to  have  died  soon  after. 
Among  his  pieces  for  the  stage  arc  "A  Sea-side  Story," 
an  operatic  drama  (1801) ;  "The  Hero  of  the  North,"  an 
historical  play  (180.3) ;  "  The  Hunter  of  the  Alps  "  (1804) ; 
"Youth,  Love,  and  Folly,"  a  comic  opera  (1805);  "The 
Young  Hussar,"  an  operatic  piece  (1807). 


356 


VYCLUrJWIA    OF  nillTl;Sll  JM)  AMKlUCAy  rOETRT. 


THE  MARINER'S  DREAil.    . 

Ill  .sliiinbors  of  iiiitlnight  tlio  sailor-boy  lay, 

His  liaiuinock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  tbo 
wind  ; 

JJiit,  Avatcb-worn  and  weary,  bis  cares  llcw  away. 
And  visious  of  bappiuess  danced  o'er  bis  mind. 

He  dreamed  of  bis  bome,  of  bis  dear  native  bowers, 
And  pleasures  tbat  waited  oa  life's  merry  morn ; 

Wbile    memory    eacb    sceuo    gayly    covered    witb 
flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  tborn. 

Then  Fancy  ber  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  tbo  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; — 

Now  far,  far  bebiud  bim  tbe  greeu  waters  glide, 
And  tbe  cot  of  bis  forefathers  blesses  bis  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers,  in  flower,  o'er  tbo  tbatcb, 
And  tbe  swallow  sings  sweet  from  ber  nest  in  tbe 
wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport  be  raises  tbe  latch. 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  bis  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  bim  with  looks  of  deligbt ; 

His  cheek  is  bedewed  with  a  mothers  warm  tear; 
And  tbe  lips  of  tbe  boy  in  a  love-kiss  nnite 

■\Vitli  tbe  lips  of  tbe  maid  whom  bis  bosom  holds 
dear. 

The  heart  of  tbe  sleeper  beats  bigb  in  bis  breast; 

Joy  quickens  bis  pulses, — bis  bardsbips  seem  o'er; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  tbrongb  his  rest,— 

"  O  God !  thou  bast  blessed  me ;  I  ask  for  no 
more.'' 

Ah!  whence  is  tbat  flame  which  now  glares  on  his 
eye? 
Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  bursts  on  bis 
car  ? 
'Tis  tbe  lightning's  red  gleam,  painting  bell  on  tbo 
sky ! 
'Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  tbo  groan  of  the 
sphci'e ! 

He  springs  from  liis  hammock, — bo  flies  to  the  deck; 

Amazement  confronts  bim  with  images  dire  ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waA^es  drive  tbe  vessel  awreck, 

Tbe  masts  fly  in  splinters ;  tbe  sbrouds  are  on  fire  I 

Like  mountains  tbe  billows  tremendously  swell : 
In  vain  tbe  lost  Avretch  calls  ou  Mercy  to  save; 


Unseen  bauds  of  spirits  are  ringing  bis  knell, 
And  tbe  death-angel  flaps  bis  broad  wing  o'er  the 
wave. 

O  sailor-boy!   woe  to  tbj'  dream  of  delight! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  bliss; 
Where  now  is  the  picture  tbat  Fancy  touched  bright. 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed 
kiss? 

O  sailor-boy!   sailor-boy!   never  again 

Shall  bome,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay  ; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  tbe  main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  sball  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee. 
Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from  tbe  merciless  surge  ; 

But  the  -white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding- 
sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  tbe  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge! 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-llowers  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid ; 

Around  thy  white  ])ones  the  red  coral  shall  grow  ; 
Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 

And  every  part  suit  to  tbj-  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  sball  circle  away, 
And  still  tbe  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll : 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye, — 
O  sailor-boy  !   sailor-boy  !  peace  to  thy  soul ! 


George  Crohj. 


Crolj  (1780-lSGO),  rector  of  St.  Stephen's,  London,  was 
a  native  ol"  Dublin,  and  was  educated  at  Trinity  College. 
He  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  poetry  (1830) ;  "  Cat- 
iline," a  tragedy,  containing  some  forcible  scenes;  va- 
rious novels ;  and  several  theological  and  historical 
works.  A  brief  memoir  of  Croly  was  published  by  his 
son  in  18G3. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LEONIDAS. 

It  was  tbo  wild  midnight, 

A  storm  was  in  tbe  sky ; 
Tbe  ligbtning  gave  its  light, 

And  tbe  thunder  echoed  by. 
The  torrent  swept  the  glen. 

The  ocean  lashed  the  shore ; 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  men, 

To  make  their  bed  in  gore  ! 
Swift  from  tbe  deluged  ground 

Three  hundred  took  tbe  shield, 


GEORGE  CEOLY. 


.357 


Then,  silent,  gathorod  romul 
The  leader  of  the  field. 

He  spoke  no  wanior-word, 

He  bade  no  trumpet  Mow ; 
But  the  signal  thunder  roared, 

And  they  rushed  ujion  the  foe. 
The  fiery  element 

Showed,  -with  one  mighty  gleam, 
Rampart,  and  flag,  and  tent. 

Like  the  spectres  of  a  dream. 
All  up  the  mountain-side. 

All  down  the  woody  vale, 
All  by  the  rolling  tide 

Waved  the  Persian  banners  pale. 

And  King  Leonidas, 

Among  the  slumbering  band. 
Sprang  foremost  from  the  x'ass, 

Like  the  lightning's  living  brand  : 
Then  double  darkness  fell, 

And  the  forest  ceased  to  moau  ; 
But  there  came  a  clash  of  steel. 

And  a  distant  dying  groan. 
Anon  a  trumpet  blew, 

Aud  a  fiery  sheet  burst  high, 
That  o'er  the  midnight  threw 

A  blood-red  canopy. 

A  host  glared  on  the  hill, 

A  host  glared  by  the  bay; 
But  the  Greeks  rushed  onward  still. 

Like  leopards  in  their  play. 
The  air  was  all  a  yell, 

And  the  earth  was  all  a  flame. 
Where  the  Spartan's  bloody  steel 

Ou  the  silken  turbans  came ; 
Aud  still  the  Greek  rushed  ou, 

Beneath  the  fiery  fold. 
Till,  like  a  rising  sun. 

Shone  Xerxes'  tent  of  gold. 

They  found  a  royal  feast, 

His  midnight  banquet,  there  ! 
And  the  treasures  of  the  East 

Lay  beneath  the  Doric  spear. 
Then  sat  to  the  repast 

The  bravest  of  the  brave ; 
That  feast  must  be  their  last. 

That  spot  must  be  their  grave. 
They  pledged  old  Sparta's  name 

In  cups  of  Syrian  wine, 


And  the  warrior's  deathless  fame 
Was  sung  in  strains  divine. 

They  took  the  rose- wreathed  lyres 

From  eunucli  and  from  slave, 
And  taught  the  languid  wires 

The  sounds  that  Freedom  gave. 
But  now  the  morning-star 

Crowned  CEta's  twilight  brow, 
And  the  Persian  horn  of  war 

From  the  hill  began  to  blow: 
Up  rose  the  glorious  rank, 

To  Greece  one  cup  poured  high; 
Then,  haud-in-hand,  they  drank 

"  To  Immortality !" 

Fear  on  King  Xerxes  fell. 

When,  like  spirits  from  the  tomb. 
With  shout  aud  trumpet-knell. 

He  saw  the  warriors  come ; 
But  down  swept  all  his  jjower 

With  chariot  and  with  charge ; 
Down  poured  the  arrowy  shower, 

TiU  sank  the  Dorian's  targe. 
They  marched  within  the  tent, 

With  all  their  strength  unstrung; 
To  Greece  one  look  they  sent. 

Then  on  high  their  torches  flung : 

To  heaven  the  blaze  uprolled, 

Like  a  mighty  altar-fire ; 
And  the  Persians'  gems  aud  gold 

Were  the  Grecians'  funeral  pyre. 
Their  king  sat  on  the  throne, 

His  captains  by  his  side. 
While  the  flame  rushed  roaring  on. 

And  their  jia^an  loud  rejilicd  I 
Thus  fought  the  Greek  of  old : 

Thus  will  he  fight  again  ! 
Shall  not  the  self-same  mould 

Bring  forth  the  self-same  men  ? 


THE  SEVENTH  PLAGUE  OF  EGYPT. 

'Twas  morn :   the  rising  splendor  rolled 
On  marble  towers  and  roofs  of  gold ; 
Hall,  court,  and  gallery,  below, 
Were  crowded  with  a  living  flow; 
Egyptian,  Arab,  Nubian,  there, — 
The  bearers  of  the  bow  and  spear, 


358 


cyclopj:i)Ia  of  nnrnsir  asd  ameuicax  roETUv. 


Tho  hoary  priest,  tbo  Chaldeo  sage, 

The  slave,  the  gemmed  and  glitteiing  page, — 

Helm,  turban,  aud  tiara  shone 

A  dazzling  ring  round  Pliaraoii's  tlironc. 

There  eanie  a  nian:^the  liiiniau  tide 
Shrank  backward  from  bis  stately  stride: 
His  cheek  with  storm  aud  time  was  tanned; 
A  shepherd's  staff'  was  in  bis  hand  ; 
A  shudder  of  instinctive  fear 
Told  the  dark  king  what  step  was  near : 
On  through  the  host  the  stranger  came, 
It  parted  round  his  form  like  llame. 

He  stooped  not  at  the  footstool-stone, 
He  clasped  not  sandal,  kissed  not  throne ; 
Erect  ho  stood  amid  the  ring. 
His  only  words,  '"  I5e  just,  O  king!" 
On  Pharaoh's  clieek  the  blood  flushed  high, 
A  fire  was  in  bis  sullen  eye  ; 
Yet  on  the  chief  of  Israel 
No  arrow  of  his  thousands  fell ; 
All  mute  and  moveless  as  the  grave, 
Stood,  chilled,  the  satrap  and  tlie  slave. 

"Thou'rt  come!"  at  length  the  monarch  spoke 
(Haughty  and  high  the  words  outbroke); 
"Is  Israel  weary  of  its  lair. 
The  forehead  peeled,  the  shoulder  bare  ? 
Take  back  the  answer  to  your  band  : 
Go,  reap  the  wind !   go,  plough  the  sand ! 
Go,  vilest  of  the  living  vile. 
To  bnild  the  never-ending  pile. 
Till,  darkest  of  the  nameless  dead, 
The  vulture  on  their  flesh  is  fed ! 
What  better,  asks  the  bowling  slave, 
Than  the  base  life  our  bounty  gave  ?" 

Shouted  in  pride  the  turbaued  peers, 
Upclashed  to  heaven  the  golden  spears. — 
'•  King  !   thou  and  thine  are  doomed  !— Behold  !" 
The  prophet  spoke, — the  thunder  rolled ! 
Along  the  jtathway  of  the  sun 
Sailed  vapory  mountains,  wild  and  dun. 
"  Yet  there  is  time,"  the  prophet  said  : 
He  raised  his  staff", — the  storm  was  stayed : 
"  King !   be  the  word  of  freedom  given  ! 
What  art  thou,  man,  to  war  with  Heaven  ?" 

There  came  no  word. — The  tliunder  broke! — 
Like  a  huge  city's  final  smoki; ; 
Thick,  lurid,  stilling,  mixed  with  flame. 
Through  court  and  hall  the  vapors  cauie. 
Loose  as  the  stubble  in  the  field,. 
Wide  flew  the  men  of  spear  and  shield ; 
Scattered  like  foam  along  the  wave. 
Flew  the  pi-ond  pageant,  priucc  aud  slave  j 


Or,  in  the  chaius  of  terror  bound, 
Lay,  corpse-like,  on  tho  smouldering  ground. 
"Speak,  king! — the  wrath  is  but  begun! — 
Still  dumb  ?— then.  Heaven,  thy  will  be  done  !" 

Echoed  from  earth  a  hollow  roar, 
Like  ocean  on  tho  midnight  shore! 
A  sheet  of  lightning  o'er  them  wheeled. 
The  solid  ground  beneath  them  reeled  ; 
In  dust  sank  roof  and  battlement ; 
Like  webs  the  giant  walls  w  ere  rent ; 
Ked,  broad,  before  his  startled  gaze 
The  monarch  saw  his  Egypt  blaze. 
Still  swelled  the  plague, — the  flame  grew  pale, — 
Burst  from  the  clouds  the  charge  of  hail ; 
With  arrowy  keenness,  iron  weight, 
Down  poured  the  ministers  of  fate  ; 
Till  man  and  cattle,  crushed,  congealed. 
Covered  with  death  the  boundless  field. 

Still  swelled  the  plague, — uprose  the  blast, 
The  avenger,  fit  to  be  the  last : 
On  ocean,  river,  forest,  vale. 
Thundered  at  once  the  mighty  gale. 
Before  tbo  whirlwind  flew  the  tree, 
Beneath  the  wliirhvintl  roared  the  sea  ; 
A  thousand  ships  were  on  tho  wave — 
Where  are  they? — asj<  that  foaming  grave! 
Down  go  the  hope,  the  i>ride  of  years, 
Down  go  the  myriad  mariners  ; 
The  riches  of  earth's  richest  zone 
Gone!   like  a  flash  of  lightning,  gone! 

And  lo!   that  first  fierce  triumph  o'er, 
Swells  ocean  on  the  shrinking  shore  ; 
Still  onward,  onward,  dark  and  wide. 
Ingulfs  the  land  the  furious  tide. — 
Then  bowed  thy  spirit,  stubborn  king. 
Thou  serpent,  reft  of  fang  aud  sting ! 
Humbled  before  the  prophet's  knee. 
He  groaned,  "Be  injured  Israel  frei; !" 

To  heaven  tho  sage  upraised  bis  hand: 
Back  rolled  the  deluge  fnun  the  land; 
Back  to  its  caverns  sank  tho  gale; 
Fled  from  the  noon  the  vapors  pale  ; 
Broad  burnt  again  the  joyous  sun  : 
Tlie  hour  of  wrath  and  death  was  done. 


DEFIANCE  TO  THE  ROMAN  SENATE. 
From  "  Catiline." 

"Traitor?"     I  go— but  I  return.     Tiiis  trial! 

Here  I  devote  your  senate  !     I've  bad  wrongs 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age, 


JAMES  KENNEY.—KDU'AUD  hovel   THURLOn'  {LORD   TIILRLOW). 


359 


Or  make  the  infant's  siuew  strong  as  steel. 

This  (lay's  the  birth  of  sorrows !     This  lionr's  work 

■Will  lin'oil  proscriptions.      Look   to  yonr  hearths, 

my  lords ! 
For  there  henceforth  shall  sit,  for  liousehokl  gods, 
Shapes  hot  from  Tartarus;  all  shames  and  crimes! 
Wan  Treachery,  Avith  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn  ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  the  brother's  cnp ; 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  axe, 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones; 
Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  Niglit, 
And  Massacre  seals  Home's  eternal  grave !' 


jJamcs  Kcnnci). 

Keuucy  (1780-1849),  a  native  of  IrehuKl,  was  for  some 
time  a  clerk  in  a  banking-house.  In  1803  he  published 
"Society,  in  two  parts,  with  other  Poems."  He  was 
the  author  of  several  successful  farces  and  plays  ;  among 
them,  "Raising  the  Wind,"  and  "Sweethearts  and 
Wives."     From  the  latter  the  foUowing  song  is  taken. 


WHY  ARE   YOU  WANDERING   HERE? 

"  Why  are  you  wandering  here,  I  pray  f 
An  old  man  asked  a  maid  one  day. — 
"  Looking  for  poppies,  so  bright  and  red, 
Father,"  said  she,  "  I'm  hither  led." 
"  Fie,  fie  !"   she  heard  him  cry, 
"  Poppies  'tis  known,  to  all  who  rove, 
Grow  in  the  field,  and  not  in  the  grove." 

"  Tell  me,"  again  the  old  man  said, 

"  Why  are  you  loitering  here,  fair  maid  ?" — 

"  The  nightingale's  song,  so  sweet  and  clear. 

Father,"  said  she,  "  I'm  come  to  hear." 

"  Fie,  lie  !"   she  heard  him  cry, 

"  Nightingales  all,  so  people  say, 

Warble  by  night,  and  not  by  day." 

The  sage  looked  grave,  the  maiden  shy. 
When  Lubiu  jumped  o'er  the  stile  hard  by; 
The  sage  looked  graver,  the  maid  more  glum, 
Lubiu,  he  twiddled  his  finger  ami  thumb. 
"  Fie,  fie  !"  was  the  old  man's  cry  ; 
"  Poppies  like  these,  I  own,  are  rare, 
And  of  such  nightingales'  songs  beware !" 


1  Byron,  who  did  not  scrapie  to  descend  to   scurrility  at 
times,  refers  to  Croly  in  tiie  following  lines: 

"And  Pegasus  hath  a  psalmodic  amble 

Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 
Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, — 
A  modern  Ancient  Pistol, — by  the  hilts  !' 


(!:Liuiarb  Cjoucl  (tljurlow  [Corii  (ll)urloiii). 

This  nobleman  (1781-1829)  is  sometimes  confounded 
with  Lord  Tliurlow,  the  celebrated  Lord  High  Chancel- 
lor of  England;  but  he  was  quite  a  ditfcrent  person. 
His  poems  were  ridiculed  by  Moore  and  Byron,  but, 
with  many  faults,  show  some  rare  beauties.  His  "Se- 
lect Poems"  were  published  in  1821. 


TO   A  BIRD   THAT   HAUNTED   THE   WATERS 
OF  LAKEN   IN  THE   WINTER. 

O  melancholy  bird!   a  winter's  day. 

Thou  staudest  by  the  margin  of  the  pool. 

And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole  being  school 

To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay : 

God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey, 

And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool 

Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule. 

And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 

There  need  not  schools  nor  the  professor's  chair, 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart : 

He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  spare 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 

And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers  fair: 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 


SONG  TO   MAY. 

May,  queen  of  blossoms 
And  fulfilling  flowers, 

With  what  pretty  music 
Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 

Wilt  thou  have  i>ipe  and  reed, 

Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

Or  to  the  lute  give  lieed 
In  the  green  bowers  ? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 
Thou  hast  the  golden  bee 

Ripened  Avith  fire; 
And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters  that  thee  adore, 
Filling  earth's  grassy  floor 

With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 
Tame,  and  free  livers; 

Doubt  not,  thy  music  too, 
In  the  deep  rivers; 


360 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  the  whole  plumy  flight, 
Warbling  the  day  and  night; 
Up  at  tiie  gates  of  light, 
See,  the  lark  quivers! 

"Wiitii  witii  the  jacinth 
Coy  fountains  are  tressed; 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 
Green  woods  are  dressed. 

That  did  for  Tcreus  pine  ; 

Then  shall  our  songs  be  thine, 

To  whom  our  hearts  incline  : 
May,  be  thou  blessed  ! 


(fbcnc^cr  (!;Uiott. 

Elliott  (1781-1849)  was  born  at  Masborougli,  in  York- 
sliire.  Ilis  father  was  an  iron-founder,  and  he  himself 
wrought  at  the  business  for  many  years.  His  vigorous 
"Corn-Law  Rhymes,"  published  between  1880  and  1836, 
did  much  to  compel  Government  to  abolish  all  restric- 
tions on  the  importation  of  corn.  The  champion  of  the 
poor  and  oppressed,  an  intense  hater  of  all  injustice,  he 
was  no  Communist,  as  the  following  epigram  shows  : 

"What  is  a  Cominuuist?    One  who  has  yearnings 
For  equal  division  of  unequal  earnings." 

Elliott  had  a  genuine  taste,  and  the  eye  of  an  artist  for 
natural  scenery.  He  was  by  nature  a  poet.  There  is  a 
tenderness  and  grace  that  has  rarely  been  excelled  in 
some  of  his  descriptive  touches.  In  the  religious  senti- 
ment and  a  devout  faith  in  the  compensations  of  Divine 
Providence  he  was  also  strong.  His  career  was  manly 
and  honorable;  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  his  cir- 
cumstances, through  his  own  exerlions,  were  easj-,  if  not 
alflucnt. 


FAREWELL  TO   RIVILIN. 

IJcautiful  Eiver!  goldeuly  shining 
Where  with  thee  cistus  and  woodbines  arc  twining, 
(Birklands  around  thee,  mountains  above  thee): 
Kivilin  wildest!   do  I  not  love  thee? 

Wiiy  do  I  love  thee,  heart-breaking  River? 
Love  thee  and  leave  thee?  leave  thee  forever? 
Never  to  see  thee,  where  the  storms  greet  thee ! 
Never  to  hear  thee,  rushing  to  meet  me.* 

Never  to  hail   IIkm',  joyfully  chiming 
Beauty  is  musie,  Sister  of  Wiraing ! 
Playfully  mingling  laughter  and  sadness, 
Ribbledin's  Sister,  sad  iu  thy  gladness ! 

Why  must  I  leave  tlioe,  nionrnfiiUy  sighing 
Man  is  a  shadow?     River  undying! 


Dream-liko  he  passeth,  clond-liko  he  wasteth^ 

E'en  as  a  shadow  over  thee  hastetli. 

Oh,  when  thy  poet,  weary,  reposes, 
Cofliiied  in  slander,  far  from  thy  ro.ses, 
Tell  all  thy  jtilgrims,  heart-breaking  River, 
Tell  them  I  loved  thee — love  thee  forever! 

Yes,  for  the  spirit  blooms  ever  vernal : 
River  of  beauty!   love  is  eternal: 
While  the  rock  reeleth,  storm-struck  and  riven, 
Safe  is  the  fountain  llowing  from  heaven. 

There  wilt  thou  hail  me,  joyfully  chiming 
Beauty  is  music.  Sister  of  Wiming! 
Homed  with  the  angels,  hasten  to  greet  me, 
Glad  as  the  heath-flower,  glowing  to  meet  thee. 


FROM   "LYRICS  FOR  MY  DAUGHTERS." 

For  Spring,  and  flowers  of  Spring, 
Blossoms,  and  what  they  bring. 

Be  our  thanks  given ; 
Thanks  for  the  maiden's  bloom, 
For  the  sad  prison's  gloom. 
And  for  the  sadder  tomb, 

Even  as  for  heaven  ! 

Great  God,  thy  will  is  done 
When  the  soul's  rivers  run 

Down  the  worn  cheeks ! 
Done  when  the  righteous  bleed, 
When  the  wronged  vainly  i)lead, — 
Done  in  the  nnended  deed. 

When  the  heart  breaks! 

Lo,  how  the  dutiful 
Snows  clothe  iu  beautiful 

Life  the  dead  earth  ! 
Lo,  how  the  clouds  distil 
Riches  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
While  the  storm's  evil  will 

Dies  iu  its  birth ! 

Blessed  is  the  unpeopled  down, 
Blessed  is  the  crowded  town, 

Where  the  tired  groan  : 
Pain  but  appears  to  be ; 
What  are  man's  fears  to  thee, 
God,  if  all  tears  shall  bo 

Gems  on  thy  throne  ? 


EBENEZEB  ELLIOTT. 


3G1 


HYMN. 

Nurse  of  tho  Pilgrim  sires,  who  sought, 

Beyond  tlio  AtLiutic  foam, 
For  fearless  truth  ami  lioucst  thought, 

A  refuge  ami  a  home ! 
Who  ■would  uot  be  of  them  or  thee 

A  not  unworthy  sou. 
That  hears,  amid  the  chained  or  free, 

The  name  of  Washington  ? 

Cradle  of  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Knox  ! 

King-shaming  Cromwell's  throne ! 
Home  of  the  Russells,  Watts,  and  Lockes  ! 

Earth's  greatest  are  thine  own : 
And  shall  thy  children  forge  base  chains 

For  men  that  would  be  free  ? 
No  !   by  thy  Elliots,  Hanipdens,  Yanes, 

Pynis,  Sydueys,  yet  to  be  ! 

No ! — for  the  blood  which  kings  have  goi'ged 

Hath  made  their  victims  wise. 
While  every  lie  that  fraud  hath  forged 

Veils  Avisdora  from  his  eyes : 
But  time  shall  change  the  despot's  mood  : 

And  mind  is  mightiest  then, 
When  turning  evil  into  good, 

And  monsters  into  men. 

If  round  the  soul  the  chains  are  bound 

That  hold  the  world  in  thrall— 
If  tyrants  laugh  when  men  are  found 

In  brutal  fray  to  fall — ■ 
Lord !  let  not  Britain  arm  her  hands. 

Her  sister  states  to  ban  ; 
But  bless  through  her  all  other  lands. 

Thy  family  of  man. 

For  freedom  if  thy  Hampden  fought ; 

For  peace  if  Falkland  fell ; 
For  peace  and  love  if  Bentham  wrote. 

And  Burns  sang  wildly  well — 
Let  knowledge,  strongest  of  the  strong, 

Bid  hate  and  discord  cease ; 
Be  this  the  burden  of  her  song — 

"  Love,  liberty,  and  peace  !" 

Then,  Father,  will  the  nations  all, 

As  with  the  sound  of  seas. 
In  universal  festival. 

Sing  words  of  joy,  like  these  : — 
Let  each  love  all,  and  all  be  free, 

Receiving  as  they  give ; 


Lord ! — Jesus  died  for  love  and  thee  ! 
So  let  thy  children  live ! 


NOT  FOR  NAUGHT. 

Do  and  suffer  naught  in  vain  ; 

Let  no  trifle  trifling  be  : 
If  the  salt  of  life  is  pain. 

Let  even  wrongs  bring  good  to  thee ; 
Good  to  others,  few  or  many, — 
Good  to  all,  or  good  to  any. 

If  men  curse  thee,  jdant  their  lies 

Where  for  truth  they  best  may  grow  ; 

Let  the  railers  make  thee  wise. 
Preaching  peace  where'er  thou  go  : 

God  no  useless  plant  hath  planted. 

Evil  (wisely  used)  is  wanted. 

If  the  nation-feeding  corn 

Thriveth  under  ic^d  snow  ; 
If  the  small  bird  on  the  thorn 

Useth  well  its  guarded  sloe, — 
Bid  thy  cares  thy  comforts  double. 
Gather  fruit  from  thorns  of  trouble. 

See  the  rivers !   how  they  run. 

Strong  in  gloom,  and  strong  in  light  I 

Like  the  never-wearied  sun. 

Through  the  day  and  through  tho  night. 

Each  along  his  path  of  duty, 

Turning  coldness  into  beauty! 


SPRING:    A  SONNET. 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

Drinks  beauteous  azure  from  the  golden  sun. 

And  kindles  into  fragrance  at  his  blaze  ; 

The  streams,  rejoiced  that  winter's  work  is  done. 

Talk  of  to-morrow's  cowslips  as  they  run. 

Wild  apple !   thou  art  bursting  into  bloom  ; 

Thy  leaves  are  coming,  snowy-blossomed  thorn ! 

Wake,  buried  lily!   spirit,  quit  thy  tomb  ; 

And  thou,  shade-loving  hyacinth,  be  born  ! 

Then  haste,  sweet  rose!  sweet  woodbine,  hymn  the 

morn. 
Whoso  dew-drops  shall  illume  with  pearly  light 
Each  grassy  blade  that  thick  embattled  stands 
From  sea  to  sea  ;   while  daisies  infinite 
Uplift  in  praise  their  little  glowing  hands. 
O'er  every  hill  that  under  heaven  expands. 


362 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE  DAY  WAS  DARK. 

Tlio  (l;iy  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam 

Of  noon  through  darkuess  broke  : 
In  gldom  I  sat,  as  in  a  dream, 

IJcncath  my  orchard  oak, 
Lo,  spk^idor,  like  a  spirit,  came  ! 

A  shadow  like  a  tree  ! 
Wiiilo  there  I  sat,  and  naniod  licr  name 

Who  once  sat  there  with  nie. 

I  started  from  tlie  seat  in  fear, 

I  looked  aronud  in  awe ; 
Bnt  saw  no  beanteous  spirit  near, 

Tliongh  all  that  was  I  saw  : 
TIic  scat,  the  tree,  where  oft  in  tears 

She  mourned  her  hopes  o'ertlirown, 
Her  .j<)ys  cut  oflf  in  early  years, 

Like  gathered  flowers  half-blown. 

Again  the  bud  and  breeze  were  met, 

But  Mary  did  not  come ; 
And  e'en  the  rose  which  she  had  set 

Was  fated  ne'er  to  bloom ! 
The  thrush  proclaimed  in  accents  sweet 

That  Winter's  reign  was  o'er ; 
Tlie  bluebells  thronged  around  my  feet. 

But  Mary  came  no  more. 

I  think,  1  feel — but  when  will  she 

Awake  to  thought  again  ? 
A  voice  of  comfort  answers  me. 

That  God  does  naught  in  vain  : 
He  wastes  nor  flower,  nor  bud,  nor  leaf. 

Nor  wind,  nor  cloud,  nor  wave  ; 
And  will  li(!  waste  the  hope  which  grief 

Hath  planted  in  the  grave? 


A  rOET'S  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  Mortal !     Here  thy  brother  lies, 

The  Poet  of  the  poor : 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail. 

The  tyrant,  and  the  slave. 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail. 

The  palace — and  the  grave  ! 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care 

He  no  exemption  claimed. 


Tiie  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate; 
But,  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great. 
He  blessed  the  steward  whose  wealth  makes 

Tiie  poor  nuxn's  little  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  ]dundered  labor's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

WIio  drew  them  as  they  are. 


ficnrn  ^Jickcring. 


AMERICAN. 

Pickering  (1781-1838)  was  a  native  of  Newburgh,  New 
York,  wlicre  lie  was  born  in  a  house  once  the  liead-quar- 
teis  of  Washington.  In  1801  his  father,  who  was  quar- 
tei'master-gcucral  of  the  army,  anil  had  been  with  Wash- 
ington at  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  returned  to  Ids  native 
State,  Massachusetts,  and  Henry  engaged  in  mercantile 
pursuits  at  Salem.  Unsuccessful  iu  business,  he  removed 
to  New  York,  and  resided  several  years  at  Rondout  and 
other  phices  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  An  ediliuu 
of  "The  Buckwheat  Cake,"  a  poem  in  bhiuk  verse,  in 
the  niock-lieroie  style,  but  of  trifling  merit,  from  his 
pen,  was  published  iu  Boston  in  1831. 


TIIE   HOUSE   IN   WHICH   I  WAS   BORN. 

(ONCE  THE  HEAU-QLAUTEKS  OF  WASHINGTON.) 

I. 

Square,  and  rough-hewn,  and  solid  is  the  mass. 

And  ancient,  if  aught  ancient  here  appear 

Beside  you  rock-ribbed  hills :   but  many  a  year 

Hath  into  dim  oblivion  swept,  alas ! 

Since,  bright  iu  arms,  the  worthies  of  the  land 

Were  here  assembled.     Let  mc  reverent  tread  ; 

For  now,  meseems,  the  spirits  of  the  dead 

Are  slowly  gathering  round,  while  I  am  fanned 

By  gales  unearthly.     Ay,  they  hover  near — 

Patriots  and  Heroes — the  august  and  great — 

The  founders  of  a  young  and  mighty  State, 

Whose  grandeur  Avho  shall  tell  ?     With  holy  fear, 

Willie  tears  unbidden  my  dim  eyes  suffuse, 

I  uKirk  them  one  by  one,  and,  marvelling,  muse. 


I  gaze,  but  they  have  vanished  !     And  the  eye. 
Free  now  to  roam  from  where  I  take  my  stand. 
Dwells  on  the  hoary  i>ile.     Let  no  rash  hand 
Attempt  its  desecration  :   for  though  I 


REGINALD  HEBER. 


363 


Beneath  the  sod  shall  sleep,  ami  incinory's  sigh 
Be  thoic  forever  stilled  in  this  breast, — 
Yet  all  who  boast  them  of  a  land  so  blessed, 
Whose  pilgrim  feet  may  some  day  hither  hie, 
Shall  melt,  alike,  and  kindle  at  the  thonght 
That  these  rude  walls  liave  eclioed  to  the  sound 
Of  the  great  Patriot's  voice !  that  even  the  ground 
I  tread  was  trodden  too  by  him  who  fought 
To  make  us  free  ;    and   whose  unsullied  name, 
Still,  like  the  sun,  illustrious  shiues  the  same. 


Hcivnalii  C)cbcr. 


Heber  (1783-182G),  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  was  born 
at  Malpas,  in  Chesliire.  A  precocious  youth,  he  was  ad- 
mitted of  Brasenosc  College,  Oxford,  in  1800.  After 
taking  a  prize  for  Latin  hexameters,  he  wrote  the  best 
of  University  prize  poems,  "Palestine."  Previous  to  its 
recitation  in  tlie  theatre  he  read  it  to  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
then  at  Oxford,  who  remarked  that  in  the  poem  the  fact 
was  not  mentioned  that  in  the  construction  of  Solo- 
mon's Temple  no  tools  were  used.  Young  Heber  re- 
tired for  a  few  minutes  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
returned  with  these  beautiful  lines,  which  were  added : 

"No  liamnier  fell,  no  ponderous  axes  riniE^; 
Like  some  tall  palm  the  ni3-stic  fabric  sprung. 
Majestic  silence  !" 

In  1807  Heber  took  orders  in  the  Church,  and  in  1809 
he  married  a  daughter  of  the  Dean  of  St.  Asaph,  and 
settled  at  Hodnet.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  prudent 
fi-ieiuls,  he  accepted  in  1823  the  Bishopric  of  Calcutta. 
In  April,  1826,  a  few  days  after  his  arrival  at  Triclii- 
nopoly,  he  died  of  an  apoplectic  attack  while  taking  a 
bath.  Heber  was  a  man  of  exalted  piety,  earnest  and 
faithful  in  the  discharge  of  his  clerical  duties,  and  an 
industrious  writer.  There  is  a  grace  and  finish  in  his 
poems,  showing  a  high  degree  of  literary  culture  as  well 
as  genuine  poetical  feeling. 


FROM  BISHOP  HEBER'S  JOURNAL. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love ! 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 

Listening  tlic  nightingale  ! 

If  thou,  my  love  !   wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gnuga's  mimic  sea ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  graj' 
When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ea.se  my  limbs  I  lay, 
Aud  woo  the  cooler  wiud. 


I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide. 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam, 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 
But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye. 

Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !   then  on  !   where  duty  leads. 

My  course  be  onward  still. 
O'er  broad  Hiudostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  black  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain. 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits, 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay, 

As  then  shall  meet  iu  thee ! 


THE   WIDOW   OF  NAIN. 

Wake  not,  O  mother!   sounds  of  lamentation  ! 

W^eep  not,  O  widow !   weep  not  hopelessly  ! 
Strong  is  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation, 

Strong  is  the  Word  of  God  to  succor  thee ! 

Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse,  slowly,  slowly  hear  him  : 
Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall : 

Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  near  him  : 
Widowed  and  childless,  she  Las  lost  lier  all ! 

Why  jiaiise  the  mourners?    Who  forbids  our  weep- 
ing? 

Who  the  dark  i)omp  of  sorrow  has  delayed? 
"Set  down  the  bier, — he  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping! 

Young  man,  arise!" — He  spake,  and  was  obeyed! 

Change  then,  O  sad  one !  grief  to  exultation  : 
Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah's  knee. 

Strong  was  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation  ; 
Strong  was  the  W^ord  of  God  to  succor  thee  ! 


364 


CYCLOrJ'DIA    OF  IIUITISII  A^U  AMERICAN  rOETliY. 


MISSIONARY  IIYMX. 

From  Greenland's  icy  nionntuins, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  snnny  fonntains 

Roll  down  tbeir  golden  sand ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  I'roni  error's  chain! 

What  thongh  the  spicy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle, 
Though  every  prospect  pleases. 

And  only  man  is  vile  : 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strown. 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone ! 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation  !   oh.  Salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learned  Messiah's  name ! 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  his  storj', 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll. 
Till,  like  a  sea  of  glory, 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole! 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature. 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign ! 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  ns  Thine  aid ! 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 

Cold  on  Ilis  cradle  the  dew-drops  arc  shining, 
Low  lies  His  head  with  the  beasts  of  the  stall ; 

Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining, 
Maker  and  Monarch  and  Saviour  of  all ! 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 
Odors  of  Edom,  and  oflferiugs  divine  ? 


Gems  of  the  mountain  and  pearls  of  the  ocean. 
Myrrh  from  the  forest  or  gold  from  the  mine  ? 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ampler  oblation  ; 

Vainly  with  gifts  w  ould  His  favor  secure : 
Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration  ; 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  f)f  the  sons  of  the  morning! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  Thine  aid  ! 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 


EARLY  PIETY. 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 

How  sweet  the  lily  grows ! 
How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 

Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose  ! 
Lo !   such  the  child  whose  early  feet 

The  paths  of  peace  have  trod. 
Whose  secret  heart  with  inliuence  sweet 

Is  upward  drawn  to  God  ! 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 

The  lily  must  decay  ; 
The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 

Must  shortly  fade  away. 
And  soon, too  soon, the  wintry  hour 

Of  man's  maturer  age 
Will  shake  the  soul  with  sorrow's  power, 

And  stormy  passion's  rage  ! 

O  thou,  whose  infant  feet  were  found 

Within  thy  Father's  shrine  ! 
Whose  years  with  changeless  virtue  crowned 

Were  all  alike  divine ! 
Dependent  on  thy  bounteous  breath, 

Wo  seek  thy  grace  alone, 
In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 

To  keep  us  still  thy  own ! 


THE   MOONLIGHT  MARCH. 

I  sec  them  on  their  winding  way, 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play; 
Tiieir  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
BliMid  with  the  notes  of  victory. 
And  waving  arms,  and  banners  bright. 
Are  glancing  in  the  mellow  light: 


REGINALD  HEBEB.—JANE   TAYLOR. 


365 


They're  lost, — aud.  goue — the  moon  is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  east ; 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still 
Tlio  march  is  rising  o'er  the  hill. 

Again,  again,  the  pealing  drum, 
The  clashing  horn, — they  come  ;  they  come  ! 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep, 
lu  long  and  glittering  liles  they  sweep  ; 
And  nearer,  nearer,  yet  more  near. 
Their  softened  chorus  meets  the  ear ; 
Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way; 
The  trampliug  hoofs  brook  no  delay; 
With  thrilling  fife  and  pealing  drum, 
And  clashing  horn,  they  come  ;   they  come ! 


MAY-DAY. 

Queen  of  fresh  flowers, 

Whom  vernal  stars  obey, 
Bring  thy  warm  showers, 
Bring  thy  genial  ray. 
la  nature's  greenest  livery  dressed, 
Descend  on  earth's  expectant  breast, 
To  earth  and  heaven  a  welcome  guest, 
Thou  merry  mouth  of  May ! 

Mark !  how  we  meet  thee 
At  dawn  of  dewy  day ! 
Hark !   how  we  greet  thee 
With  our  roundelay ! 
While  all  the  goodly  things  that  be 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  ample  sea, 
Are  waking  up  to  welcome  thee. 
Thou  merry  month  of  May  ! 

Flocks  on  the  mountains. 

And  birds  upon  the  spray, 
Tree,  turf,  and  fountains 
All  hold  holiday ; 
And.  love,  the  life  of  living  things, 
Love  waves  his  torch  and  claps  his  wings. 
And  loud  and  wide  thy  praises  sings. 
Thou  merry  month  of  May. 


2oL\\t  (Taylor. 

Jane  Taylor  (1783-1824)  was  a  native  of  London,  but 
brought  up  chiefly  at  Larenhara,  in  Suffolk.  Iler  father, 
Isaac  Taylor  (1759-1829),  was  an  engraver,  and  ultimately 
pastor  of  an  Independent  Congregation  at  Ongar,  in  Es- 
sex, and  a  voluminous  author.    Jane's  mother  {nee  Ann 


Martin)  also  wrote  books.  Jointly  with  her  sister  Ann 
(1782-1866),  Jane  produced  "Original  Poems  for  Infant 
Minds."  The  sisters  also  wrote  "Hymns  for  Infant 
Minds,"  which  were  very  popular.  Tlieir  two  little  po- 
ems, "My  Mother,"  and  "Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star," 
will  not  readily  become  obsolete  in  the  nurserj'.  Jane 
was  the  author  of  "  Display,"  a  novel  (181.5),  of  "Essays 
in  Rhyme"  (1816),  and  "  Contributions  of  Q  Q."  Slie  liad 
a  brother,  Isaac  Taylor  (1787-1865),  who  MTote  "Piiysi- 
cal  Theory  of  Another  Life,"  and  other  much  esteemed 
Avorks. 


TEACHING  FROM  THE   STAES. 

Stars,  that  on  j'our  wondrous  way 
Travel  through  the  evening  sky, 

Is  there  nothing  you  cau  say 
To  such  a  little  child  as  I  ? 

Tell  me,  for  I  long  to  know, 

Who  has  made  jou  sparkle  so  ? 

Yes,  methiuks  I  hear  you  say, 
"Child  of  mortal  race  attend ; 

While  we  run  our  wondrous  way. 
Listen ;   we  would  be  your  friend ; 

Teaching  you  that  name  divine. 

By  whose  mighty  word  we  shine. 

"  Child,  as  truly  as  we  roll 

Through  the  dark  aud  distant  sky, 
You  have  an  immortal  soul. 

Born  to  live  when  we  shall  die. 
Suns  and  planets  pass  away : 
Spirits  never  can  decay. 

"  When  some  thousand  years  at  most, 
All  their  little  time  have  sjient, 

One  by  one  our  sparkling  host, 
Shall  forsake  the  firmament : 

We  shall  from  our  glory  fall  ; 

You  must  live  beyond  us  all. 

"Yes,  and  God,  who  bade  us  roll, 
God,  who  hung  ns  in  the  sky, 

Stoops  to  watch  an  infant's  soul 
With  a  condescending  eye  ; 

And  esteems  it  dearer  far. 

More  in  value  than  a  star ! 

"  01),  then,  while  your  breath  is  given, 
Let  it  rise  in  fervent  prayer ; 

And  beseech  the  God  of  lieaveu 
To  receive  your  spirit  there. 

Like  a  living  star  to  blaze. 

Ever  to  your  Saviour's  praise." 


366 


ClCLOrJWJA    OF  B1UT16II  A^D  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


3ol)n  lunnon. 


The  son  of  a  Avealtliy  Enj^lish  West  Indian  meicliant, 
Kenyon  (1783-185(3),  a  native  of  Jamaica,  inlierited  a 
large  fortune.  He  cultivated  tbc  society  of  literary 
men ;  and  among  his  associates  were  Byron,  Words- 
wortli,  Procter,  Browning,  and  otlicr  eminent  poets. 
Dying,  he  bestowed  more  than  £100,000  in  legacies  to 
his  friends.  He  wrote  "A  Riiymed  Plea  for  Tolerance" 
(18:33);  "Poems,  for  the  most  part  Occasional"  (1838); 
and  "A  Day  at  Tivoli,  with  other  Poems"  (18J9). 


CHAMPAGNE   liOSfi. 

Lily  ou  liquid  ro.ses  floating — 

So  floats  yon  foam  o'er  pink  champagne  ;- 
Fain  Avonlil  I  join  such  plea.sant  boating, 

And  prove  that  ruby  main, 

And  tloat  away  on  -wine ! 

Those  seas  are  dangerous,  graybeards  swear, 
Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet's  brim  ; 

And  true  it  is  they  drown  old  Care — 
But  what  care  we  for  him, 

So  we  but  float  on  wine ! 

And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain 
Who  soben  cross  the  Stygian  ferry ; 

But  oidj'  make  our  Styx  champagne, 
And  we  shall  cross  quite  merry, 
Floating  away  in  wine ! 

Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 
Then  gayly  row  his  boat  from  shore  ; 

While  we,  and  every  jovial  fellow. 
Hear  unconcerned  tlie  oar 

That  dips  itself  in  wine ! 


vlllau  Cunuiuciljam. 

Poet,  novelist,  and  miscellaneous  writer,  CnnninglKim 
(1784-1842)  was  born  of  humble  parentage  in  Dumfries- 
sliire,  Scotland.  He  began  life  as  a  stone-mason:  in 
1810  he  repaired  to  London,  got  an  a])pointmcnt  of  trust 
in  the  studio  of  the  sculptor  Chantrey,  and  there  settled 
for  life.  He  had  early  shown  a  taste  for  literature,  and 
written  for  the  magazines  of  the  day.  His  taste  and  at- 
tainments in  the  fine  arts  were  remarkable.  His  warm 
Ijeart,  his  upright,  independent  character,  attracted  the 
affectionate  esteem  of  all  who  enjoyed  Ids  acquaintance. 
He  lea  four  sons  — Joseph  D.,  Alexander,  Peter,  and 
Francis— all  of  whom  have  won  distinction  in  literature. 
Cunningham  was  the  author  of  "  Paul  Jones,"  a  success- 
ful lomance  (182C) ;  and  from  1829  to  1833  he  produced 


for  "Murray's  Family  Library"  his  most  esteemed  prose 
work,  "The  Lives  of  the  most  eminent  British  Painters, 
Sculptors,  and  Architects,"  in  six  volumes. 


A   WET   SHEET   AND   A  FLOWING   SEA. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  (ills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  l)euds  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boy.«, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

Tlie  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  Avaters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horni5d  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
And  hark,  the  music,  mariners. 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ! 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


IT'S  HAME,  AND  IT'S  HAME. 

It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  conntrie ! 
When  the  flower  is  i'  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on 

the  tree. 
The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  conntrie  : 
It's  hame,  and  its  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  conntrie  I 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyalty's  bcgiiniing  for  to  fa', 
The  bonnio  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a'; 
But  I'll  water  't  wi'  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannic, 
An'  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  conntrie. 
It's  hame,  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  conntrie! 

There's  naught  now  frae  ruin  mj"  country  can  save, 
But  the  keys  o'  kind  Heaven  to  open  the  grave, 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.  — WILLIAM  TENNANT. 


367 


That  a'  the  noblo  martyrs  who  died  for  loyal  tie, 
May  rise  again  and  tiglit  for  their  ain  countrie. 
It's  hame.  and  it's  hanic,  haiue  fain  Avad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hanie,  bame,  hanie,  to  my  ain  couutrie ! 

The  great  now  are  gane,  a'  Avbo  ventnred  to  save; 
The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o'  their  grave ; 
But  the  sun  thro'  the  inirlv  blinks  blithe  in  my  e'e : 
"I'll  shine  on  you  yet  in  your  ain  countrie!" 
It's  bame,  and  it's  bame,  bame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  bame,  bame,  barae,  to  my  ain  couutrie ! 


THE   SPRING  OF  THE   YEAR. 

Gone  were  but  the  winter  cold. 
And  gone  were  but  the  snow, 

I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods 
Where  iirimroses  blow. 

Cold's  the  snow  at  my  bead. 

And  cold  at  my  feet ; 
And  tbe  tinger  of  death's  at  my  eeu. 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 

Let  none  tell  my  father. 

Or  my  mother  so  dear, — 
I'll  meet  them  both  in  heaven 

At  the  spring  of  the  year. 


lUilliam  (Tcnnaut. 

Tennant  (1784-lSt8)  was  a  native  of  Anstrutlier,  Scot- 
laud,  who,  while  filling  tlie  situation  of  clerk  in  a  nier- 
cautile  house,  studied  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and 
taiight  himself  Hebrew.  He  is  known  in  literature  by 
his  mock-heroic  poem  of  "  Anster  Fair"  (1812),  written 
in  the  ottava-rima  stanza,  afterward  adopted  by  Frere  and 
Byron.  The  subject  was  the  marriage  of  Maggie  Lauder, 
tlie  famous  heroine  of  Scottish  song.  The  poem  was 
praised  by  Jeffrey  in  the  Edinburgh  Review;  and  several 
editions  of  it  were  published.  After  struggling  w^ith 
povertj'  till  18:34,  Tennant  received  the  appointment  of 
Professor  of  Oriental  Languages  in  St.  Mary's  College. 
In  184.5  he  published  "  Hebrew  Dramas,  founded  on  In- 
cidents in  Bildc  History."  A  memoir  of  his  life  and 
writings  apjjeared  in  186L 


DESCRIPTION  OF  MAGGIE   LAUDER. 

Her  form  was  as  tbe  Morning's  blithesome  star, 
That,  capped  with  lustrous  coronet  of  beams, 

Rides  up  the  dawning  orient  in  her  car, 

New-wasbedj  and  doubly  fulgent  from  tbe  streams : 


The  Chaldee  shepherd  eyes  her  light  afar, 

And  on  his  knees  adores  her  as  she  gleams ; 
So  shone  tbe  stately  form  of  Maggie  Lander, 
And  so  the  admiring  crowds  pay  homage  and  ai>- 
pland  her. 

Each  little  step  her  tranii)ling  palfrey  took, 
Sbaked  her  ma_jt\stic  person  into  grace. 

And  as  at  times  bis  glossy  sides  she  strook 
Endearingly  with  whip's  gxeen  silken  lace, 

Tbe  prancer  seemed  to  court  such  kind  rebuke, 
Loitering  witli  wilful  tardiness  of  pace — 

By  Jove,  the  very  waving  of  her  arm 

Had  power  a  brutish  lout  to  unbrutify  and  charm  ! 

Her  face  was  as  tbe  summer  cloud,  wberoon 
Tbe  dawning  sun  delights  to  rest  bis  rays ! 

Compared  with  it,  old  Sliaron's  vale,  o'ergrown 
With  flaunting  roses,  bad  resigned  its  praise : 

For  why  ?     Her  face  with  heaven's  own  roses  shone. 
Mocking  the  morn,  and  witching  men  to  gaze  ; 

And  he  that  gazed  with  cold,  unsmitten  soul. 

That  blockhead's   heart  was  ice   thrice  baked  be- 
neath the  Pole. 

Her  locks,  apparent  tufts  of  wiry  gold. 
Lay  on  her  lily  temples,  fairly  dangling. 

And  on  each  liair,  so  barmless  to  behold, 
A  lover's  soul  bung  mercilessly  strangling ; 

Tlie  piping  silly  zepbyrs  vied  to  unfold 

The  tresses  in  their  arms  so  slim  and  tangling. 

And  thrid  in  sport  these  lover-noosing  snares. 

And  played  at  bide-and-seek  amid  tbe  golden  hairs. 

Her  eye  was  as  an  honored  palace,  where 

A  choir  of  lightsome  Graces  frisk  and  dance  ; 

Wiiat  object  drew  her  gaze,  bow  mean  soe'er. 
Got  dignity  and  honor  from  the  glance ; 

Woe  to  the  man  on  whom  she  unaware 
Did  the  dear  witchery  of  her  eye  elauce! 

'Twas  such  a  thrilling,  killing,  keen  regard — 

May  Heaven  from  such  a  look  preserve  each  ten- 
der bard ! 

So  on  she  rode-  in  virgin  majesty, 

Charming  the  thin  dead  air  to  kiss  her  lips. 
And  with  the  light  and  grandeur  of  her  eye 

Slianiing  the  proud  sun  into  dim  eclipse ; 
While  round  her  presence  clustering  far  and  nigh, 

On  borseback  some,  with  silver  spurs  and  whips. 
And  some  afoot  with  shoes  of  dazzling  buckles, 
Attended   knights,   and    lairds,   and    clowns    with 
horny  knuckles. 


368 


CYCLOPJiDiA  OF  bhitish  jyj)  American  poetry. 


^Iciraubcr  Uo^Acr. 


Rodger  (1784-1840)  was  a  native  of  East-Calder,  Scot- 
laud.  In  17'J7  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver  in  Glas- 
gow. He  married,  and  had  a  large  familj',  sonic  of 
•whom  emigrated  to  the  United  States.  Having  written 
some  articles  against  the  (iovcrnnient  in  a  radical  news- 
paper, he  was  imprisoned  for  some  time.  His  first  ap- 
pearance as  an  anthor  was  in  1827,  when  he  published  a 
volume  of  poems.  Some  of  his  songs  are  still  very 
popular. 


BEHAVE  YOURSEL'  BEFORE  FOLK. 

Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
And  (linua  be  so  rude  to  me 
As  kiss  mo  sao  before  folk. 

It  wadua  gi'e  me  mickle  pain, 
Gin  we  were  seen  and  beard  by  iiaue, 
To  tak'  a  kiss,  or  grant  you  ane. 
But,  guidsake  !   no  before  folk  ! 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
Whate'er  you  do  when  out  o'  view, 
Be  cautious  aye  before  folk. 

Consider,  lad,  how  folk  will  crack, 
And  what  a  great  aftair  they'll  mak' 
O'  naething  but  a  simple  smack 

That's  gi'eu  or  ta'eu  before  folk. 

Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 

Behave  yoursel'  before  folk ; 

Nor  gi'e  the  tongue  o'  anld  or  young 

Occasion  to  come  o'er  folk. 

It's  no  through  hatred  o'  a  kiss 
That  I  sae  plaiulj"^  tell  yon  this ; 
But,  losh !   I  tak'  ifc  sair  ami.ss 

To  be  sae  teased  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
"\Vli(  11  we're  our  lane  you  may  tak'  ane, 
But  liciit  a  ane  befm'e  folk. 

I'm  sure  wi'  you  I've  been  as  free 
As  ony  modest  lass  should  be ; 
But  yet  it  doesna  do  to  see 

Sic  freedom  used  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
I'll  ne'er  submit  again  to  it  — 
So  mind  von  that — before  folk. 


Ye  tell  me  that  ray  face  is  fair : 
It  may  bo  sae — I  diuna  care  ; 
But  ne'er  again  gar  't  blush  sae  sair 
As  ye  ha'e  done  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  younsel'  before  folk  ; 
Nor  heat  my  cheeks  wi'  your  mad  freaks. 
But  aye  be  douce  before  folk. 

Ye  tell  me  that  my  lips  are  sweet : 
Sic  tales,  I  doubt,  are  a'  deceit ; 
At  ony  rate,  it's  hardly  meet 

To  pree  their  sweets  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
Giu  that's  the  case,  there's  time  and  place, 
But  surely  no  before  folk. 

But  gin  you  really  do  insist 
That  I  should  suffer  to  be  kissed, 
Gae,  get  a  license  frae  the  priest. 
And  mak'  me  j'ours  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk. 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk  ; 
And  when  we're  ane,  baith  flesh  and  bane, 
Ye  may  tak'  ten — before  folk. 


Bcnuxrii  Uarton. 

Barton  (1784-1849)  has  often  been  spoken  of  as  "  the 
Quaker  poet."  He  became  a  banker's  clerk  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  and  continued  in  that  position,  like  Lamb 
in  the  East  India  House,  to  the  end  of  his  life.  Pure, 
gentle,  and  amiable,  his  poetry  reflects  his  character.  To 
the  "Sonnet  to  a  Grandmother,"  Charles  Lamb  affixed 
the  characteristic  comment,  "A  good  sonnet.  Dixi. — C. 
Lamb."  Barton's  " Poems  and  Letters"  were  publibhed, 
with  a  memoir,  by  his  daughter,  in  1853. 


TO  A  GRANDMOTHER. 

"Old  age  is  dark  and  unlovely." — Ossiax. 

Oh,  say  not  so !     A  bright  old  age  is  thine, 

Calm  as  the  gentle  light  of  summer  eves. 

Ere  twilight  dim  her  dusky  mantle  weaves ; 

Because  to  thee  is  given,  in  thy  decline, 

A  heart  that  does  not  thanklessly  repine 

At  aught  of  which  the  hand  of  God  bereaves, 

Yet  all  he  sends  with  gratitude  receives. 

May  such  a  quiet,  thankful  close  bo  mine ! 

And  hence  thy  fireside  chair  appears  to  me 

A  peaceful  throne — which  thou  wert  formed  to  (ill; 


BERNARD  BARTON.— LEVI  FRISBIE. 


3G9 


T]iy  cliiUlren  ministers  who  do  thy  will ; 

Aud  those  grandchildren,  sporting  round  thy  knee, 

Thy  little  subjects,  looking  up  to  thee 

As  one  who  cluiius  their  fond  allegiauco  still. 


FAREWELL. 

Nay,  shrink  uot  from  the  word  '•  farewell," 
As  if  'twere  friendship's  tiiial  knell ! 

Such  fears  maj'  prove  but  A'aiu : 
So  changeful  is  life's  fleeting  day, 
"Whene'er  we  sever,  Hope  may  say, 

"  We  part — to  meet  again  !" 

E'en  the  last  parting  heart  can  know 
Brings  not  unutterable  woe 

To  souls  that  heavenward  soar; 
For  humble  Faith,  with  steadfast  eye. 
Points  to  a  brighter  world  on  high. 
Where  hearts  that  here  at  parting  sigh 

May  meet — to  part  no  more. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

A  winter  night !  the  stormy  wind  is  high, 
Rocking  the  leafless  branches  to  and  fro  : 
The  sailor's  wife  shrinks  as  she  hears  it  blow. 
And  monrufnlly  surveys  the  starless  sky; 
The  hardy  shepherd  turns  out  fearlessly 
To  tend  his  fleecy  charge  in  drifted  snow  ; 
And  the  poor  homeless,  houseless  child  of  woe 
Sinks  down,  perchance,  in  dumb  despair  to  die ! 
Happy  the  fireside  student — happier  still 
The  social  circle  round  the  blazing  hearth, — 
If,  while  these  estimate  aright  the  worth 
Of  every  blessing  which  their  cup  may  fill, 
Their  grateful  hearts  with  sympathy  can  thrill 
For  every  form  of  wretchedness  on  earth. 


Htm  i^risbic. 

AMERICAN. 

Frisbie  (1784-1832)  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  of  Ips- 
wich, Mass.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard,  and  did  much 
to  defray  his  own  expenses  by  teaching.  After  finishing 
Jiis  course,  he  was  successively  Latin  tutor,  Professor  of 
Latin,  and  Professor  of  Moral  Philosopliy.  A  volume 
containing  some  of  liis  philosophical  writings  and  a  few 
poems,  and  edited  by  liis  friend,  Andrews  Norton,  was 
published  in  18:23. 

24 


A  CASTLE   IN  THE  AIR. 

I'll  tell  you,  friend,  what  sort  of  wife, 
Whene'er  I  scan  this  scene  of  life, 

Inspires  my  waking  schemes. 
And  when  I  sleep,  with  form  so  light. 
Dances  before  my  ravished  sight, 

In  sweet  aerial  dreams. 

The  rose  its  blushes  need  not  lend. 
Nor  yet  the  lily  with  them  blend. 

To  captivate  my  eyes. 
Give  me  a  cheek  the  heart  obeys, 
And,  sweetly  mutal)le,  displays 

Its  feelings  as  they  rise ; 

Features,  where  jiensive,  more  than  gay, 
Save  when  a  rising  smile  doth  play, 

The  sober  thought  you  see ; 
Eyes  that  all  soft  aud  tender  seem — 
And  kind  affections  round  them  beam. 

But  most  of  all  on  me ! 

A  form,  though  uot  of  finest  mould, 
Where  yet  a  something  you  behold 

L'ucousciously  doth  please  ; 
Manners  all  graceful,  without  art. 
That  to  each  look  and  word  impart 

A  modesty  and  ease. 

But  still  her  air,  her  face,  each  charm. 
Must  speak  a  heart  with  feeling  warm, 

And  mind  inform  the  whole  ; 
With  mind  her  mantling  cheek  must  glow, 
Her  voice,  her  beaming  eye,  must  show 

An  all-inspiring  soul. 

Ah  !   could  I  such  a  being  find, 

And  were  her  fate  to  miue  but  joined 

By  Hymen's  silken  tie. 
To  her  myself,  my  all,  I'd  give. 
For  her  alone  delighted  live. 

For  her  consent  to  die. 

Whene'er  by  anxious  care  oppressed. 
On  the  soft  pillow  of  her  breast 

My  aching  head  I'd  lay ; 
At  her  sweet  smile  each  care  should  cease. 
Her  kiss  infuse  a  balmy  peace, 

Aud  drive  my  griefs  away. 

In  turn,  I'd  .soften  all  her  care. 

Each  thought,  each  wish,  each  feeling,  share  ; 


370 


CYCLOPJ^^DIA    OF  BIlITISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Slioukl  sickness  e'er  invade, 
My  voice  should  soothe  each  rising  sigh, 
My  liand  the  cordial  should  supply ; 

I'd  watch  beside  her  bed. 

Should  gatiicring  clouds  our  sky  deform, 
My  arms  should  shiehl  her  from  the  storm  ; 

And,  "vvcre  its  fury  hurled, 
My  bosom  to  its  bolts  I'd  bare, 
lu  her  defence  undaunted  dare 

Defy  the  ojjposing  Avorld. 

Together  should  our  prayers  ascend ; 
Together  "would  we  humbly  bend 

To  praise  the  Almighty  name  ; 
And  when  I  saw  her  kindling  eye 
Beam  upward  to  her  native  sky, 

My  soul  should  catch  the  ilame. 

Thus  nothing  should  our  hearts  divide, 
But  ou  our  years  serenely  glide, 

And  all  to  love  be  given  ; 
Aud,  when  life's  little  scene  was  o'er. 
We'd  part  to  meet  and  part  no  luore, 

But  live  and  love  in  heaven. 


tciglj  tjunt. 


The  son  of  a  West  Indian  wlio  settled  in  England  and 
became  a  clergyman,  James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  (1784- 
1859)  was  born  at  Southgate,  and  educated  at  Christ's 
Hospital,  London.  In  connection  with  his  brother  he 
established  the  Examiner  newspaper  in  1808,  and  became 
the  literary  associate  of  Coleridge,  Lamb,  Campbell, 
Hood,  Byron,  Shellej-,  and  other  men  of  note.  Having 
called  the  Prince  Regent  "an  Adonis  of  fiftj',"  he  and 
his  brother  were  condemned  to  two  years'  imprison- 
ment, with  a  fine  of  £.500  each.  On  Hunt's  release,  Keats 
addressed  to  him  one  of  his  finest  sonnets.  Improvident 
and  somewhat  lax  in  money  matters,  and  often  in  want 
of  "a  loan,"  Hunt's  life  was  spent  in  struggling  with 
influences  contrary  to  his  nature  and  temperament.  In 
1822  he  went  to  Italy  to  reside  with  Lord  Byron;  and  in 
1828  he  published  "  Lord  Byron,  and  some  of  his  Con- 
temporaries," for  which  he  was  bitterly  satirized  by 
Moore,  in  some  biting  verses,  as  an  ingrate.  Certain  af- 
fectations in  his  style  caused  Hunt  to  be  credited  with 
founding  the  "Cockney  School  of  Poetry." 


TO  T.  L.  II.,  SIX  YEARS  OLD,  DURING  SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  tlu.'O 

Smooths  olV  the  day's  annoy. 


I  sit  mo  down  and  tliink 
Of  all  tliy  winning  ways; 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink. 
That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

The  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 
Tliy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness. 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 

That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears, 
These,  these  arc  things  that  may  demand 

Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now  ; 
And  calmly  'mid  my  dear  ones. 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow ; 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness, — 

Tlie  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother. 

When  life  aud  hope  were  new ; 
Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother. 

Thy  sister,  father,  too  ; 

My  light  where'er  I  go, 

My  bird  when  prison-bound, 
My  hand-in-hand  companion — no, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say — "Ho  has  departed" — 

"  His  voice — his  face — is  gone  !" 
To  feel  impatient-hearted. 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on  ; 

Ah,  I  could  not  endure 

To  whisper  of  such  woe. 
Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  insure 

That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he's  fixed  and  sleeping; 

This  silence  too,  the  while — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seems  whispering  us  a  smile  : 

Something  divine  and  dim 

Seems  going  by  one's  car, 
Like  parting  wings  of  Seraphim, 

Who  say,  "We've  fini.shcd  here!"' 


»  John  Wilson,  once  the  lusty  nss.iilant  of  Ilnnt,  c.illcd 
hhn  nt  last  "  the  most  vivid  of  poets  and  most  cordial  of 
critics." 


LEIGH  HUM. 


371 


ABOU  EEN  ADHEM   AND   THE   ANGEL. 

Abou  Ben  Aclheiu  (may  liis  tribe  increase !) 
Awoko  ouo  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  witbiu  the  mooulight  iu  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lilj'  iu  bh)om, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  : — 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  presence  iu  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou?" — The  visiou  raised  its  head. 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  Avho  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spake  more  low. 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  cue  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed   the   names   Avhom   love   of  God  had 

blessed. 
And  lo  I   Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


AN  ITALIAN   MORNING  IN  MAY. 

From  "  The  Stokt  of  Rimini." 

Tlie  sun  is  up,  and  'tis  a  morn  of  May 

Round  old  Ravenua's  clear-shown  towers  and  bay ; 

A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen. 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green  ; 

For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  uigiit, 

Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 

And  there's  a  crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out; 

A  balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze  ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees  ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a  coil 

Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassier  soil ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short, — sky,  earth,  and  sea, — 

Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out 

openly. 
'Tis  nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing : — 
The  birds  to  the  delicions  time  are  singiug, 
Dartiug  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  aud  down. 
Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town ; 
While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turu  are  seen  ; 
Aud  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattered  light, 
Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day, 
Aud  chase  the  whistling  brine,  aud  swirl  into  the 

bay. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  AVON,  SEPT.  28,  1817. 

It  is  the  loveliest  day  that  we  have  had 
Tills  lovely  numth — sparkling,  and  full  of  cheer; 
The  sun  has  a  sharp  eye,  yet  kind  aud  glad  ; 
Colors  are  doubly  bright :   all  things  appear 
Strong  outlined  in  the  spacious  atmosphere  ; 
And  throngh  the  lofty  air  the  white  clouds  go. 
As  on  their  way  to  some  celestial  show. 

The  banks  of  Avon  mnst  look  well  to-day : 
Autumn  is  there  in  all  his  glory  aud  treasure ; 
The  river  mnst  run  bright,  the  ripples  play 
Their  crispest  tunes  to  boats  that  rock  at  leisure ; 
The  ladies  are  abroad  with  cheeks  of  pleasure ; 
And  the  rich  orchards,  in  their  sunniest  robes, 
Are  pouting  thick  with  all  their  winy  globes. 

Aiul  why  must  I  be  thinking  of  the  pride 

Of  distant  bowers,  as  if  I  had  no  nest 

To  sing  iu  here,  though  by  the  houses'  side  ? 

As  if  I  could  not  iu  a  minute  rest 

In  leafy  fields,  rural,  aud  self-possessed. 

Having  on  one  side  Hampstead  for  my  looks. 

On  t'other,  London,  with  its  wealth  of  books  ? 

It  is  not  that  I  envy  autumn  there. 

Nor  the  sweet  river,  though  my  fields  have  none  ; 

Nor  yet  that  iu  its  all-productive  air 

Was  boru  Humanity's  diviuest  son. 

That  spriglitliest,  gravest,  wisest,  kindest  one, 

Shakspeare  ;   nor  yet — oh  no — that  here  I  miss 

Souls  not  unworthy  to  be  named  with  his. 

No  ;   but  it  is  that  on  this  very  day. 
Ami  upon  Shakspeare's  stream — a  little  lower, 
W'here,  drunk  with  Delphic  air,  it  comes  away. 
Dancing  in  i)erfume  by  the  Peary  Shore — 
Was  born  the  lass  that  I  love  more  and  more  ; 
A  fruit  as  fine  as  in  the  Hesperian  store. 
Smooth,  roundly  smiling,  iioble  to  the  core  ; 
An  eye  for  art ;   a  nature  that  of  yore 
Mothers  and  daughters,  wives  and  sisters  wore. 
When  in  the  Golden  Age  one  tune  they  bore — 
Marian,  ^ — who  makes  my  heart  and  very  rhymes 
run  o'er. 


MAY  AND  THE   POETS. 

There  is  May  iu  books  forever : 
Jlay  will  part  from  Spenser  never ; 
May's  in  Milton,  May's  in  Pryor, 
May's  in  Chaucer,  Thomson,  Dyer; 


372 


CYCLOP^WIA    OF  niilTlSlI  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


May's  in  all  tlio  Italian  books : 
She  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
AVhei-e  she  sleeps  witli  nymphs  and  elves 
In  happy  places  they  call  shelves, 
And  will  rise  and  dress  yonr  rooms 
With  a  drapery  thick  with  blooms. 
Come,  ye  rains,  then,  if  yo  will ; 
May's  at  home,  and  with  mo  still : 
But  come  rather,  thon,  good  weather, 
And  lind  ns  in  the  lields  toiicther. 


DEATH. 

Death  is  a  road  onr  dearest  friends  have  gone : 
Why,  with  such  leaders,  fear  to  say,  "Lead  on  ?" 
Its  gate  repels,  lest  it  too  soon  be  ti"ied, 
But  turns  in  balm  on  the  immortal  side. 
Mothers  hav'e  passed  it ;   fathers,  children  ;   men 
Whose  like  we  look  not  to  behold  again ; 
Women  that  smiled  away  their  loving  breath  : — 
Soft  is  the  travelling  on  the  road  of  Death  ! 
But  guilt  has  passed  it? — men  not  fit  to  die? 
Oh,  hush — for  He  that  made  ns  all  is  by ! 
Human  were  all — all  men,  all  born  of  mothers ; 
All  onr  own  selves  in  the  worn-ont  shape  of  others ; 
Our  used,  and  oh,  be  snre,  not  to  be  i7/-used  brothers. 


JENNY  KISSED  ME. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met. 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in : 

Time,  yon  thief,  who  love  to  got 
Sweets  into  your  list,  pnt  that  in! 

Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad  ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me ; 

Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jeiniy  kissed  me ! 


3amcG  ^X'clson  Barker. 

AMERICAN. 

Barker  (1784-1858),  better  known  as  a  dramatio  writer 
than  by  his  other  productions,  was  a  native  of  Pliiladel- 
l)hia,  and  a  son  of  General  John  Barlccr,  an  officer  of  tlic 
Revolution,  and  at  one  time  mayor  and  sheriff  of  the 
city.  James  was  a  captain  in  the  artillery  durintj  the 
war  of  1812  witli  Great  Britain,  was  for  one  year  mayor 
of  Piiiladelphia,  and  afterward  collector  of  the  port. 
In  1807  he  produced  a  comedy,  entitled  "Tears  and 
Smiles;"  in  1817,  "How  to  Try  a  Lover,"  never  jier- 
formed;  and  in  1S"23,  a  tragedj',  "Superstition,"  one  of 


the  principal  parts  in  wliicli  is  Goff,  the  regicide.  Bar 
ker  was  also  the  author  of  some  sprightly  poems,  one  of 
which  we  subjoin. 


LITTLE   KED   KIDING-HOOD. 

She  was,  indeed,  a  pretty  little  creature  ; 
So  meek,  so  modest !     What  a  pity,  madam. 
That  one  so  young  and  innocent  should  fall 
A  prey  to  the  ravenous  wolf! 

The  wolf,  indeed  ! 

Yon'vc  left  the  nur.sery  to  but  little  purpose 
If  yon  believe  a  wolf  could  ever  speak, 
Tliough  in  the  time  of  yE.sop  or  before. 

W^as  't  not  a  wolf,  then  ?   I  have  read  the  story 

A  hundred  times,  and  heard  it  told  ;   nay,  told  it 

Myself  to  my  younger  sisters,  wheu  we've  shrunk 

Together  in  the  sheets,  from  very  terror, 

And,  with  protecting  arms,  each  round  the  other, 

E'en  sobbed  ourselves  to  sleep.     But  I  remember 

I  saw  the  story  acted  on  the  stage 

Last  winter  in  the  city,  I  and  my  school-mates. 

With  our  most  kind  preceptress,  Mrs.  Bazcly  : 

And  so  it  was  a  robber,  not  a  wolf. 

That  met  poor  little  Kiding-hood  i'  the  wood? 

Nor  wolf  nor  robber,  child :   this  nursery  tale 

Contains  a  hidden  moral. 

Hidden  ?     Nay, 

I'm  not  so  young  but  I  can  spell  it  out. 

And  thus  it  is :   Children,  when  sent  on  errands. 

Must  never  stop  by  tlie  way  to  talk  with  wolves. 

Tut !  wolves  again  !    Wilt  listen  to  mo,  child  ? 

Say  on,  dear  grandma. 

— —Thus,  then,  dear  my  daughter: 
In  this  young  person,  culling  idle  flowers, 
Yon  see  the  peril  that  attends  the  maiden 
Who,  in  her  walk  through  life,  yields  to  temptation. 
And  quits  the  onward  path  to  stray  aside, 
Allured  by  gaudy  weeds. 

Nay,  none  but  children 

Could  gather  buttercups  and  May-weed,  mother ; 
But  violets,  dear  violets — methinks 
I  could  live  ever  on  a  bank  of  violets, 
Or  die  most  happy  there. 

You  die,  indeed  ! 

At  your  years  die ! 

Then  sleep,  ma'am,  if  you  please, 

As  you  did  yesterday,  in  that  sweet  spot 
Down  by  the  fountain,  where  you  seated  yon 
To  read  the  last  new  novel — what  d'ye  call  it  ? — 
"  The  Prairie,"  was  it  not  ? 

It  was,  my  love  ; 

And  fhoro,  as  I  remember,  your  kind  arm 
Pillowed  my  ag(5d  head.     'Twas  irksome,  sure, 


JAMES  NELSON  BARKER. 


•^7•3 


To  your  young  limbs  aud  spirit. 

No,  believe  mo  : 

To  keep  the  insects  from  disturbing  you 
Was  sweet  euiploynient,  or  to  fan  your  cheek 
\\'heu  the  breeze  lulled. 

You'n;  a  dear  child  ! 

And  then 

To  gaze  on  such  a  scene !   the  grassy  bank, 

8it  gently  sloping  to  the  rivulet, 

All  purple  -with  my  own  dear  violet, 

And  s[irinkled  over  with  spring  flowers  of  each  tint! 

There  was  that  pale  and  humble  little  blossom, 

Looking  so  like  its  namesake,  lunoceuce ; 

The  fairy-formed,  liesh-hued  anemone, 

With  its  fair  sisters,  called  by  country  people 

Fair  maids  o'  the  spring  ;  the  lowly  cinque-foil,  too. 

And  statelier  marigold ;   the  violet  sorrel, 

Blushing  so  rosy-red  in  bashfulness, 

Aud  her  companion  of  the  season,  dressed 

In  varied  pink ;   the  partridge  evergreen. 

Hanging  its  fragrant  wax-work  on  each  stem, 

Aud  studding  tlie  green  sod  with  scarlet  berries, — - 

Did  you  see  all  those  flowers  ?     I  marked  them 

not. 

Oh,  many  more,  whose  names  I  have  not  learned ! 

And  then  to  see  the  light-blue  butterfly 
Eoaming  about,  like  an  enchanted  thing, 
From  flower  to  flower,  and  the  bright  liouey-bee — 
Aud  there,  too,  was  the  fountain,  overhung 
With  bush  and  tree,  draped  by  the  graceful  vine 
Where  the  white  blossoms  of  the  dog-wood  met 
The  crimson  redbud,  and  the  sweet  birds  sang 
Their  madrigals ;  while  the  fresh  springing  waters, 
Just  stirring  the  green  fern  that  bathed  within  them, 
Leaped  joyful  o'er  their  fairy  mound  of  rock. 
And  fell  in  music,  then  passed  prattling  on 
Between  the  flowery  banks  that  bent  to  kiss  them. 

1  dreamed  not  of  these  sights  or  sounds. 

Then  just 

Beyond  the  brook  there  lay  a  narrow  strip, 

Like  a  rich  ribbon,  of  enamelled  meadow. 

Girt  by  a  pretty  precipice,  whose  top 

Was  crowned,  with  rosebay.     Half-way  down  there 

stood, 
Sylph-like,  the  light,  fantastic  Columbine, 
As  ready  to  leap  down  unto  her  lover. 
Harlequin  Bartsia,  in  his  painted  vest 
Of  green  and  crimson. 

Tut !   enough,  enough  ! 

Your  madcap  fancy  runs  too  riot,  girl. 
We  must  shut  uj)  your  books  of  botany, 
And  give  you  graver  studies. 

Will  you  shut 


The  book  of  nature  too  ? — for  it  is  that 
I  love  and  study.     Do  not  take  me  back 
'i'o  the  cold,  heartless  city,  with  its  forms 
And  dull  routine,  its  artificial  manners 
And  arbitrary  rules,  its  cheerless  pleasures 
Ami  mirthless  masking.     Yet  a  little  longer, 
Oh  let  me  hold  comnninion  here  with  nature! 

Well,  well,  we'll  see.     But  we  neglect  our  lecture 

Upon  this  picture — 

Poor  Red  Riding-hood  ! 

We  had  forgotten  her :   yet  mark,  dear  madam. 
How  patieutly  the  poor  thing  waits  our  leisure. 
And  now  the  hidden  moral. 

Thus  it  is  : 

Mere  children  read  such  stories  literally, 

But  the  more  elderly  aud  wise  deduce 

A  moral  from  the  fiction.     In  a  word, 

The  wolf  that  yon  must  guard  against  is — love. 

1  thought  love  was  an  infant — "toiijours  enfant." 

The  world  aud  love  were  young  together,  child. 

And  innocent — ■     Alas!   time  changes  all  things. 

True,  I  remember,  love  is  now  a  man. 

And,  the  song  says,  "a  very  saucy  one;" 
But  how  a  Avolf  ? 

In  ravenous  appetite, 

Ilupitying  and  unsparing,  passion  is  oft 
A  beast  of  prey :   as  the  wolf  to  the  lamb. 
Is  he  to  innocence. 

1  shall  remember, 

For  now  I  see  the  moral.     Trust  me,  madam, 
Should  I  e'er  meet  this  w'olf-love  in  my  way, 
Be  he  a  boj^  or  man,  I'll  take  good  heed. 
And  hold  no  converse  with  him. 

You'll  do  wisely. 

Nor  e'er  in  field  or  forest,  plain  or  pathway. 

Shall  he  from  me  know  whither  I  am  going, 
Or  whisper  that  he'll  meet  nie. 

That's  my  child. 

Nor  in  my  grandam's  cottage,  nor  elsewhere, 

Will  I  e'er  lift  the  latch  for  him  myself, 
Or  bid  him  pull  the  bobbin. 

Well,  my  dear. 

You've  learned  your  lesson. 

Yet  one  thing,  my  mother. 

Somewhat  perplexes  nic. 

Say  what,  my  love, 

I  will  explain. 

The  wolf,  the  story  goes. 

Deceived  poor  grandam  first,  and  ate  her  up  : 
What  is  the  moral  here  ?     Have  all  our  grandmas 
Been  first  devoured  by  love  ? 

Let  us  go  in  : 

The  air  grows  cool.     You  arc  a  forward  chit. 


374 


CTCLOl'JiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


iloljii  lUilson. 


Professor  Jolm  Wilson  (1785-1854),  son  of  an  opuk'nt 
manufacturer,  was  a  native  of  Paisley,  Scotland.  Edu- 
cated at  Oxford,  he  boui^lit  the  beautiful  estate  of  El- 
leray,  on  Lake  Windermere,  married,  built  a  house,  kept 
a  yacht,  wrote  poetry,  cultivated  the  society  of  Words- 
worth, and  enjoyed  himself  ijenerally.  Keverses  came, 
however,  and  he  was  compelled  to  work  in  earnest,  lie 
was  appointed  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  Edinburu:li,  took  the  editorship  of  Black- 
vjoocVs  Magazbic,  and  there  made  for  himself  quite  a  rep- 
utation, in  his  day,  under  the  nom  dc  jiluinc  of  Christo- 
pher North.  Scott  speaks  of  him,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
as  "an  eccentric  u-cnius."  The  poetical  works  of  Wilson 
consist  of  "The  Isle  of  Palms"  (1812),  "The  City  of  the 
Plague"  (ISlfl),  and  several  smaller  pieces.  In  reference 
to  his  prose  writings,  Ilallam  characterized  him  as  "a 
living  writer  of  the  most  ardent  and  enthusiastic  genius, 
whose  eloquence  is  as  the  rush  of  mighty  waters."  In 
18.51  Wilson  was  granted  a  pension  of  £300  per  annum. 
An  interesting  memoir  of  him  by  his  daughter,  Mrs. 
GordoD,  appeared  in  186:2. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  WILD-DEER. 

Maguificcut  creature !   so  stately  and  bright ! 
In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  llight ; 
For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread, 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far  heaniing 

head  ; 
Or  borne  like  a  whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  I  — 
Hail!   king  of  the  wild  and  the  beantiful  I — hail! 
Hail!   idol  divine! — whom  nature  hatli  borne 
O'er  a  hundred  hill -tops  since   the   mists  of  the 

morn. 
Whom    the-   pilgrim   lone   wandering    on   nu>untain 

and  moor, 
As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore; 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free, 
Are  spread  in  a  garment  of  glory  o'er  thee, 
Up!    up  to  yon  clitf!    like  a  hing  to  his  throne! 
O'er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone — 
A  throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 
There   the   bright   heather   s[>rings    up    in    love   of 

thy  breast, 
Lo !    the   clouds  in   the  depths  of  the   sky  are   at 

rest ; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o'er  on  the  hill! 
In  the  hush  of  the  mountain.s,  ye  antlers, lie  still! — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm   of 

d.'light 
Like    th(^    arms    of   the    pine    on    yon    shelterless 

height, 


One  moment — thou  bright  apparition — delay  ! 
Then  melt  o'er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

Aloft  on  the  weather-gleam,  scorning  tiie  earth. 
The  wild  spirit  hung  in  majestical  mirth  ; 
In  dalliance  with  danger,  he  bounded  in  bliss 
O'er  the  fathomless  gloom  of  each  moaning  abyss; 
O'er    the    grim    rocks    careering    with    prosperous 

motion. 
Like  a  shii)  by  herself  in  full  sail  o'er  the  ocean! 
Then  iiroudly  he  turned  ere  ho  sank  to  the  dell, 
And  shook  from  his  forehead  a  haughty  farewell, 
While  his  horns  in  a  crescent  of  radiance  shone. 
Like  a  flag  burning  bright  when  the  vessel  is  gone. 

The  ship  of  the  desert  hath  passed  on  the  wind. 
And  left  the  dark  oceau  of  mouutains  behiud! 
But  mj'  spirit  .will  travel  wherever  she  flee, 
And  behold  her  in  pomp  o'er  the  rim  of  the  sea — 
Her  voyage  pursue — till  her  auchor  be  cast 
In  some  cliff-girdled  haveu  of  beauty'  at  last. 

What  lonely  magniflcence  stretches  around  ! 
Each   sight   how    sublime!     and   how    awful    each 

sound ! 
All  hushed  and  serene  as  a  region  of  dreams. 
The  mountains  repose  'mid  the  roar  of  the  streams, 
Their  glens  of  black  umbrage  by  cataracts  riven. 
But  calm  their  blue  tops  in  the  beauty  of  heaven. 


HYMN. 

From  "  Lord  Ronald's  Ciuld." 
FIRST  VOICE. 
Oh  beautiful  the  streams 

That  through  our  valleys  run. 
Singing  and  dancing  in  the  gleams 
Of  summer's  cloudless  sun. 

The  sweetest  of  them  all 

From  its  fairy  banks  is  gone ! 

And  the  nnisic  of  the  water-fall 
Hath  left  the  silent  stone! 

Up  among  the  mountains 

In  soft  and  mossy  cell, 
By  the  silent  springs  and  fountains 

The  happy  wild-flowers  dwell. 

The  queen-rose  of  the  wilderness 
Hath  withered  in  the  wind, 


JOHN  WILSON. 


375 


Aiul  the  sbepberils  see  no  lovoliuess 
In  the  blossoms  left  behiud. 

Birds  cheer  our  louelj'  groves 

With  niauy  a  beauteous  Aviug — 
When  happy  in  their  harmless  loves, 

How  tenderly  they  sing ! 

O'er  all  the  rest  was  beard 

One  wild  and  mournful  strain, — 
But  hushed  is  the  voice  of  that  hymuiug  bird, 

She  ne'er  must  sing  again ! 

Bright  through  the  yew-trees'  gloom, 

I  saw  a  sleeping  dove ! 
On  the  silence  of  her  silvery  plume. 

The  sunlight  lay  in  love. 

The  grove  seemed  all  her  own 

Round  the  beautj'  of  that  breast — 

— But  the  startled  dove  afar  is  flown  ! 
Forsaken  is  her  nest  I 

In  yonder  forest  wide 

A  flock  of  wild-deer  lies. 
Beauty  breathes  o'er  each  tender  side 

And  shades  their  peaceful  eyes ! 

The  hunter  in  the  night 

Hath  singled  out  the  doe. 
In  whose  light  the  mountain-flock  lay  bright. 

Whose  hue  was  like  the  snow ! 

A  thousand  stars  shine  forth, 

With  pure  aud  dewy  ray — 
Till  by  night  the  mountains  of  our  north 

Seem  gladdening  in  the  day. 

Oh  empty  all  the  heaven  ! 

Though  a  thousand  lights  be  there — 
For  clouds  o'er  the  evening-star  are  driven, 

And  shorn  her  golden  hair ! 

SECOND   VOICE. 

— What  though  the  stream  be  dead. 

Its  banks  all  still  and  dry! 
It  murmureth  now  o'er  a  lovelier  bed 

In  the  air-groves  of  the  sky. 

What  though  our  prayers  from  death 

The  queen-rose  might  not  save ! 
Witli  brighter  bloom  and  balmier  breath 

She  spriugeth  from  the  grave. 


What  thougli  our  bird  of  light 
Lie  mute  with  iilumago  dim! 

In  heaven  I  see  her  glancing  bright — 
I  hear  her  angel  hymn. 

What  though  the  dark  tree  smile 

No  more — with  our  dove's  calm  sleep  I 

She  folds  her  wing  on  a  sunny  isle 
In  heaveu's  untroubled  deep. 

True  that  our  beauteous  doo 
Hath  left  her  still  retreat — 

But  purer  now  in  heavenly  snow 
She  lies  at  Jesus'  feet. 

Oh  star  I   untimely  set ! 

Why  should  we  weep  for  thee ! 
Thy  bright  and  dewy  coronet 

Is  rising  o'er  the  sea ! 


THE  EVEXIXG  CLOUD. 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  ; 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  suow ; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on. 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow, — 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest; 
Willie  every  breath  of  eve  that  chauced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west  : — 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul. 
To  whose  "white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given  ; 
Aud,  by  the  breath  of  Mercy,  made  to  roll 
Eight  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven  ; 
Where,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 

FicoM  "TuE  Isle  of  Palms." 

It  is  the  midnight  hour  : — the  beauteous  sea. 
Culm   as   the   cloudless  heaven,  the  heaven  dis- 
closes. 
While  many  a  sparkling  star,  in  quiet  glee, 
Far  down  within  the  watery  sky  reposes. 
The  mighty  moon,  she  sits  above. 
Encircled  with  a  zone  of  love  ; 
A  zoue  of  dim  and  tender  light. 
That  makes  her  wakeful  eye  more  bright : 
She  seems  to  shine  with  a  sunny  ray. 
And  the  night  looks  like  a  mellowed  day. 


37C 


CYCLOr^EUIA    OF  BUITIlSU  AMJ  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


Ami,  lo !   upon  tbo  murmuring  waves 

A  glorious  shape  appearing ! 
A  broad- winged  vessel,  through  the  shower 

Of  gliinniering  lustre  steering! — 
As  if  tlie  beauteous  ship  enjoyed 

The  beauty  of  the  sea, 
She  lifteth  up  her  stately  head, 

And  saileth  joyfully. 
A  lovely  path  before  her  lies, 

A  lovely  path  behind  ; 
She  sails  amid  the  loveliness 

Like  a  thing  witli  heart  and  mind. 

Fit  pilgrim  through  a  scene  so  fair, 

Slowly  she  beareth  on  ; 
A  glorious  phantom  of  the  deep, 

Risen  up  to  meet  the  moon. 
The  moou  bids  her  teuderest  radiance  fall 

On  her  wavy  streamer  and  snow-white  wings, 
And  the  quiet  voice  of  the  rocking  sea, 

To  cheer  the  gliding  vision,  sings. 
Oh,  ne'er  did  sky  and  water  blend 

lu  such  a  holy  sleep, 
Or  bathe  in  brighter  quietude 

A  roamer  of  the  deep. 

But,  list !   a  low  and  moaning  sound 

At  distance  heard,  like  a  spirit's  song! 
And  now  it  reigns  above,  around, 

As  if  it  called  the  ship  along. 
The  moon  is  sunk,  and  a  clouded  gray 

Declares  that  her  course  is  run. 
And,  like  a  god  who  brings  the  day. 

Up  mounts  the  glorious  sun. 
Soon  as  his  light  has  warmed  the  seas. 
From  the  parting  cloud  fresh  blows  the  breeze ! 
And  that  is  the  spirit  whoso  well-known  song 
Makes  the  vessel  to  sail  in  joy  along. 

No  fears  hath  she !   her  giant  form 
O'er  wrathful  surge,  through  blackening  storm, 
Majestically  calm  would  go 
'Mid  the  deep  darkness  white  as  snow ! 
lint  gently  now  the  small  waves  glide 
Like  playful  lambs  o'er  a  nioiiutaiu  side. 
So  stately  her  bearing,  so  iiroud  her  array, 
The  main  she  will  travei'so  forever  and  aye. 
Many  ports  will  exnlt  at  the  gleam  of  her  mast! 
Hush,  hush,  thou  vaiu  dreamer !    this  hour  is  her 
last. 

Five  liundred  souls  in  one  iustaut  of  dread 
Are  hurried  o'er  the  deck ; 


And  fast  the  miserable  ship 

Becomes  a  lifeless  wreck. 
Iler  keel  hath  struck  on  a  hidden  rock, 

Iler  planks  are  torn  asumb  r. 
And  down  come  her  masts  with  a  n-eling  shock. 

And  a  hideous  crash  like  thunder. 
Her  sails  are  draggled  in  the  brine. 

That  gladdened  late  the  skies, 
And  her  pennant  that  kissed  the  fair  moonshine 

Down  many  a  fathom  lies. 
Her  beauteous  sides,  whose  rainbow-hues 

Gleamed  softly  from  below. 
And  flung  a  warm  and  sunny  Hush 

O'er  the  wreaths  of  murmuring  snow. 
To  the  coral  rocks  are  liurrying  down, 
To  sleep  amid  colors  as  bright  as  their  own. 

Oil,  many  a  dream  was  in  the  ship 

An  hour  before  her  death  ; 
And  sights  of  home  with  sighs  disturbed 

The  sleeper's  long-drawn  breath. 
Instead  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 
The  sailor  heard  the  hummiug  tree, 

Alive  through  all  its  leaves, 
The  hum  of  the  spreading  sycamore 
That  grows  before  his  cottage  door, 

And  the  swallow's  song  in  the  eaves. 
His  arms  enclosed  a  blooming  boy, 
Who  listened  with  tears  of  sorrow  and  joy 

To  the  dangers  his  father  had  passed  ; 
And  his  wife — by  turns  she  wept  and  smiled, 
As  she  looked  on  the  father  of  her  child 

Returned  to  her  heart  at  last. 

He  wakes  at  the  vessel's  sudden  roll, 
And  the  rush  of  waters  is  in  his  soul. 
Astounded  the  reeling  deck  he  paces, 
'Mid  hurrying  forms  and  ghastly  faces ; — 

Tlie  whole  ship's  crew  are  there. 
Wailings  around  and  overhead, 
Hiave  spirits  stupefied  or  dead, 

And  madness  and  despair. 

Now  is  the  ocean's  bosom  bare, 

Unbroken  as  the  floating  air; 

The  ship  hath  melted  quite  away, 

Like  a  struggling  dream  at  break  of  day. 

No  image  meets  ray  Avandering  eye. 

But  the  new-risen  sun  and  the  sumiy  skj\ 

Though  the  night-shades  arc  gone,  yet  a  vapor  dull 

Bedims  the  Avaves  so  beautiful ; 

While  a  low  and  melancholy  moan 

Mourns  for  the  glory  that  hath  flown. 


HENRY  KIliKE  WHITE.— SAMUEL   WOODWORTH. 


377 


llcnrn  Kirkc  llUjitc. 

White  (17S5-lS0(i),  the  son  of  a  butcher,  was  born  in 
Nottinij^hum,  England.  His  juvenile  verses  attracted  tlie 
attention  of  generous  patrons,  particularly  ilr.  Southej-. 
At  seventeen  he  published  a  volume  of  poems.  He  had 
got  admission  to  the  University  of  Cambridge,  and  was 
fast  acquiring  distinction,  when  too  much  brain -work 
terminated  his  life.  Southcy  wrote  a  brief  biography  of 
him,  and  edited  his  "Kemains  ;"  and  Byron  consecrated 
some  spirited  lines  to  his  memory,  from  which  we  quote 
the  following: 

"  So  the  struck  eagle,  stretched  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  throngh  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  to  his  heart." 

(See  the  two  lines  by  Katharine  Phillips,  page  119  of 
this  volume.)  A  tablet  to  White's  memory,  with  a  me- 
dallion by  Chantrey,  was  placed  in  All  Saints'  Church, 
Cambridge,  England,  by  a  young  American,  Francis  Boot 
of  Boston.  In  judging  White's  poetry  we  must  remem- 
ber that  it  was  all  written  before  his  twentieth  year. 


TIME. 


Time  moveth  not ;   our  being  'tis  tbat  move.s ; 
And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream, 
Dream  of  swift  ages,  and  revolving  years, 
Ordained  to  chronicle  our  passing  days : — 
So  tlie  young  sailor,  in  the  gallant  bark. 
Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
Eeceding  from  his  eye,  and  thinks  the  while, 
Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 


COXCLUDrXG  STAXZAS  OF  'THE  CHEISTIAD." 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme, 

"With  self-rewarding  toil ;   thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung ; 

And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
W^ith  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er. 
Or  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard 
no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Jndah  sleep  again  ? 
Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay? 

Oh!   thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men. 

Thou  who  dost  listen  wheu  the  humble  praj", 
One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ! 

One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree ! 


I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
Ere  I  with  Death   shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I 
am  free. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  tine. 

Was  nursed  i»  whirling  storms. 

And  cradled  in  the  winds  : — 

Thee  when  young  Spring  first  questioned  Winter's 

sway, 
Aud  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight. 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  the  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year. 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  A'irtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity ;   in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


Samuel  llloobiuortlj, 

AMERICAN. 

Woodworth  (1785-1842),  known  chiefly  by  Lfs  one 
homely  but  vigorous  lyric,  was  a  native  of  Scituatc, 
Mass.  Removing  to  New  York,  he  became  a  printer  by 
trade,  and  was  connected  with  a  number  of  not  ijrosper- 
ous  periodical  ijublications.  "Except  his  one  famous 
song,"  says  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedrnan,  "  I  can  find  nothing 
worth  a  day's  remembrance  in  his  collected  poems." 


THE   OLD   OAKEX  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood. 
When  fond  recollc-ction  presents  them  to  view! 
The   orchard,  the   meadow,  the   deep -tangled  wihl 
wood. 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ; 


378 


CYCLOrj:i)lA    OF  BRITISII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  Avidc-spieadiiif;  pond,  aud  the  mill  which  stood 

i>y  if, 

The  bridge,  ami  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  ni<;h  it. 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hnn<i  in  the  well! 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  tlie  iron-bound  bucket, 
Tlio  moss-covereil  bucket,  which  hunj;  in  the  well! 

That  moss-covorcd  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure; 

For  ofteu,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  ex(iuisito  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  Nature  can  yield. 
How    ardent    I    seized    it,  with    bands    that    were 
flowing, 

And  <inick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overllowing. 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

IIow  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not    Ji   full   blushing   goblet    could   tempt    me    to 
leave  it. 

Though  tilled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  f;ir  removed  from  the  loved  situation. 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell. 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation. 

Ami  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 


Uobcvt  (Draut. 

The  Rii^lit  Hon.  Sir  Rohirt  Grant  (ITS-VlSn^S)  w:is  a 
native  of  the  county  of  Inverness,  Scotlunil.  He  gradu- 
ated with  high  honors  at  Cambridge  in  1800,  was  called 
to  the  Bar  in  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1807,  elected  to  Parlia- 
ment in  183G,  and  made  governor  of  Bombay  in  18:54. 
An  elegant  volume,  entitled  "  Sacred  Poems,  by  Sir  Rob- 
ert Grant,"  was  published  by  Lord  Glenclg  in  1830. 


WHOM   HAVE   I   IN   HEAVEN   BUT  TIIEE  ? 

Lord  of  eaith!    thy  bounteous  hand 
Well  this  glorious  frame  hath  jdanned  ; 
Woods  that  wave  and  hills  that  tower, 
Ocean  rolling  in  his  power; 
All  that  strikes  the  gaze  unsought, 
All  that  charms  the  lonely  thought ; 
Friendship — gem  tran.scending  price, — 
Love — a  flower  from  Paradise  ! 


Yet,  amid  this  scene  so  fair. 
Should  I  cease  thy  smile  to  share, 
Winit  were  all  its  joys  to  me  ! 
Whom  have  I  in  earth  1)ut  Thee  ? 

Lord  of  heaven  !    beyond  our  sight 
Rolls  a  world  of  purer  light ; 
There,  in  Love's  unclouded  reign, 
Parted  hands  shall  clasp  again  ; 
Martyrs  there,  and  proidiets  high. 
Blaze — a  glorious  company  ; 
While  immortal  music  rings 
From  unuumbered  seraph-strings. 
Oh!   that  world  is  passing  fair; 
Yet  if  thou  wert  absent  there, 
What  were  all  its  .joys  to  me ! 
Whom  have  1  in  heaven  but  Thee  ? 

Lord  of  earth  and  heaven  !   my  breast 
Seeks  in  thee  its  only  rest ! 
I  was  lost — thy  accents  mild 
Homeward  lured  \\\y  Avanderiug  child  ; 
I  was  blind — thy  healing  ray 
Charmed  the  long  eclipse  away; 
Source  of  every  joy  I  know, 
Solace  of  my  every  woe ! 
Yet  should  once  thy  smile  divine 
Cease  upon  my  soul  to  shine. 
What  were  earth  or  heaven  to  nie ! 
Whom  have  I  in  each  but  Thee  ? 


(f^corcjc  Parlcn. 


Darlcy  (lT8.}-18tU)  was  a  native  of  Dublin,  and  died  in 
Loudon.  lie  was  both  a  mathematician  aud  a  poet ; 
producing  "Familiar  Astronomy"  (1830),  "Popular  Al- 
gebra, third  edition"  (1836),  etc.,  as  well  as  "Poems: 
Sylvia,  or  the  May  Queen"  (18:27);  "Ethelstan,  a  Dra- 
matic Ciironiclc"  (1841);  "Errors  of  Extasie  and  other 
Poems"  (1849).  Allan  Cunningiiam  says  (18:^3) :  "George 
Darlcy  is  a  true  poet  aud  excellent  matiiematician."  He 
was  an  accomplished  critic,  and  the  latter  part  of  his  life 
wrote  for  the  AtheiKeuin.  His  verses  are  at  times  rug- 
ged aud  obsciu'c,  and  his  use  of  odd  or  obsolete  words  is 
not  always  hapjiy. 


FROM   "THE   FAIRIES." 

Have  you  not  oft  in  the  still  wiml, 
Heai'd  sylvan  notes  of  a  strange  kind. 
That  rose  one  moment,  and  then  fell. 
Swooning  away  like  a  far  knell? 
Listen  ! — that  wave  of  perfume  broke 
Into  sea-music,  as  I  spoke, 


GEORGE  BARLEY.— JOnX  PIERPOXT. 


379 


Fainter  tlian  that  ^sbicb  seems  to  roar 
On  the  moon's  silver-sautled  shore, 
Wlivn  through  the  silence  of  the  uight 
Is  lieanl  the  ebb  and  flow  of  light. 

Ob,  shut  the  eye  and  ope  the  ear! 
Do  yon  not  hear,  or  think  yon  hear, 
A  Avide  hush  o'er  the  woodland  pass 
Like  distant  waving  fields  of  grass  ? — 
Voices! — ho!   ho! — a  baud  is  coming. 
Loud  as  ten  thousand  bees  a-humming. 
Or  ranks  of  little  merry  meu 
Tromboning  deeply  from  the  glen, 
And  now  as  if  they  changed,  and  rung 
Their  citterns  small,  and  ribbon-slung. 
Over  their  gallant  shoulders  huug  ! — • 
A  chant !   a  chant !   that  spoons  and  swells 
Like  soft  winds  jangling  meadow-bclis  ; 
Xow  brave,  as  when  iu  Flora's  bower 
Gay  Zephyr  blows  a  trumpet-flower ; 
Xow  thrilling  fine,  and  sharp,  and  clear. 
Like  Diau's  moonbeam  dulcimer ; 
But  mixed  with  whoops,  and  infant  laughter, 
Shouts  following  one  another  after. 
As  ou  a  hearty  holiday 
When  youth  is  flush  and  fidl  of  May ; — 
Small  shouts,  indeed,  as  wild  bees  knew 
Both  how  to  hum,  and  halloo  too ! 


THE   QUEEN  OF  THE   MAY. 

Here's  a  bank  with  rich  cowslips  and  cuckoo-buds 
strewn, 
To  exalt  your  bright  looks,  gentle  Queen  of  the 
May : 
Here's  a  cushion  of  moss  for  your  delicate  shoon. 
And  a  woodbine  to  weave  you  a  canopy  gay. 

Here's  a  garland  of  red  maiden-roses  for  you  ; 

Such  a  delicate  wreath  is  for  beauty  alone  ; 
Here's  a  golden  kingcup,  brimming  over  with  dew, 

To  be  kissed  by  a  lip  just  as  sweet  as  its  own. 

Here  are  bracelets  of  pearl  from  the  fount  in  the 
dale, 
That  the   nymph   of  the   wave   ou   your   wrists 
dot!)  bestow  ; 
Here's  a  lily-wrought  scarf  your  sweet  blushes  to 
hide, 
Or  to  lie  ou  that  bosom,  like  snow  upon  snow. 

Here's  a  myrtle  euwreathed  with  a  jessamine  band. 
To  express  the  fond  twining  of  beautj'  and  youth  ; 


Take  the  emblem  of  love  in  tlly  exquisite  hanil, 
And  do  thou  sway  the  evergreeu  sceptre  of  Truth. 

Tlien  around  you  we'll  dance,  and  around  you  we'll 

sing, 

To  soft  pipe  and  sweet  tabor  we'll  foot  it  away ; 

And  the  hills  and  the  dales  and  the  forest  shall  ring, 

While  we  hail  you  our  lovely  young  Queen  of  the 

Mav. 


SUICIDE. 
From  "  Etqelstan." 

Fool !  I  mean  not 
That  poor-souled  piece  of  heroism,  self-slaughter; 
Oh  no !   the  miserablest  day  we  live 
There's  many  a  better  thing  to  do  than  die ! 


i^olju  Jjicrjjout. 


Piorpont  (178.5-1866)  was  born  in  Litchtield,  Conn., 
and  educated  at  Yale  College.  He  studied  law  awliiie, 
and  then  entered  into  mercantile  pursuits  at  Baltimore 
with  John  Neal,  of  Portland,  Maine,  who  also  became 
somewhat  famous  in  literature,  and  was  a  man  of  mark- 
ed power.  Failing  in  business  in  consequence  of  the 
War  of  1813,  Pierpont  studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was 
settled  over  Hollis  Street  Church  in  Boston.  Ardent 
and  outspoken  on  all  subjects,  especially  those  of  intem- 
perance and  slaverv,  he  disaffected  some  of  his  hearers, 
and  left  his  congregation.  He  was  afterward  settled  over 
Unitarian  societies  in  Troy,  N.  Y.,  and  Medford,  Mass. 
In  his  later  years  he  became  a  Spiritualist,  and  advocated 
tlie  new  cause  with  Lis  characteristic  eloquence  and  zeal. 
He  ^-as  employed,  a  few  years  before  his  death,  in  the 
Treasury  Department  at  Washington.  Pierpont's  first 
poetical  venture,  "The  Airs  of  Palestiue,"  placed  him 
high  among  the  literary  men  of  the  day.  He  Avrote  a 
number  of  hymns  and  odes,  showing  fine  literary  cult- 
ure. Bold,  energetic,  and  devoted  in  all  his  uudcitak- 
ings,  he  left  the  reputation  of  a  man  of  sterling  integ- 
rity, generous  temper,  noble  aspirations,  and  great  in- 
trepidity in  all  his  efforts  for  what  he  esteemed  the  right 
and  true.     See  Bryant's  lines  on  him. 


THE   riLGKLM   FATilEKS. 

Tiie  Pilgrim  Fathers,  where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  iu  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray. 

As  they  break  along  the  shore — 
Still  roll  in  the  bay  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 
When  the  .sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

Aud  white  the  shore  with  snow. 


380 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  lilUTISII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  mists  tbat  wrapped  tbe  pilgrim's  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  tbo  tide ; 
And  bis  rocks  yet  keep  tlieir  wateb  by  tbe  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride  : 
But  tbo  siiow-wbito  sail  Ibat  be  gave  to  tbo  gale 

Wbeii  tbe  beaveiis  looked  dark,  is  gone ; 
As  ail  augel's  wing  tbrongb  an  opeuiug  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  tbon  Avitbdrawn. 

Tbe  pilgrim  exile — sainted  name  ! 

Tbo  bill  wboso  icy  brow 
Kejoiccd,  wben  be  came,  in  tbe  morning's  flame, 

lu  tbe  inoruiug's  iiame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  ligbt,  as  it  lay  tbat  nigbt 

On  tbe  bill-side  and  tbe  sea, 
Still  lies  wbore  bo  laid  bis  bonseless  bead  ; 

But  tbe  pilgrim,  wbore  is  be  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest : — 

When  Summer  is  throned  on  high, 
And  tbe  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed. 

Go,  stand  on  tbe  bill  where  they  lie  : 
The  earliest  ray  of  tbe  golden  day 

On  tbe  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  tbe  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  tbe  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  tbat  spot  last. 

Tbe  pilgrim  sj>i»v7  lias  not  lied  : 

It  walks  in  uoou's  broad  ligbt ; 
And  it  watches  tbe  bed  of  tbe  glorious  dead, 

With  tbo  holy  stars  by  night : 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled. 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore. 
Till  tbo  waves  of  the  bay  where  tbe  Mai/-FloH-c^-  lay 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


FROM  "THE  DEPARTED  CHILD." 

I  cannot  make  him  dead! 

His  fair  sunshiuy  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study-chair ; 

Yet  wben  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

I  know  bis  face  is  bid 

Under  tbe  coflin-lid  ; 
Closed  are  bis  eyes;   cold  is  bis  forehead  fair: 

My  band  tbat  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt; 
Vet  my  heart  whispers  tbat — be  is  not  there  I 


I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

AN'hcn  passing  by  the  bed. 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, — 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Sfidc  it  in([niringly, 
Before  tbe  tbongbt  comes  tbat — he  is  not  there! 

Wben,  at  the  cool  gray  break 

Of  daj-,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  tbo  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up  with  joy 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When,  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  Ave  seek  repose, 
I'm  with  bis  mother  ofteriug  up  our  prayer. 

Or  evening  anthems  tnuing, — 

In  spirit  I'm  communing 
With  onr  boy's  spirit,  though — be  is  not  there! 

Not  there  ! — where,  then,  is  be  ? 

Tbe  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  tbe  raiment  tbat  be  used  to  M'ear : 

Tbe  grave  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked— be  is  not  there ! 

He  lives! — in  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor  to  the  last 
Of  seeing  him  again  Avill  I  despair. 

Ill  dreams  I  see  him  now  : 

And  on  bis  angel  brow 
I  see  it  written — "Thou  shalt  see  me  there!'' 

Yes,  wo  all  live  to  God! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  US,  thine  aHlicte<l  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  Spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  band, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  tbat — be  is  there  ."■ 


Wll.Vr  BLESSES  NOW  MUST  EVER  BLESS. 

Lord,  thou  knowest ! 

Man  never  knew  me  as  thou  knowest  me. 

I  never  could  reveal  myself  to  man  : 

For  neither  bad  I,  while  I  lived,  tbe  power 

To  those  who  were  tbe  nearest  to  my  heart 

To  lay  that  heart  all  open,  as  it  was, 

And  as  thou.  Lord,  bast  seen  it;   nor  conld  they, 

Had  every  inmost  feeling  of  my  soul 


JOHN  PIERPONT.—ANDREWS  NORTON. 


381 


By  seraphs'  lips  beeu  uttered,  e'er  Lave  had 

The  oar  to  hear  it,  or  the  soul  to  feel. 

The  world  has  seeu  the  surface  only  of  nic : — 

Not  that  I've  striven  to  hide  myself  from  men  ; — 

No,  I  have  rather  labored  to  he  known  : — 

But  -when  I  would  have  spoken  of  my  faith, 

Jly  conmiunings  with  thee,  my  heavenward  hope, 

My  love  for  thee  and  all  that  thou  hast  made. 

The  perfect  peace  in  which  I  looked  on  all 

Thy  Avorks  of  glorious  beauty, — then  it  seemed 

That  thou  alone  coiildst  understand  me.  Lord ; 

And  so  my  lips  were  sealed — or  the  world's  phrase, 

The  courteous  question,  or  the  frank  reply 

Alone  escaped  them.     I  have  ne'er  beeu  known. 

My  Father,  but  by  thee :   and  I  rejoice 

That  thou,  who  mad'st  me,  art  to  be  my  Judge ; 

For  in  thy  judgments  thou  rememberest  mercy. 

I  cast  myself  upon  them.     Like  thy  laws. 

They  are  all  true  and  right.     The  law  that  keeps 

This  planet  in  her  path  around  the  sun 

Keeps  all  her  sister-planets  too  in  theirs, 

And  all  the  other  shining  hosts  of  heaven. 

All  worlds,  all  times,  are  under  that  one  law ; 

For  what  binds  one,  binds  all.     So  all  thy  sous 

And  daughters,  clothed  in  light — hosts  brighter  far 

Than  suns  and  planets — sinritual  hosts, 

Ayhose  glory  is  their  goodness — have  one  law. 

The  perfect  law  of  love,  to  guide  them  through 

All  worlds,  all  times.     Thy  Kingdom,  Lord,  is  one. 

Life,  death,  earth,  heaven,  eternity,  and  time 

Lie  all  within  it;   and  what  blesses  now 

Must  ever  bless, — Love  of  things  true  and  right. 


^ubrcu)0  3J'orton. 

AMERICAN. 

Norton  (1786-18.53)  was  a  native  of  Hingham,  Mass. 
He  was  educated  at  Harvard  College,  and  became  eminent 
as  a  Unitarian  theologian.  He  edited  an  American  edition 
of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  whose  friendship  he  form- 
ed while  in  England. 


SCENE  AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 
You  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight. 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence,  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing ;    fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 


The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 

A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  jiale  ; 
The  Avind  Hows  cool ;   the  scented  ground 

Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

'Mid  you  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  aAvhile, 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth  ;   from  oif  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand ; 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice. 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above  : 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence ;   low-born  care. 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire. 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  'mid  this  living  light  expire. 


TRUST  AND   SUBMISSION. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee ;   may  no  thought 
E'er  deem  thy  chastisement  severe ; 

But  may  this  heart,  by  sorrow  taught. 
Calm  each  wild  wish,  each  idle  fear. 

Thy  mercy  bids  all  nature  bloom  ; 

The  sun  shines  bright,  and  man  is  gay; 
Thy  equal  mercy  spreads  the  gloom 

Tiiat  darkens  o'er  his  little  day. 

Full  many  a  throb  of  grief  and  pain 
Thy  frail  and  erring  child  must  know; 

But  not  one  prayer  is  breathed  in  vain, 
Nor  does  one  tear  unheeded  flow. 

Thy  various  messengers  employ. 

Thy  purposes  of  love  fulfil ; 
And  'raid  the  wreck  of  human  joy, 

Let  kneeling  Faith  adore  thy  will. 


382 


CYCLOrj:i)IA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


iUanj  Uu5Gcll  iUitforli. 

Miss  ISIitfora  (1780-1855)  was  tlio  dau^litcr  of  an  En-j- 
lisli  physician,  improvident  and  dissipated.  She  wrote 
sketches  of  rural  life  under  tlic  title  of  "Our  Villaj^e" 
(18:24)  for  her  support;  for  her  father  had  become  a  bur- 
den on  her  hands.  Ilcr  success  as  a  prose  writer  was 
considerable;  but  she  published  a  volume  of  Sonnets  and 
Poems,  and  wrote  the  plays  of  "Julian"  (18'23),  "The 
Foscari"  (182G),  and  "Rienzi,"  her  best  dramatic  pro- 
duction (182.8).  In  it  she  shows  good  literary  taste,  if 
not  much  force  in  the  delineation  of  cliaracter. 


RIENZrS  ADDRESS   TO  THE   ROMANS. 

Fkom  "Kienzi." 

Friends ! 
I  conio  not  here  to  talk.     Ye  know  too  -well 
The  story  of  our  thraldom.     "Wc  are  slaves ! 
The  bright  sun  rises  to  bis  course,  and  lights 
A  race  of  slaves !     He  sets,  and  bis  last  beam 
Falls  on  a  slave :  not  sucb  as,  swept  along 
]?y  the  full  tide  of  power,  tbe  conqueror  leads 
To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame, — 
But  base,  ignoble  slaves ! — slaves  to  a  horde 
Of  petty  tyrants,  feudal  despots  ;   lords. 
Rich  iu  some  dozen  paltry  villages ; 
Strong  in  some  hundred  speai-meu ;    only  great 
In  that  strange  spell — a  name !      Each  hour,  dark 

fraiul. 
Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 
Cry  out  against  them.     But  this  very  day, 
An  honest  man,  my  neighbor, — there  be  stands, — 
Was  struck — struck  like  a  dog,  by^  one  Avho  wore 
The  badge  of  Orsini !   because,  for.sooth. 
Ho  to.ssed  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air, 
Nor  lifted  up  bis  voice  iu  servile  shouts. 
At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian  !     Be  we  men. 
And  suffer  such  dishonor  ?     Men,  and  wa.sh  not 
The  stain  away  in  blood?   Such  .shames  arc  common. 
I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.    I,  that  speak  to  ye, — 
I  bad  a  brother  once,  a  gracious  boy. 
Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope, 
Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy.     There  was  the  look 
Of  heaven  upon  his  face,  which  limners  give 
To  the  beloved  disciple.     How  I  loved 
That  gracious  boy  !     Younger  by  fifteen  years. 
Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side, 
A  summer  bloom  on  bis  fair  cheeks — a  smile 
Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour. 
The  ])retty,  harmless  boy  was  slain!     I  saw 
The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  I  cried 
For   vengeance  I      Rouse,  ye   Romans  !      Rouse,  ye 

slaves ! 


Have  ye  brave  sons? — Look  in  tbe  next  fierce  brawl 
To  see  them  die  !    Have  ye  fair  daughters  ? — Look 
To  sec  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms,  distained, 
Dishonored;   and,  if  ye  dare  call  for  justice, 
Be  answered  by  the  lash !     Yet,  this  is  Rome, 
That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 
Of  beauty  ruled  the  world !     Yet,  wo  arc  Romans. 
Why,  iu  tluit  elder  day,  to  bo  a  Roman 
Was  greater  than  a  King!     And  once  again — 
Hear  me,  ye  walls,  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus! — once  again  I  swear 
The  Eternal  City  shall  be  free ! 


SONG. 

Tbe  sun  is  careering  in  glory  and  might, 

'Mid  the  deep  blue  sky  and  tbe  cloudlets  white; 

Tbe  bright  wave  is  tossing  its  foam  on  bigli. 

And  the  summer  breezes  go  lightly  by  ; 

Tbe  air  and  tbe  water  dance,  glitter,  and  play. 

And  why  should  not  I  be  as  merry  as  th<'y  ? 

Tlie  linnet  is  singing  tbe  wild  wood  through  : 
The  fawu's  bounding  footstep  skims  over  tbe  dew : 
Tbe  butterfly  flits  round  the  flowering  tree. 
And  the  cowslip  and  bluebell  are  bent  by  the  bee ; 
All  tbe  creatures  that  dwell  in  the  forest  are  gay, 
And  why  should  not  I  be  as  merry  as  they  ? 


^Icvanbcr  Caingi. 

Laing  (1787-1857)  was  a  native  of  Brechin,  Forfarshire, 
Scotland.  He  was  of  humble  origin,  and  followed  the 
business  of  a  packman  tlie  greater  part  of  his  life.  In 
1840  he  published  b\'  subscription  a  collection  of  his 
poems  and  songs,  under  the  title  of  "  Wayside  Flowers." 
lie  edited  two  editions  of  Burns,  and  one  of  Tannahill. 


THE   HAPPY   MOTHER. 

An'  O  !   may  I  never  live  single  again, 

I  wish  I  may  never  live  single  again  : 

I  ha'e  a  gude-man,  an'  a  hame  o'  my  ain. 

An'  O !   may  I  never  live  single  again. 

I've  twa  bonnie  bairnies,  the  fairest  i>f  a', 

They  cheer  up  my  heart  when  their  daddie's  awa'; 

I've  ane  at  my  foot,  and  I've  ane  on  my  knee  ; 

An'  fondly  they  look,  an'  say  "Mammie"  to  me. 

At  gloamin'  their  daddie  comes  iu  frae  the  jilough, 
Tbe  blink  in  bis  e'e,  an'  the  smile  on  his  brow, 


ALEXANDER  LAIXG.—BICHAED  HENRY  DANA. 


383 


Says,  "  IIow  are  yc,  lassie,  O !  how  are  ye  a', 
All'  bow's  the  -wee  bodies  sin'  I  gaed  awa'  ?" 
He  sings  i'  the  c'enin'  fa'  cheery  an'  gay, 
He  tells  o'  the  toil  an'  the  news  o'  the  day; 
The  twa  bonnie  hunmies  be  tak's  on  his  knee, 
An'  blinks  o'er  the  ingle  fu'  conthie  to  nie. 

O  bappy's  the  father  that's  hapity  at  bame, 
An'  blithe  is  the  niither  that's  blithe  o'  the  name; 
The  cares  o'  the  warld  tbej-  fear  na  to  dree — 
The  warld  it  is  iiaething  to  Johnny  an'  nie. 
Though  crosses  Trill  mingle  ^i'  mitherly  cares, 
Awa',  bounio  lassies — awa'  wi'  your  fears! 
Gin  ye  get  a  laddie  that's  loving  and  fain, 
Ye'll  wish  ye  may  never  live  single  again. 


Uidjarb  C)cunj  Paua. 

AMERICAN. 

Dana  (1787-1878)  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  passed 
three  years  at  Harvard  College,  and  was  admitted  to  the 
Bar  in  1811.  His  principal  j^oem,  "  The  Buccaneer,"  ap- 
peared in  1837,  and  is  still  recognized  as  a  work  of  gen- 
uine power.  He  wrote  a  scries  of  lectures  on  Shak- 
speare;  also  a  memoir  of  his  brother-in-law,  the  poet- 
painter,  Allston.  An  edition  of  Dana's  collected  works, 
in  prose  and  verse,  was  published  in  1850.  A  son,  bear- 
ing his  name,  distinguished  liimself  early  in  life  by  his 
very  successful  prose  work,  "  Three  Tears  before  the 
Mast."  Beloved  and  esteemed,  Dana,  a  year  older  than 
Byron,  celebrated  his  ninetieth  birthday,  November  loth, 
1877,  and  died  a  year  afterward. 


By  an  unseen  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
C^uiver  vsith  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  bear  it;   and,  as  sounds  of  cailii 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


IMMORTALITY. 

From  "The  IRsband's  and  Wife's  Grave." 

Oh  !  listen,  man  ! 
A  A'oice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  ;   according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched,  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  saug  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality : 
Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain. 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
Ob  !   listen,  ye,  our  spirits  ;   drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air.     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight; 
'Tis  floating  'mid  Day's  setting  glories  ;   Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears : 
Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve. 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

I  look  through  tears  on  Beauty  now ; 
And  Beauty's  self  less  radiant  looks  on  me, 
Serene,  yet  touched  with  sadness  is  the  brow 
(Once  bright  with  joy)  I  see. 

Joj'-waking  Beauty,  wdiy  so  sad  ? 
Tell  where  the  radiance  of  the  smile  is  gone 
At  which  my  heart  and  earth  and  skies  were  glad — 
That  linked  us  all  in  one. 

It  is  not  on  the  mountain's  breast ; 
It  comes  not  to  me  with  the  dawning  day; 
Nor  looks  it  from  the  glories  of  the  west, 
As  slow  they  pass  away. 

Nor  on  those  gliding  roundlets  bright 
That  steal  their  play  among  the  Avoody  shades, 
Nor  on  thine  own  dear  children  doth  it  light — • 
The  flowers  along  the  glades. 

And  altered  to  the  living  mind 
(The  great  high-priestess  with  her  thought-born  race 
Who  round  thine  altar  aye  have  stood  ami  sliined) 
The  comforts  of  thy  face ! 

Why  shadowed  thus  thy  forehead  fair  ? 
Why  on  the  mind  low  hangs  a  mystic  gloom  ? 
And  spreads  away  upon  the  genial  air, 
Like  vapors  from  the  tomb  ? 

Why  slxould  ye  shine,  you  lights  above  ? 
Why,  little  flowers,  open  to  the  heat  ? 
No  more  within  the  heart  ye  filled  with  love 
The  living  pulses  beat! 

Well,  Beauty,  may  you  mourning  stand! 
The  fine  beholding  eye  whose  constant  look 
AVas  turned  on  thee  is  dark — and  cold  the  hand 
That  gave  all  vi-sion  took. 

Nay,  heart,  be  still! — Of  heavenly  birth 
Is  Beauty  sprung — Look  up !   behold  the  place  ! 
There  he  who  reverent  traced  her  steps  on  earth 
Now  sees  her  face  to  face. 


384 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIlll'AS  roETliV 


THE  ISLAND. 


FnoM  "  The  lii-ccANEER." 


Tlio  island  lies  nine  leagues  away  : 

Along  its  solitary  shore 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 
No  sound  l>ut  ocean's  roar! 
Save  where  the  bold  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  tho  sparkling  foam. 

lint  wlicu  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy  heaving  sea 
The  black  duck  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently, — 
How  beautiful !   uo  ripples  break  the  reach. 
And  silvery  w.ives  go  noiseless  up  tho  beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell  ; 

The  brook  conies  tinkling  down  its  side; 
From  out  the  trees  tho  Sabbath  bell 
Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  "^ith  bloatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat, 

In  former  days  within  the  vale ! 
Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet ; 
Curses  were  on  tho  gale  ; 
Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men  ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace. 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  tho  ear  ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face. 
Subdued  and  holy  fear : 
Each  motion  gentle,  all  is  kindly  done ; 
Come,  listen  how  from  crime  this  isle  was  won. 


THE   PIRATE. 

From  "  The  Bitcaneer." 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  Lee 

Held  in  this  isle  inKiuestioned  sway; 
A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  was  he  ; 
His  law, — "It  is  my  way." 
Ili'iicatli  his  thick-set  brows  a  sharp  light  broke 
From  small  gray  eyes;  his  laugh  a  triumph  spoke. 

Cruil  of  heart,  and  strong  of  arm. 

Loud  in  his  sport  and  keen  for  spoil, 

He  little  recked  of  good  or  harm, 
Fierce  both  in  miith  and  toil  : 


Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were ; 
Speak  miliUy  when  in;  would  or  look  in  fear. 

Amid  th(!  u])roar  of  tin;  storm, 

And  by  the  lightning's  sharp  red  glare. 
Were  seen  Lee's  face  and  sturdy  form  ; 
His  axe  glanced  quick  in  air : 
Whose  corpse  at  morn  is  floating  in  the  sedge  ? 
There's  blood  and  hair.  Mat,  on  thy  axe's  edge. 


nirs.  (!:mina  C.  lUillarl). 

AMERICAN. 

Miss  Hart,  by  marriage  Willard,  was  a  native  of  New 
Berlin,  Conn.  She  began  the  work  of  a  teacher  at  six- 
teen, and  in  1831  established  a  famous  Female  Seminary 
at  Troy,  N.  Y.  In  1830  she  iniljlishcd  a  volume  of  poems. 
Her  "Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  IDeep,"  admirably 
sung  by  Braliam,  attained  deserved  celebrity.  She  re- 
sided several  months  in  Paris,  and  on  her  return  home 
published  a  volume  of  "Travels,"  the  profits  of  which, 
amounting  to  twelve  hundred  dollars,  were  devoted  to 
the  founding  of  a  school  for  female  teachers  in  Greece. 
Born  in  1787,  she  died  iu  1870. 


ROCKED  IN  THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  DEEP. 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep 
I  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep ; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave. 
For  thou,  O  Lord !   hast  power  to  save. 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  slight  mj'  call. 
For  Thou  dost  mark  the  sparrow's  fall ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep. 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

When  iu  the  dead  of  night  I  lie 
And  gaze  upon  the  trackless  sky, 
The  star-bespangled  heavenly  scndl. 
The  bonndle.ss  waters  as  they  roll, — 
I  fit  1  tiiy  wondrous  power  to  save 
From  perils  of  the  stormy  wave : 
Kockcil  in  the  cradle  of  tho  deep, 
I  calmly  rest  and  soundly  sleep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine, 
Tliongh  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  though  the  tempest's  fiery  breath 
Roused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death  ! 
In  ocean  cjive,  still  safe  with  Thee 
The  germ  of  immortality ! 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep. 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 


BEYAN  WALLER  PliOCTEB  {BARRY  CORNWALL). 


335 


Cnjan  lUallcr  |Jroctcr  (Darrti   Corn- 

IMll). 

Procter  (1787-1874),  better  known,  in  literature,  by  the 
pseudonym  of  "  Barry  Cornwall "  (an  anagram  of  his 
name,  less  live  letters),  was  a  native  of  London.  He  was 
educated  at  Harrow,  where  he  was  the  school-fellow  of 
Byron  and  Peel.  In  1819  appeared  his  "  Dramatic  Scenes, 
and  other  Poems ;"  in  1821,  his  "  Mirandola :  a  Tragedy." 
He  became  a  barrister  at  law,  and  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Lunacy.  In  1857,  Mr.  John  Kenyon,  a  wealthy 
West  Indian  gentleman,  and  author  of  some  graceful 
verses,  left  more  than  £140,000  in  legacies  to  his  friends : 
to  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  £4000 ;  to  Robert  Brown- 
ing, £6500 ;  and  to  Procter,  £6500.  Some  of  Procter's 
minor  pieces  have  the  true  lyrical  ring,  and  are  likely  to 
be  long  remembered. 


THE   SEA. 

The  sea  !   the  sea  !   the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

"Without  a  mark,  ^vithoiit  a  bound. 

It  ruuueth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 

It  plays  Avith  the  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies, 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea !   I'm  on  the  sea ! 

I  am  vrhere  I  would  ever  be, 

With  the  blue  above,  aud  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  a  storm  should  come,  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh  bow-  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune. 
And  tells  bow  goetli  the  world  below, 
Aud  why  the  sou'-west  blasts  do  blow  ! 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast. 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me. 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn. 
In  the  noisj'  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled,' 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  Avild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child ! 
25 


I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  aud  strife. 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life, 
With  Avealth  to  spend,  aud  a  power  to  range. 
But  never  have  sought,  nor  sighed  for  change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  ho  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild  unbounded  sea! 


THE  EETURN  OF  THE  ADMIRAL. 

How  gallantly,  how  merrily, 

We  ride  along  the  sea ! 
The  morning  is  all  sunshine, 

The  wind  is  blowing  free  ; 
The  billows  are  all  sparkliug, 

Aud  bounding  in  the  light. 
Like  creatures  in  whose  sunny  veins 

The  blood  is  running  bright. 
All  nature  knows  our  triumi)h  : 

Strange  birds  about  us  sweep ; 
Strange  things  come  up  to  look  at  us, 

The  masters  of  the  deep ; 
In  our  wake,  like  any  servant. 

Follows  even  the  bold  shark — 
Oh,  proud  must  be  our  admiral 

Of  such  a  bonny  bark ! 

Proud,  proud  must  be  our  admiral 

(Though  he  is  pale  to-day), 
Of  twice  five  hundred  iron  men, 

^Yho  all  his  nod  obey ; 
"Who've  fought  for  him,  and  conquered— 

Who've  won,  with  sweat  aud  gore, 
Nobility!  which  he  shall  have 

Whene'er  he  touch  the  shore. 
Oh,  would  I  were  our  admiral. 

To  order,  with  a  word — 
To  lose  a  dozen  drops  of  blood. 

And  straight  rise  up  a  lord! 
I'd  shout  e'en  to  yon  shark  there, 

W^ho  follows  in  our  lee, 
"  Some  day  I'll  make  thee  carry  me, 

Like  lightning  through  the  sea." 

— The  admiral  grew  paler. 

And  paler  as  wo  flew : 
Still  talked  he  to  his  officers, 

And  smiled  upon  his  crew; 
And  he  looked  up  at  the  heavens. 

And  he  looked  down  on  the  sea, 
And  at  last  he  spied  the  creature 

That  kept  following  in  our  lee. 


386 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISE  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


lie  shook — 'twas  but  an  iustant, 

For  speedily  tlio  pride 
Kan  crimson  to  Lis  heart, 

Till  all  chances  ho  defied  : 
It  threw  boldness  on  his  forehead, 

Gave  firmness  to  his  breath ; 
And  he  stood  like  some  grim  warrior 

New  risen  np  from  death. 

That  niglit  a  horrid  whisper 

Fell  on  us  where  wo  lay. 
And  we  know  our  old  fine  admiral 

Was  changing  into  clay; 
And  we  heard  the  wash  of  waters, 

Though  nothing  could  we  see. 
And  a  whistle  and  a  plunge 

Among  the  billows  in  our  lee ! 
Till  dawn  we  watched  the  body 

lu  its  dead  and  ghastly  sleep. 
And  next  evening  at  sunset 

It  was  slung  iuto  the  deep ! 
And  never,  from  that  moment. 

Save  one  shudder  through  the  sea, 
Saw  we  (or  heard)  the  shark 

That  had  followed  in  our  lee ! 


SONNET  TO  ADELAIDE. 

Child  of  my  heart !   my  sweet  beloved  First-born  ! 
Thou  dove,  who  tidings  bring'st  of  calmer  hours! 
Thou  rainbow,  who  dost  shine  when  all  the  showers 
Arc  past — or  passing!     Kose  which  hath  no  thorn. 
No  spot,  no  blemish, — pure  and  unforlorn  ! 
Untouched,  untainted!     01),  my  Flower  of  llowers! 
More  welcome  than  to  bees  are  summer  bowers. 
To  stranded  seamen  life-assuring  morn  I 
"Welcome, — a  thousand  welcomes!    Care, who  clings 
Round  all,  seems  loosening  now  its  serpent  fold ; 
New  hope   springs   upward,  and  the  bright  world 

seems 
Cast  back  into  a  youth  of  endless  springs! 
Sweet  mother,  is  it  so  ? — or  grow  I  old, 
IJewildercd  in  divine  Elysian  dreams? 


A  PETITION  TO   TLME. 

Touch  us  gently.  Time! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 


Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  cliildn-n  three 
(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead !) 

Touch  ns  gently,  Time! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wiugs; 
Our  ambition,  our  content. 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ',—r 
Touch  us  (jenthj,  geutle  Time ! 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWxiY  HER  BREATH. 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  Death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life  ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day ; 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  ; 
Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away. 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom. 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear ! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above. 

Seraph  of  the  skies — sweet  Love  ! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth, 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth ; 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore — 

For  ever — evermore  ! 


LIFE. 


We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 

Wc  love  ;   we  droop  ;    we  die  ! 
Ah,  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Whj'^  do  we  live  or  die  ? 
W^ho  knows  that  secret  deep? 

Alas,  not  I ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fiy ; 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  f 


MliS.  LAVIXIA  STODDARD.— CAROLINE  {BOWLES)  SOUTHEY. 


387 


Wo  toil — tlirougli  pain  auci  wroug ; 

We  figbt — aud  lly  ; 
Wo  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone-dead,  we  lie. 
O  Life !   is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and— die  ?" 


illrs.  £auinia  Stolibarli. 


Mrs.  Stoddard  (1787-1820)  was  the  daughter  of  Elijah 
Stoue,  and  a  native  of  Guilford,  Conn.  Her  family  re- 
moved to  Paterson,  N.  J.;  and  in  1811  she  was  married 
to  Dr.  William  Stoddard.  They  established  an  academy 
at  Troy,  N.  Y. ;  but  in  1818  removed  to  Blakely,  Ala., 
where  Dr.  Stoddard  died,  leaving  his  wife  in  i^overty 
and  among  strangers.  The  one  poem  by  whieh  she  is 
known  was  prompted  by  her  own  sad  and  sincere  ex- 
periences, and  written  but  a  short  time  before  her  death. 
In  her  life,  as  in  her  poem  of  "The  Soul's  Defiance," 
she  exemplified  the  truth  of  these  lines  by  Shelley  : 

"  Wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetrj'  by  wrong: 
They  learu  in  suffering  what  they  teach  iu  song." 


THE   SOUL'S   DEFL^jSTE. 

I  said  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

That  heat  against  luy  breast, 
"  Kage  on, — thou  mayst  destroy  this  form, 

Aud  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high. 
Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye." 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train, 

"  Come  on, — your  threats  I  brave ; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  draiu, 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  bitter  smile." 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

"Pass  on, — I  heed  you  not; 
Ye  may  jiursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undauuted  by  your  wiles. 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  high-boru  smiles." 


I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 

"  Strike  deep, — my  heart  siiall  bear  ; 
Thou  canst  but  add  oue  bitter  woo 

To  those  already  there  ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

Aud  scorn  redress." 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart, 

'•Aim  sure, — oh,  why  delay? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart, 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey  : 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Unruffled  by  dismay, 
Wrapt  iu  its  own  eternity. 

Shall  pass  away." 


Caroline  (Bovuks)  Soutljcji. 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles,  afterward  Mrs.  Southey  (1787- 
1854),  was  the  daughter  of  Captain  Charles  Bowles,  and 
born  at  Buekland,  Hants.  She  lost  her  parents  while 
young,  and  in  her  country  retirement  cultivated  litera- 
ture successfull3'.  In  lSo9  she  married  Southey,  poet- 
laureate,  with  whom  she  had  loug  been  well  acquainted. 
There  is  an  original  vein  of  pathos  distinguishing  her 
poems.  Her  life,  she  tells  us,  was  uneventful ;  for  "all 
her  adventures  were  by  the  fireside  or  in  her  garden, 
and  almost  all  her  migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the 
brown."  The  following  picture  other  childhood  is  im- 
pressive : 

"3Iy  father  loved  the  patient  angler's  art, 
And  many  a  summer's  day,  from  early  morn 
To  latest  evening,  by  some  streamlet's  side. 
We  two  have  tarried  ;  strange  companionship  ! 
A  sad  and  silent  man  ;  a  joyous  cluld  ! 
Yet  those  were  days,  as  I  recall  them  now, 
Supremely  happy.    Silent  though  he  was, 
My  father's  eyes  were  often  on  his  child 
Tenderly  eloquent — and  his  few  words 
Were  kind  aud  gentle.    Never  angry  tone 
KepuL-^ed  me  if  I  broke  upon  his  thoughts 
With  childish  question.    But  I  learned  at  last, 
Intuitively  learned  to  hold  my  peace. 
When  the  dark  hour  was  on  him,  and  deep  sighs 
Spoke  the  perturbed  spirit — only  then 
I  crept  a  httle  closer  to  his  side. 
And  stole  my  hand  in  his,  or  on  his  arm 
Laid  my  cheek  softly:   till  the  simple  wile 
Won  on  his  sad  abstraction,  aud  he  turned 
With  a  faint  smile,  and  sighed  and  shook  his  head, 
Stooping  toward  me  ;  so  I  reached  at  last 
Mine  arm  about  his  neck  and  clasped  it  close, 
Printing  his  pale  brow  with  a  silent  kiss." 

This  passage  will  be  found  in  her  "Birthday,"  a  poem 
which  may  be  ranked  among  the  most  graceful  aud 
touching  productions  of  feminine  genius. 


388 


CYCLOPJWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEUWAN  POETRY. 


THE   RIVER. 

liivi'i!  River!  little  River! 

l!rijj;ht  you  siiarklo  on  your  May, 
O'er  the  yellow  pebbles  dancing, 
Through  the  flowers  and  foliage  glaucing, 
Like  a  child  at  play. 

River!   River!  swelling  River ! 

On  you  rush  o'er  rough  and  smooth — 
Louder,  faster,  brawling,  leaping 
Over  rocks,  by  rose-bauks  sweeping. 
Like  impetuous  youth. 

River!   River!  brimming  River! 

Broad  and  deep  and  ^tUl  as  Time ; 
Seeming  still — yet  still  iu  motion, 
Tending  onward  to  the  ocean, 
Just  like  mortal  prime. 

River!   River!  rapid  River! 

Swifter  now  you  slip  away ; 
Swift  and  silent  as  an  arrow, 
Through  a  channel  dark  and  narrow, 
Like  life's  closing  day. 

River!   River!  headlong  River! 
Down  you  dash  into  the  sea ; 
Sea,  that  line  hath  never  sounded, 
Sea,  that  voyage  bath  never  rounded, 
Like  eternity. 


TO  LITTLE   MARY. 

I'm  bidden,  little  Mary, 

To  write  verses  upon  thee ; 
I'd  fain  obey  the  bidding, 

If  it  rested  but  with  me: 
But  the  ISIistrcsses  I'm  bound  to 

(Nine  Ladies  hard  to  please) 
Of  all  their  stores  poetic 

So  closely  keep  the  keys, 
It's  only  now  and  then — 

By  good  luck,  as  one  may  say — 
Tliat  a  coujdct  or  a  rhyme  or  two 

Falls  fairly  iu  my  way. 

Fruit  forced  is  never  half  so  sweet 
As  that  comes  quite  iu  season  ; 

But  some  folks  must  be  satisfied 
With  rhyme  iu  xintc  of  reason  : 


So,  Muses !  now  befriend  me, 

Albeit  of  help  so  cliary, 
To  string  the  pearls  of  poesie 

For  loveliest  little  Marj'! 

And  yet,  ye  pagan  Damsels, 

Not  over-fond  am  I 
To  invoke  your  haughty  favors. 

Your  fount  of  Castaly  : — 
I've  sipped  a  purer  fountain, 

I've  decked  a  holier  shrine, 
I  own  a  mightier  Mistress — 

0  Nature  !   Thou  art  mine  ; 
And  Feeling's  fount  than  Castaly 

Y'ields  waters  more  divine ! 

And  only  to  that  well-head. 

Sweet  Mary,  I'll  resort. 
For  just  an  artless  verse  or  two, 

A  simple  strain  and  short, 
Befitting  well  a  Pilgrim 

Wayworn  with  earthly  strife. 
To  ofler  thee,  young  Traveller ! 

In  the  morning  track  of  life. 

There's  many  a  one  will  tell  thee 

'Tis  all  with  roses  gay — 
There's  many  a  one  "will  tell  thee 

'Tis  thorny  all  the  way : — 
Deceivers  are  they  every  one, 

Dear  Child,  who  thus  pretend : 
God's  ways  are  not  unequal — 

Make  him  thy  trusted  friend, 
And  many  a  path  of  pleasantness 

He'll  clear  away  for  thee. 
However  dark  and  intricate 

The  labyrinth  may  be. 

I  need  not  wish  thee  beauty, 

1  need  not  wish  thee  grace; 
Already  both  are  budding 

In  that  infant  form  and  face : 
I  !((7/  not  wish  thee  grandeur, 

I  ivill  not  wish  thee  wealth — 
But  only  a  contented  heart, 

Peace,  competence,  and  health — 
Fond  friends  to  love  thee  dearly. 

And  honest  friends  to  chide, 
And  faithful  ones  to  cleave  to  thee, 

Whatever  may  betide. 

And  now,  my  little  Mary, 
If  better  things  remain, 


CAROLINE  {BOWLES)   SOUTHEY. 


389 


Unlieeded  in  my  bliuduess, 
Uimoticed  in  my  strain, — 

I'll  sum  them  up  succinctly 
In  "English  iiudetiled," 

My  motber-tougue's  best  beuisou  : 
God  bless  thee,  precious  Child! 


SUFFICIENT  UNTO  THE  DAY  IS  THE  EVIL 
THEREOF." 

Ob !  by  that  gracious  rule. 

Were  we  but  wise  to  steer, 
On  the  wide  sea  of  Thought, — 
What  moments  trouble-fraught 
Were  spared  us  here  ! 

But  we  (perverse  and  blind), 
.    As  covetous  of  pain. 
Not  only  seek  for  more 
Yet  hidden — but  live  o'er 
The  past  again. 

Tliis  life  is  callM  brief: 

Man  on  the  earth  but  crawls 

His  threescore  years  and  ten, 

At  best  fourscore — and  then 
The  ripe  fruit  falls. 

Yet,  betwixt  birth  and  death. 

Were  but  the  life  of  man 
By  his  thoughts  measured, — 
To  what  an  age  would  spread 

That  little  span! 

There  are  Avho  're  born  and  die, 
Eat,  sleep,  walk,  rest  between. 

Talk — act  by  clock-work  too, — 

So  pass  in  order  due 
Over  the  scene. 

With  the.se  the  past  is  past. 

The  future,  nothing  yet ; 
And  so,  from  day  to  day 
They  breathe,  till  called  to  iiay 

The  last  great  debt. 

Their  life,  in  truth,  is  brief; 

A  speck — a  point  of  time ; 
Whether  in  good  old  age 
Endeth  their  pilgrimage. 

Or  in  its  prime. 


But  other  some  there  are 
(I  call  them  not  more  wise). 

In  whom  the  restless  mind 

Still  lingereth  behind. 
Or  forward  flies. 

With  these,  things  pass  away  ; 

But  past  things  are  not  dead : 
In  the  heart's  treasury. 
Deep,  hidden  deep,  they  lie 

Uuwitherdd. 

And  there  the  soul  retires. 

From  the  dull  things  that  are, 
To  mingle  oft  and  long 
With  the  time-hallowed  throng 
Of  those  that  were. 

Then  into  life  start  out 

The  scenes  long  vanished ; 
Then  we  behold  again 
The  forms  that  long  have  lain 
Among  the  dead. 

We  seek  their  grasp  of  love, 
We  meet  their  beaming  eye ; 

We  speak — the  vision's  flown. 

Dissolving  with  its  own 
Intensity. 

Years  rapidly  shift  on 

(Like  clouds  athwart  the  sky). 
And  lo !  sad  watch  we  keep. 
When  in  perturbed  sleep 

The  sick  doth  lie. 

We  gaze  on  some  pale  fiice, 

Shown  by  the  dim  watch-light, 
Shuddering,  we  gaze  and  pray, 
And  weep,  and  wish  away 
The  long,  long  night. 

y 

And  yet  minutest  things. 

That  mark  time's  tedious  tread. 
Are  on  the  feverish  brain. 
With  self-protracting  pain, 

Deep  minuted. 

The  drops  with  trembling  hand 
(Lov'o  steadied)  poured  out ; — 

The  draught  reijlenishdd, — 

The  label  oft  re-read. 
With  nervous  doubt : — 


390 


CYCLOPJ'WIA   OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tbo  watch  that  ticks  so  loud ; 

The  wiiuliug  it,  for  one 
Whose  Iiuiitl  lies  powerless; — 
Ami  then  the  IVarfnl  j^uess, — 

"  Ere  this  hiitii  run.  .  .  ." 

The  shutter,  half  unclosed, 

As  the  night  wears  away ; 
Ere  the  last  stars  are  set — 
Pale  stars! — that  linger  yet, 
Till  perfect  day. 

The  morn  so  oft  invoked, 

That  bringeth  uo  relief, 
From  which,  with  sickening  sight, 
We  turn,  as  if  its  light 

But  mocked  our  grief. 

Oh,  never  after-dawn 

For  us  the  east  shall  streak, 
But  we  shall  see  again, 
With  the  same  thonglits  as  then, 

That  pale  daybreak ! 

The  desolate  awakening, 

When  first  we  feel  alone ! 
Dread  memories  are  these!  — 
Yet  who  for  heartless  ease 
Would  exchange  one  ? 

These  ai'e  the  soul's  hid  wealth. 
Relics  embalmed  with  tears ; 

Or  if  her  curious  eye 

Searcheth  futurity — 
The  depth  of  yeare, — 

There  (from  the  deck  of  youth) 
Euchantcd  laud  she  sees ; 

Blue  skies,  and  sun-liright  bowers, 

Keflccted,  and  tall  towere 
On  glassy  seas. 

But  heavy  clouds  collect 

Over  that  bright-blue  sky ; 
And  rough  winds  rend  the  trees, 
And  lash  those  glassy  seas 
To  billows  high  ! 

And  then,  the  next  thing  seen 

By  that  dim  light,  may  be 
With  helm  and  rudder  lost, 
A  lone  wreck,  tempest-tossed, 
On  tiie  dark  sea! 


Thus  doth  the  soul  extend 

Her  brief  existence  here. 
Thus  luultiplieth  she 
(Yea,  to  infinity !) 

The  short  career. 

Presumptuous  and  unwise! 

As  if  the  present  sum 
Were  little  of  life's  woe, 
Why  seeketh  she  to  know 

Ills  yet  to  come  ? 

Look  up,  look  up,  mj'  soul, 

To  loftier  mysteries ; 
Trust  in  his  word  to  thee. 
Who  saith,  "All  tears  shall  be 

AVipcd  from  all  eyes." 

And  when  thou  turnest  back, 
(Oh,  what  can  chain  thee  here  ?) 

Seek  out  the  Isles  of  light 

On  "Memory's  waste"  yet  bright; — 
Or  if  too  near 

To  desolate  plains  they  lie. 

All  dark  with  guilt  and  tears, — 

Still,  still  retrace  the  past, 

Till  thou  alight  at  last 
On  life's  first  years. 

There  not  a  passing  cloud 
Obscures  the  sunny  scene ; 

No  blight  on  the  young  tree; 

No  thought  of  what  may  be, 
Or  what  hath  been. 

There  all  is  hope — not  hope— 
For  all  things  are  possessed; 

No — bliss  without  alloy, 

And  innocence  and  joy. 
In  the  young  breast! 

And  all-contiding  love. 

And  holy  ignorance  ; 
Their  blessed  veil !     Soon  torn 
From  eyes  foredoomed  to  mourn 

For  man's  oft'ence. 

Oh!   thither,  weary  spirit! 

Flee  from  this  world  defiled. 
How  oft,  heart-sick  and  sore, 
I've  wished  I  were  once  more 

A  little  child  ! 


CAROLINE  (BOTTLES)  SOVTHEY. 


391 


THE   PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

Tread  softly — bow  the  head — 
III  reverent  silence  bow  : 

No  passing-bell  doth  toll, 

Yet  au  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger !   however  great, 
^Yith  lowly  I'everence  bow ; 

There's  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed. 
Greater  thau  thon. 

Beneath  that  beggars  roof, 

Lo  !   Death  doth  keep  his  state  : 

Enter — no  crowds  attend — 

Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread; 
One  silent  woman  stands. 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppressed — again 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  then 

The  parting  groan. 

Oh,  change  ! — oh,  wondrous  change  I 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars ! 

This  moment  there,  so  low, 

So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

Oh, change! — stupendous  change  I 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod ; 
The  Sun  eternal  breaks — 
The  new  Immortal  wakes — 
Wakes  with  his  God. 


TO  A  DYING  INFANT. 

Sleep,  little  babj-,  sleep  ! 

Not  in  thy  cradle-bed. 
Not  on  thy  mother's  breast 
Henceforth  shall  be  thy  rest, 

But  with  the  quiet  dead ! 


Yes !   with  the  quiet  dead, 

Baby,  thy  rest  shall  be ! 
Oh !  nuxny  a  weary  wight, 
Weary  of  life  and  light. 

Would  fain  lie  down  with  thee. 

Flee,  little  tender  nursling! 

Flee  to  thy  grassy  nest ; 
There  the  first  flowers  shall  blow  ; 
The  first  pure  flake  of  snow 

Shall  fall  upon  thy  breast. 

Peace  !   jieace  !   the  little  bosom 
Labors  with  shortening  breath  : — 

Peace !  peace !  that  tremulous  sigh 

Speaks  his  departure  nigh  ! 
Those  are  the  danqis  of  death. 

I've  seen  thee  in  thy  beauty, 
A  thing  all  health  and  glee  ; 

But  never  then  wert  thou 

So  beautiful  as  now. 

Baby,  thou  seem'st  to  me  ! 

Thine  upturned  eyes  glazed  over, 
Like  harebells  wet  with  dew; 

Already  veiled  and  hid 

By  the  convulsM  lid. 

Their  pupils,  darkly  blue; 

Thy  little  mouth  half  open — 

The  soft  lip  quivering. 
As  if,  like  summer-air, 
Ruffling  the  rose-leaves,  there, 

Thy  soul  were  fluttering : 

Mount  up,  immortal  essence  ! 

Young  spirit,  hence — depart ! 
And  is  this  death  ? — Dread  thing ! 
K  such  thy  visiting. 

How  beautiful  thou  art ! 

Oh !   I  could  gaze  forever 

Upon  that  waxen  face ; 
So  passionless,  so  pure  ! 
The  little  shrine  was  sure 

An  angel's  dwelling-place. 

Thou  weepest,  childless  mother ! 

Ay,  weep — 'twill  ease  thiue  heart  ;- 
He  was  thy  first-born  son, 
Thy  first,  thine  only  one, 

'Tis  hard  from  him  to  part. 


392 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


'Tis  hard  to  Itiy  tby  dailiiig 
Deep  in  the  (lainp  cohl  earth, 

His  enii)ty  crib  to  see, 

His  silent  nursery, 

Lato  ringing  with  his  mirth. 

To  meet  again  in  slnnibcr, 

His  small  month's  rosy  kiss; 
Then,  wakened  with  a  start 
By  thine  own  throbbing  heart, 
His  twining  arms  to  miss ! 

To  feel  (half  conscious  why) 
A  dull,  heart-sinking  weight, 

Till  memory  on  the  soul 

Flashes  the  painful  whole, 
That  thou  art  desolate ! 

And  then,  to  lie  and  weep, 
And  think  the  livelong  night 

(Feeding  thine  own  distress 

With  accurate  greediness) 
Of  every  past  delight ; 

Of  all  his  winning  ways, 

His  pretty,  playful  smiles, 
His  joy  at  sight  of  thee, 
His  tricks,  his  mimicry. 

And  all  his  little  wiles! 

Oh !  these  are  recollections 

Round  mothers'  hearts  that  cling,— 
That  mingle  with  the  tears 
And  smiles  of  after  years, 

With  oft  awakening. 

But  tliou  wilt  then,  fond  mother ! 

In  after  years  look  hack 
(Time  brings  such  wondrous  easing). 
With  sadness  not  unpleasing. 

Even  on  this  gloomy  track. 

Thou'lt  say,  "My  first-horn  blessing! 

It  almost  broke  my  heart, 
When  thou  wert  forced  to  go, 
And  yet  for  thee,  I  know, 

'Twas  better  to  depart. 

"God  took  thee  in  his  mercy, 
A  lamb,  untasked,  untried : 

Ho  fought  the  fight  for  thee, 

He  won  the  victory, 

And  thou  art  sanctified ! 


"  I  look  around,  and  s<!e 

The  evil  ways  of  men  ; 
And  oil!   belov<?d  cliild! 
I'm  niore  tiian  reconciled 

To  thy  departure  tlien. 

"The  litth)  arms  that  clasped  me, 
The  innocent  lips  that  i)resscd — 

Would  they  have  been  as  pure 

Till  HOW,  as  when  of  yore 
I  lulled  thee  on  my  breast  ? 

"Now,  like  a  dew-drop  shrined 

Witliin  a  crystal  stone, 
Thou'rt  safe  in  heaven,  my  dove ! 
Safe  with  the  Source  of  Love, 

The  Everlasting  One  ! 

"And  when  the  hour  arrives. 

From  flesh  that  sets  me  free, 
Thy  spirit  may  await, 
The  first  at  heaven's  gate. 
To  meet  and  welcome  me !" 


OH,  FEAR  NOT  THOU  TO  DIE. 

Oil,  fear  not  thou  to  die — 

Far  rather  fear  to  live — for  life 

Has  thousand  snares  thy  feet  to  try. 

By  peril,  pain,  and  strife. 

Brief  is  the  work  of  death ; 

But  life — the  spirit  shrinks  to  see 

How  full,  e'er  Heaven  recalls  the  breath, 

The  cup  of  woe  may  be. 

Oh,  fear  not  thou  to  die — 

No  more  to  suffer  or  to  siu — 

No  snare  without,  thy  faith  to  try — 

No  traitor  heart  witliin  ; 

But  fear,  oh  rather  fear 

Tiie  gay,  the  light,  the  changeful  scene — 

The  flattering  smiles  that  greet  thee  here. 

From  heaven  thy  heart  to  wean. 

Oh,  fear  not  thou  to  die — 

To  die,  and  he  that  bless<^d  one 

Who  in  the  bright  and  beauteous  sky 

May  feel  his  conflict  done — 

May  feel  that  never  more 

The  tear  of  grief,  of  shame,  shall  come. 

For  thousand  wanderings  from  the  Power 

Who  loved  and  called  thee  home. 


SIR  ATJBREY  DE    VERB. 


393 


Gir  vlubrcji  tic  llcrc. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  (1788-1846)  was  a  native  of  Cur- 
ragh  Cliase,  Limerick  Couuty,  Ireland.  He  was  educa- 
ted at  Harrow  witli  Byron  and  Peel,  but  never  entered  a 
university.  He  was  the  author  of  two  dramatic  poems, 
"Julian  the  Apostate"  (1822),  and  "The  Duke  of  :\Icr- 
cia"  (1823);  also  of  "A  Song  of  Faith,  Devout  Exer- 
cises, and  other  Poems"  (1S42).  Sir  Aubrey  dedicates 
this  last  volume  to  Wordsworth,  and  says,  in  his  letter, 
"To  know  that  you  have  perused  many  of  the  follow- 
ing poems  with  pleasure,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  reward 
them  with  your  praise,  has  been  to  me  cause  of  unmin- 
gled  happiness.  In  accepting  the  Dedication  of  this  vol- 
ume, you  permit  me  to  link  my  name  —  which  I  have 
hitherto  done  so  little  to  illustrate  — with  yours,  the 
noblest  of  modern  literature."  Sir  Aubrey  must  not  be 
confounded  with  his  third  son,  Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere 
(born  1814),  and  also  a  poet  of  considerable  note. 


CKAJS^MER. 

Too  feebly  nerved  for  so  severe  a  trial 
Wert  thou,  O  Cranruer!   yet  thy  heart  was  true, 
And  the  Church  owes  thee  much,  and  loves  thee  too. 
If  thou  didst  faint  beneath  the  fiercest  vial 
That  wrath  could  pour,  oh  let  no  harsh  decrial 
Tarnish  the  martyr's  fame !     The  Saviour  knew 
How  weak  are  eveu  the  best  I — ere  the  cock  crew, 
Peter  thrice  uttered  the  foretold  denial! 
Tliink  not  of  Cranmer  to  his  chains  descending, 
Fear-palsied,  and  his  mind  scarce  half  awake ; 
But  Cranmer,  with  the  faithful  Ridley,  bending 
Over  the  liturgy;   Cranmer  as  he  spake 
From  his  last  pulpit ;   Cranmer  when  extending 
His  band  through  flame,  undaunted,  at  the  stake ! 


SONNET. 

There  is  no  remedy  for  time  misspent ; 
No  healing  for  the  waste  of  idleness, 
Whose  very  languor  is  a  punishment 
Heavier  than  active  souls  can  feel  or  guess. 
O  hours  of  indolence  and  discontent. 
Not  now  to  be  redeemed !   ye  sting  not  less 
Because  I  know  this  span  of  life  was  lent 
For  lofty  duties,  not  for  selfishness. — 
Not  to  be  whiled  away  in  aimless  dreams, 
But  to  improve  ourselves,  and  serve  mankind, 
Life  and  its  choicest  faculties  were  given. 
Man  should  be  ever  better  than  he  seems, 
And  shape  his  acts,  and  discipline  his  mind. 
To  walk  adorning  earth,  with  hope  of  heaven. 


SONNETS  ON  COLUMBUS. 

Colnmbns  always  considered  that  he  was  inspired,  and  chosen 
for  the  great  service  of  discovering  a  new  world  and  conveying 
to  it  the  light  of  salvation. 


The  crimson  sun  was  sinking  down  to  rest. 
Pavilioned  on  the  cloudy  verge  of  heaven  ; 
And  Ocean,  on  her  gently  heaving  breast. 
Caught  and  flashed  back  the  varying  tints  of  eveu  ; 
When  on  a  fragment  from  the  tall  clifl'  riven. 
With  folded  arms,  and  doubtful  thoughts  oppressed, 
Columbus  sat,  till  sudden  hope  was  given — 
A  ray  of  gladness,  shooting  from  the  West. 
Ob,  what  a  glorious  vision  for  mankind 
Then  dawned  above  the  twilight  of  liis  mind — 
Thoughts  shadowy  still,  but  indistinctly  grand  ! 
There  stood  his  Genius,  face  to  face,  and  signed 
(So  legends  tell)  far  seaward  with  her  hand — 
Till  a  new  world  sprang  up,  and  bloomed  beneath 
her  wand. 

II. 
He  was  a  man  whom  danger  could  not  daunt. 
Nor  sophistry  perplex,  nor  paiu  subdue  ; 
A  stoic,  reckless  of  the  world's  vain  taunt. 
And  steeled  the  path  of  honor  to  pursue : 
So,  when  by  all  deserted,  still  he  knew 
How  best  to  soothe  the  heart-sick  or  confront 
Sedition,  schooled  with  equal  eye  to  view 
The  frowns  of  grief,  and  the  base  pangs  of  want. 
But  when  he  saw  that  promised  land  arise 
In  all  its  rare  and  bright  varieties. 
Lovelier  than  fondest  fiincy  ever  trod  ; 
Then  softening  nature  melted  in  his  eyes ; 
He  knew  his  fame  was  full,  and  blessed  his  God  : 
And  fell  upon  his  face,  and  kissed  tlie  virgin  sod ! 


Beautiful  realm  beyond  the  western  main. 
That  hymns  thee  ever  with  resouudiug  wave ! 
Thine  is  the  glorious  sun's  peculiar  reign ; 
Fruit,  flowers,  and  gems  in  rich  mosaic  pave 
Thy  paths  ;   like  giant  altars  o'er  the  plain 
Thy  mountains  blaze,  loud  thundering, 'mid  the  rave 
Of  mighty  streams  that  shoreward  rush  amain. 
Like  Polypheme  from  his  Etnean  cave. 
Joy,  joy  for  Spain !   a  seaman's  hand  confers 
These  glorious  gifts,  and  half  the  world  is  hers ! 
But  where  is  lie — that  li.tjbt  whose  radiance  glows 
The  load-star  of  succeeding  mariners? 
Behold  him  !  crushed  beneath  o'ermasteriug  woes — 
Hopeless,  heart-broken,  chained,  abandoned  to   his 
foes ! 


394 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


DIOCLETIAN  AT  SALONA. 

On  being  solicited  by  Maximian  to  reassume  the  imperial 
purple,  DiDcIeliaii  icjcclcd  the  oflor  wiili  a  smile  ol'  pity,  calmly 
observiii;,'  that  if  lie  coiiUl  show  Maxiinian  the  cabba^'es  which 
he  had  planted  with  his  own  hands  at  Salona,  he  should  no 
longer  be  urged  to  relinquish  the  enjoyment  of  happiness  for 
the  pursuit  of  power. 

Take  back  these  vaiu  iiisijiuia  of  coiuniaiul, 

Crowu,  truucheou,  golden  eagle — batiblea  all — 

Ami  robo  of  Tyriau  dye,  to  me  a  pall ; 

Ami  bo  forever  alien  to  my  hand, 

Thongh  lanrel-wrcathed,  AVar's  desolating  brand. 

I  would  have  friends,  not  courtiers,  in  my  hall ; 

Wise  books,  learned  converse,  beauty  free  from  thrall. 

And  leisure  for  good  deeds,  thoughtfully  planned. 

Farewell,  thou  garish  world !  thou  Italy, 

False  widow  of  departed  liberty! 

I  scorn  thy  base  caresses.     Welcome  the  roll 

Between  us  of  my  own  bright  Adrian  sea ! 

Welcome  these  wilds,  from  Avhose  bold  heights  ray 

soul 
Looks  down  on  your  degenerate  Capitol! 


GLENGAKIFF. 

A  8un-bursfc  on  the  bay !     Turn  and  behold ! 
The  restless  waves,  resplendent  in  their  glory, 
Sweep  glittering  past  yon  purpled  promontory. 
Bright  as  Apollo's  breastplate.     Bathed  in  gold. 
Yon  bastioued  islet  gleams.     Thin  mists  are  rolled 
Translucent  through  each  glen.     A  mantle  hoarj' 
Veils  those  jjcaked  hills,  shapely  as  e'er  in  story, 
Delphic,  or  Alpine,  or  Vesnvian  old, 
Minstrels  have  snng.   From  rock  and  headland  proud 
The  wild-wood  spreads  its  arms  around  the  bay ; 
The  manifold  mountain  cones,  now  dark,  now  bright, 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  alternate  from  rich  light 
To  spectral  shade  ;   and  each  dissolving  cloud 
Reveals  new  mountains  while  it  tloats  away. 


Covii  Uiiron. 

George  Gordon  Noel  Byron  was  born  in  London,  Jan- 
uary 22cl,  ITSS,  and  died  at  Missolonj^lii,  Greece,  April 
19tli,  1824,  ajxcd  thirty-six  years  and  three  months.  His 
father,  Captain  Byron,  nephew  to  tlie  possessor  of  the 
family  title,  was  remarkable  only  for  his  dissoluteness 
and  improvidence.  At  the  a.i^c  of  live  tlie  future  poet 
was  a  pupil  at  a  day-school  in  Aberdeen.  At  ten  he 
became  a  peer  of  the  realm  and  possessor  of  Newstead 
Abbey.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  ungovernable  pas- 
sions, foolish  and  capricious,  and  her  example  had  a  dis- 


astrous influence  on  her  son.  Byron  went  to  Harrow, 
then  to  Cambridge.  At  nineteen,  when  still  a  student, 
lie  i)ul)lislied  a  collection  of  verses,  entitled  "Hours  of 
Idleness."  A  touch  of  lordly  conceit  at  the  close  of  the 
little  book  caused  the  Ediiiburc/h  Review  to  huif^h  at  it. 
Byron  retorted  in  a  poem,  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers,"  which  gave  unexpected  evidence  of  the 
youth's  real  powers.  Two  years  of  forcii^n  travel  (1809- 
1811)  led  to  the  first  two  cantos  of  "Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage,"  wiitten  at  the  ago  of  two-and-twenty.  In 
1811  he  returned  to  England,  just  in  time  to  see  his 
mother  die. 

In  1813  Byron  made  his  first  speech  in  the  House  of 
Lords.  "Childe  Harold"  had  caused  him,  in  his  own 
words,  "to  wake  up  one  morning,  and  find  himself  fa- 
mous." It  was  followed  by  poem  after  poem.  In  Jan- 
uary, 1815,  he  married  Miss  Milbanke  ;  his  daughter, 
Augusta  Ada,  was  born  December  10th  of  the  same  year; 
two  months  afterward  his  wife  parted  from  him ;  and  in 
April,  181G,  he  left  England,  never  to  return.  He  went 
first  to  Switzerland,  where  he  wrote,  the  same  year,  the 
third  canto  of  "Childe  Harold"  and  the  "The  Prisoner 
orChillon."  In  July,  181(5,  in  his  remarkable  poem  of 
"The  Dream,"  he  compared  his  luckless  marriage  with 
another  that  "might  have  been."  In  November,  1810, 
he  went  to  Venice,  then  to  Pisa  and  Genoa.  Shelley's 
untimely  dealli  in  1822  affected  him  greatly.  Before  leav- 
ing Italy  to  espouse  the  cause  of  Greek  independence, 
be  wrote  the  fourth  canto  of  "Childe  Harold,"  "  Bep- 
po,"  "Manfred,"  "  Mazeppa,"  "Cain,"  "  Don  Juan,"  and 
many  other  poems.  A  violent  cold  caught  at  Misso- 
longlii  ended  his  life.  His  remains  wci'e  brought  to 
England  for  interment.  Burial  in  Westminster  Abbey 
was  refused,  and  they  were  deposited  in  the  family  vault 
in  Hucknall  Church,  Nottinghamshire. 

Both  in  his  emotional  and  his  intellectual  nature  Byron 
shows  the  struggle  of  evil  with  good.  In  all  his  princi- 
pal poems  his  men  and  women  are  pictures  of  himself; 
and  to  this  inability  to  get  out  of  the  vicious  circle  of 
his  ow-n  passions  and  ])rejudices  may  be  attributed  his 
failure  as  a  dramatic  writer.  His  success  in  attracting 
the  public  car  and  eye  of  contemporaries  was  immeas- 
urably beyond  that  of  Wordsworth,  but  posterity  has 
rectified  the  injustice:  Wordsworth  is  now  the  more 
conspicuous  figure.  Emerson  tells  us  that  "Byron  had 
nothing  to  say — and  he  said  it  beautifully."  This  may 
ai)ply  to  him,  considered  as  a  philosopher,  but  not  as  a 
poet,  in  which  capacity  he  exercises  a  genuine  power 
over  the  emotional  nature,  with  a  mastery  of  apt,  beau- 
tiful, and  simple  language  excelled  only  by  Shakspeare. 
Surely  it  requires  as  much  intellectual  power  to  give 
apt  and  eloquent  voice  to  mountains,  cataracts,  tem- 
pests, oceans,  ruins,  and,  above  all,  to  the  stormy  emo- 
tions of  the  human  heart, — making  vivid  the  obscure  and 
evasive, — as  to  dip  deep  into  transcendental  subtleties 
or  ethical  speculations. 

Byron  may  have  been  overrated  in  his  day,  but  his  place 
in  English  literature  nnist  ever  be  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  immortals.     As  Matthew  Arnold  says  of  him, — 

"When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death 
We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little ;   but  our  soul 
Ilad  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll." 


LORD  BYRON. 


395 


FEOil  "CHILDE   HAROLD." 

OPENING  OF   CANTO   III. 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  luy  fair  cliild  ! 
Ada !   sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  yoniig  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
Aud  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start, 
The  waters  heave  around  nie ;   and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  :   I  depart. 
Whither  I  know  not ;   but  the  hour's  gone  by, 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet  once  more! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     AVelcome  to  their  roar! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead ! 
Thongli  the  strained  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale. 
Still  must  I  on  ;   for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Wiiere'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  one, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  Avith  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onward :   in  tliat  tale  I  And 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
^Yhich,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind. 
O'er  which  all  lieavil^-  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, —  where  not  a  flower 
appears. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — ^joy,  or  pain. 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string. 
And  both  may  jar:   it  may  be,  that  in  vaiu 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling ; 
So  tliat  it  wean  me  from  tlie  wearj^  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a»  not  ungrateful  theme. 

He,  who  grown  ag<5d  in  this  world  of  woe. 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life. 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him ;   nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :  he  can  tell 


Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  sliapcs  which  dwell 
Still  unimpaired,  tliougli  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted 
cell. 

'Tis  to  create,  and,  in  creating,  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?     Nothing ;  but  not  so  art  thou. 
Soul  of  my  thought!  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mixed  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crushed  feelings' 
deai'th. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly : — I  have  thought 
Too  long  aud  darkly,  till  my  brain  became. 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  Avhii-liug  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poisoned.     'Tis  too  late  ! 
Yet  am  I  changed;  though  still  euongh  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate, 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  fate. 


SCENES    BY   LAKE    LEMAN. 

From  "  Childe  Harold,"  Caxto  III. 

Y'e  stars,  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  Ave  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven. 
That,  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  yon;   for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  star. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  staud  in  thoughts  too  deep : — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  from  the  high  host 
Of  stars  to  the  lulled  lake  aud  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 


396 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  truth,  which  through  our  boiiig  then  doth  melt, 
Ami  piuilies  from  self:   it  is  ii  tone, 
The  soul  aud  source  of  music,  which  nuikcs  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cythcrea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  Avith  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The   spectre  Death,  had   he   substantial  power  to 
barm. 

Not  vainly  did  tlie  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergaziiig  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  nn walled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  ai"e  weak, 
Upreared  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  aud  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  jirayer. 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a  change !     Oh 

night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovelj'^  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !    Not  from  one  lone  clond, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloiul ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night : — most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !   let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  j-c  ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  aud  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  mo  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  nu-, — could  I  wreak 

My  thoughts  upon  expression,  aud  thus  throw 


Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong    or 

Aveak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  aud  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  A'oiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a 

sword. 


WATERLOO. 

FnoM  "CiiiLDE  Harold,"  Canto  III. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Iler  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  : 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;   and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?     No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street. 
On  with  the  dance !   let  joy  be  unconfined ! 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more. 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  Avould  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm!  arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  :   he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amid  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear  ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  (piell : 
Ho  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !   then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Aud  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated:  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise  t 


LORD  BTROX. 


397 


And  there  Tvas  monuting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mastering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  jieal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  heat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Eoused  up  the  soldier  ero  the  morning-star ; 
Wliilc  thronged  the  citizens  Avith  terror  dumb. 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  "The  foe!     They 
come,  they  come !" 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  gathering" 

rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Alhyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill!    But  with  the  breath  which  hlls 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years ; 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 

ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  jiass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow. 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold 
and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay  ; 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which,  when  rent. 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe, — in   one  red  burial 
blent! 


ADDRESS   TO   THE    OCEAN. 

Fbom  "  Childe  Hahold,"  Canto  IV. 

Oh  !   that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister. 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race. 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements  ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 


I  feel  myself  exalted — can  ye  not 
Accord  mo  such  a  being?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot  ? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

There  te  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods,- 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore  ; 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean! — roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore : — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  agrave,unkuelled,uncoflined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise, 

And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he 

A'sields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
Aud  seud'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  j)layful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth ;  there  let  him  lay.' 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  .arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  Avhich  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Tiiy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 

'  It  will  be  remarked  thnt  lay  is  here  used  uiigmmmatically ; 
but  Byron  was  in  want  of  a  rhyme.  In  the  second  line  pre- 
ceding, be  uses  tlie  verb  lies  correctly. 


398 


CYCLOI'JCDLl    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlio  stnuigor,  slave,  or  savajjo  ;   their  decay 
Mas  dried  up  realms  to  deserts : — not  so  thou, 
Uuehaugeablo  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  lliino  azuro  brow — 
Such  as  ereatiou's  dawu  beheld,  tliou  rollest  now. 

c 

Tlidii  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;   in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible :   even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;   each  zone 
Obeys   thee;    thou   goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !   and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  tiiy  bubbles,  onward:   from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;   and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror^'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  npon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 


EVENING. 

From  ''Dos  Jtan,"  Canto  III. 

Ave  Maria !   blessdd  be  the  hour ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
Wiiile  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower. 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hynui  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with  prayer. 

Ave  Maria!   'tis  the  hour  of  prayer! 

Ave  ^laria !  'tis  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria!   may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above ! 
Ave  Maria !  oh  that  face  so  fair ! 

Tho.se  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty  dove — 
What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  imago  strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  'tis  too  like. 
*  *  #  #  # 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 

Of  the  jiino  forest,  and  thx)  silent  shore 
Wliich  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

Kooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er, 


To  where  the  last  Cesareau  fortress  stood. 
Evergreen  forest!   which  IJoccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, — 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 

Tlic  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

iSIaking  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  solo  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine. 
And  vesper-bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along  : 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line. 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng, 

Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  shadowed  my  mind's  eye. 

Oh  Hesperus!   thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer. 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'er-labored  steer ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearth-stone  clings, 
AVhate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  briug'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast.  , 

Soft  hour!   which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the 
heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  frieuds  are  torn  apart ; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way, 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay : 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 
Ah!   surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns! 


THE    ISLES    OF    GREECE. 
From  "Don  Juan,"  Canto  III. 

The  isles  of  Greece  !   the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung,- 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  aud  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Plurbus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet; 
lint  all  except  their  sun  is  set. 

The  Sciau  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 

Tiian  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blessed." 

Tiie  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 


LORD  BYnOX. 


31)9 


And  uuising  there  an  hour  aloiio, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  he  free  ; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rockj^  hrow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salainis ; 

And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations: — all  Avere  his! 

lie  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  ■when  the  sun  set,  ^vhere  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  thcj-  ? — and  where  art  thou. 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  tlij'  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

"Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

JInst  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blessed  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !   render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  reuniant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylre. 

What,  silent  still?   and  silent  all? 

Ah  !   no  ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come  ;  we  come  !" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — -in  vain  :   strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samiau  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark !   rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 

Yon  have  the  Pyrrliic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine ; 

Ho  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;   but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

Tlie  tyraut  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend. 
That  tyraut  was  Miltiades ! 

Oh,  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  liis  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
Aiul  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
Tlie  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks— 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

Pnt  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

AVuuld  break  j'our  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  buruing  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Snuium's  marbled  steep, 
Wliere  nothing  save  the  Avaves  and  I 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  laud  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dasli  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 


FROM  THE   "ODE   OX  VENICE." 

The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 

O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe ; 
Venice  is  crushed,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 

A  scejitre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe  : 
If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chaiuless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time, 
For  Tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown. 
And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 


400 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 

Whoso  vigoious  ofi'spriiig  bj^  dividing  ocean 

Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 

Of  Freedom,  ^vhieh  their  fatliers  fought  for,  and 

Bequeathed — a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 

And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land. 

Whoso  sous  must  bow  them  at  ii  monarch's  motion. 

As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand, 

Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 

Still  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance, 

Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquered  and  sublime, 

Above  the  far  Atlantic ! — She  has  taught 

Her  Esau-brethreu  that  the  haughty  flag. 

The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 

May  strike  to  those  whose   red  right  hands  have 

bought 
Eights  cheaply  earned  with  blood. — Still,  still  forever 
Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river, 
That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  thau  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
Danmied  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains, 
And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep. 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering  : — better  be 
Where  the  extinguished  Spartans  still  are  free. 
In  their  jiroud  charnel  of  ThermopyliB, 
Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'er  the  deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add. 
One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had. 
One  freenuiu  more,  America,  to  thee ! 


SHE   WALKS  IN   BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  aud  starry  skies ; 

AikI  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  aud  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half-impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
^  Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  XHire,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

Aud  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow. 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


"ON  THIS  DAY  I  CO^H•LKTK  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH   YEAR." 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  bo  unmoved, 
Sinet!  others  it  hath  eeasf'd  to  move  ; 
Yet,  tliDtigli   I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
Tlie  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Arc  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  .as  some  volcanic  isle ; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, — 
A  fuueral  pile ! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
Ami  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus — and  'tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  should  sh.ake  my  soul,  nor  vow 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier. 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  bannei",  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake!   (not  Greece — she  is  awake!) 

Awake,  my  spirit!     Think  through  uhom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

I'nworthy  manhood!   unto  thee 
Indifierent  should  tho  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  «•/(//  Vivef 

The  laud  of  honorable  death 
Is  here  : — tip  to  the  field,  aud  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

Aud  take  thy  rest. 
JlissolongUi,  J;uuiary  22cl,  1S24. 


LOUD  BYRON. 


401 


THE  DREAM. 
I. 

Our  life  is  twofold  :    Sleep  hath  its  owu  world, 

A  boundary  between  tlic  things  misnamed 

Deatli  and  existence  :    Sleep  hath  its  owu  world, 

Aud  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 

And  dreams  iu  their  development  have  breath, 

Aud  tears,  and  tortures,  aud  the  touch  of  joy  ; 

They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts. 

They  take  a  weight  from  oft'  our  waking  toils. 

They  <lo  divide  our  being ;   they  become 

A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

Aud  look  like  heralds  of  eteruitj'^ : 

They  j)ass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;   they  have  power— 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will. 

And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by,— 

The  dread  of  vanished  shadows.     Are  they  so  ? 

Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?     What  are  they? 

Creations  of  the  mind  ?     The  mind  can  make 

Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 

With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 

A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 

I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dreamed. 

Perchance,  in  sleep, — for  in  itself  a  thought, 

A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 

Aud  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 


I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill. 
Green,  and  of  mild  declivity, — the  last. 
As  'twere  the  cape,  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  aud  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ;   the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing ;   the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath — 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her : 
And  both  Avere  young,  aud  one  was  beautiful ; 
Aud  both  were  young,  yet  uot  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  ou  the  horizon's  verge. 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood; — 
The  boj'  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years  ;   and,  to  his  eye. 
There  was  but  one  belov(5d  face  ou  earth — 
26 


And  that  was  shining  on  him  :    ho  had  looked 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers: 

She  was  his  voice  ; — he  did  uot  speak  to  her, 

But  trembled  on  her  words:    she  was  his  sight; 

For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 

Which  colored  all  bis  objects : — he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself;   she  was  his  life, — 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts 

Which  terminated  all :   upon  a  tone, 

A  touch,  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow. 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agouj'. 

But  she  iu  these  foud  feelings  had  no  share  : 

Her  sighs  were  uot  for  him !   to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother, — but  no  more  :   'twas  much  ; 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  iu  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  ou  him, — 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honored  race.     It  was  a  name 

Which  pleased  him,  aud  yet  pleased  him  not, — and 

why  ? 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 
Another!   even  now  she  loved  another; 
And  ou  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy  aud  flew. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned  : 

Within  an  antique  oi'atory  stood 

The  boy  of  whom  I  spake ; — he  was  alone,  ■ 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro :   anon 

He  sat  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  aud  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  leaned 

His  bowed  head  ou  his  hands,  aud  shook,  as  'twere. 

With  a  convulsion, — then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written  ;   but  he  shed  no  tears : 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  aud  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet.     As  he  paused. 

The  lady  of  his  love  re-entered  tiiere  ; 

She  was  serene  aud  smiling  then, — and  j'et 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved !   she  knew — 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge — that  his  heart 

Was  darkened  with  her  shadow;   and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched, — but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and,  with  a  cold  aud  gentle  grasp, 

He  took  her  hand  ;   a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  nnnttcrable  thoughts 

Was  traced, ^and  then  it  faded  as  it  came : 


402 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BIIITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


He  dropped  the  hand  he  hehl,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retired, — btit  not  as  biddin;;  her  a<li(;n  ; 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles:   lie  passed 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of"  lliat  olil  liall. 
And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  lie  went  his  way, 
And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more ! 


A  change  camo  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
Ttie  boy  was  sprung  to  matihood :   in  the  wilds 
Of  liery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
Aud  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams;   ho  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;   ho  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  :   on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  ho  was  a  wanderer! 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me  ;   but  ho  was 
A  part  of  all,^ — and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Keposiiig  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  iu  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them:   by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  :   and  a  man, 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb,  did  watch  the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around  ; 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky. 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  lady  of  his  love  was  \\('d  with  one 

Who  did  not  love  her  better:   iu  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home, 

She  dwelt  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty, — but  behold ! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unciuiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  all  she  loved ; 

Aud  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 

To  trouble  Avith  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repressed  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  i)e  ? — she  had  loved  him  not, 

Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved  ; 

Xor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  preyed 

Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  returned.     I  saw  him  stand 


Before  an  altar  with  a  gentle  bride: 

Her  face  was  fair, — but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  starlight  of  his  boyhood !     As  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  Lis  brow  there  came 

The  self-same  aspect  and  the  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;   and  then, 

As  iu  that  hour,  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came  ; 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows, — but  heard  not  his  own  words; 

And  all  things  reeled  around  him !   he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have 

been  ; 
But  tlie  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
Aud  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the  place. 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, — 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour. 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  aud  the  light: 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love, — oh  !   she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul :   her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  aud  her  eyes,- 
Thcy  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  :   she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;   her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things ; 
And  forms — impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight — familiar  were  to  hers  : 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy!   but  the  v.ise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholj'  is  a  feai-ful  gift : 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ! 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  ntter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real! 


A  change  camo  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  alone,  as  heretofore ; 
The  beings  that  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  witii  him  ;   he  was  a  mark 
For  bliglit  and  desolation, — compassed  round 
With  hatred  and  contention:   pain  was  mixed 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days. 
He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  uo  power, — 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment:   he  lived 


LORD  BTIiOX. 


403 


Tluoiigli  that  which  hail  been  death  to  many  men, 

And  made  liim  friends  of  nionutains  :  with  the  stars 

And  tlio  qnick  spirit  of  the  universe 

He  held  his  dialogues-;   and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 

To  him  the  book  of  night  was  opened  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 

A  marvel  and  a  secret : — Be  it  so. 


My  dream  was  past ;   it  had  no  farther  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 

To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the   sheen   of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 

the  sea, 
^Yhen  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves   of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath 

blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew 
still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his 

pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  uulifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal, 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 


WHEN  WE   TWO   TARTED. 

When  wo  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek,  and  cold. 

Colder  thy  kiss  ; 
Truly,  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sank  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame  ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

W^ho  knew  thee  too  well : — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve 
That  thy  heart  could  forget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ?^ 

With  silence  and  tears. 


MODERN  CRITICS. 

FnoM  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers." 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready-made. 
Take  hackneyed  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote ; 
A  mind  well  skilled  to  find  or  forge  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punning, — call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  go  ;   be  silent  and  discreet. 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  jiounds  per  sheet. 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling — pas3  your  proper  jest. 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caressed. 


404 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Maid  of  Atbcus,  ero  -wo  part, 
Give,  oil  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  siuce  that  has  left  my  bi'cast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go — 
Zti?}  11.0V  ffrtc  ayatrCj. 

By  those  tresses  uncoiifiued. 
Wooed  by  each  /E<;oaii  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whoso  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  Avild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zwjj  /(oi)  caq  dyairCj. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  tokeu-flowei-s  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  "woe, 
Zw/;  fxov  dUQ  ayaiTuj. 

Maid  of  Athens !  I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  mj'  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No ! 
Zw»j  fiov  auQ  ayavCj. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 

But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  -who  love  me. 
And  a  smile  to  tlioso  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  mo  on  ; 

Though  a  desert  sliould  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  bo  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well. 
As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  foil, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 


With  that  water  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Would  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 


SON^^ET  OX  CHILLON. 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chaiuless  mind  ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty !   thou  art ; 
For  there  thj'  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  -which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sous  to  fetters  are  consigned — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom. 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillou !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 
And  thy  sad  floor  au  altar — for  'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 
By  Bonnivard ! — May  none  those  marks  eliace  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


WHEN  COLDNESS  WRAPS  THIS   SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay. 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  staj'. 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behiiul. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey? 

Eternal,  boundless,  nndecayed, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds, 

So  darkly  of  departed  years. 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

Aud  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth. 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back  : 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks, 

Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 


LORD  BTRON.—EICHAED  HARRIS  BARHAM. 


4()ri 


Above,  or  love,  Lope,  liatc,  or  fear. 

It  lives  all  passionless  auil  i)iire ; 
Au  age  shall  lleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  uiomeuts  shall  eudure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wiug, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall  tiy  ; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing 

Forgettiug  what  it  was  to  die, 


FROM  "THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE." 

CANTO   IV. 

Many  are  jioets  who  have  never  penned 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best : 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings ;  they  compressed 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoined  the  stars 
Uulaurelled  upon  earth,  but  far  more  blessed 

Thau  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  linked  to  fame, 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars. 

Many  are  poets,  but  •without  the  name ; 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill ;   and  aim 

At  au  external  life  beyond  our  fate, 

And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men. 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  late, 

Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain, 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower, 
"Who,  having  lavished  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

Lies  chained  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  sea-shore! 
So  be  it;   we  can  bear. — But  thus  all  they 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o'erraastering  power, 

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay. 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  forms  which  their  creations  may  essay. 

Are  bards  ;   the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Thau  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear; 

One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 
Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 

That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  trausfigurated  :   and  the  line 

Of  poesy  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected; 
Can  do  no  more  :   then  let  the  artist  share 

The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Faints  o'er  the  labor  unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair  and  genius  are  too  oft  connetited. 


Hidjari)  £) arris  Uarljam. 

Barliam  (1788-1845)  was  a  native  of  London.  lie  stud- 
ied for  the  ministry,  and  became  a  minor  canon  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  rector  of  St.  iVugustine  and  St.  Faith's,  Lon- 
don. He  wrote,  for  Reiitlo/s  Miscellany^  the  "  Ingoldsby 
Legends,"  which  came  out  in  numbers,  and  were  subse- 
(lucutly  collected  in  tliree  serial  volumes.  It  was  the 
great  literary  success  of  his  life.  Since  the  days  of  But- 
ler's "Iludibras,"  the  drollery  that  can  be  invested  in 
rhymes  has  rarely  been  so  amply  or  felicitously  exem- 
plified.   A  Life  of  Barham,  by  his  son,  appeared  in  1870. 


THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS. 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there  ; 

Many  a  monk  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight  and  many  a  squire. 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree, — 
In  sooth,  a  goodlj^  company ; 
And  they  served  the  Lord  Primate  on  bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween. 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 
Read  of  in  books  or  dreamed  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of  Rheims ! 

In  and  out, 

Through  the  motley  rout, 
The  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about ; 

Here  and  there, 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fixir, 

Over  comfits  and  cates. 

And  dishes  and  jilates. 
Cowl  and  cope  and  rochet  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier,  he  hopped  upon  all. 

With  a  saucy  air 

He  perched  on  the  chair 
Where  in  state  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat ; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  to  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  hero  to-day!" 

And  the  priests  with  awe, 

As  such  freaks  they  saw. 
Said,  "The  devil  must  be  in  that  little  Jackdaw." 

The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  cleared, 
Tlie  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disappeared, 
And  sis  little  singing-boys, — dear  little  souls  ! — 
In  nice  clean  faces  and  nice  white  stoles, 

Came,  in  order  due, 

Two  by  two, 


406 


CYCLOP JiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Marching  that  grand  refectory  through ! 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  goldeu  cwor, 
Embossed  and  filled  with  water  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  between  Kiicinis  and  Naniur, 
Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  ratlier  more  grown, 
Poured  lavender-water  and  eau-de-cologne ; 
And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap 
Worthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope  ! 

One  little  boy  more 

A  iiai)liin  boro 
Of  the  bed-wliite  diaper  fringed  witli  pink, 
And  a  cardinal's  hat  marked  in  permanent  ink. 

The  great  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dressed  all  in  white ; 

From  his  linger  he  draws 

Ilis  costly  turquoise  ; 
And  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jackdaws, 

Deposits  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  his  plate. 
While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence  wait ; 
Till,  when  nobody's  dreaming  of  any  such  thing. 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  oft"  with  the  ring! 

There's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 

And  a  deuce  of  a  rout. 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  he's  about, 
But  the  monks  have  their  pockets  all  turned  inside 
out ; 

The  friars  are  kneeling, 

And  hunting  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  Avails,  and  the  ceiling. 

The  Cardinal  dicw 

Off  each  iilum-colored  shoe. 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the  view  ; 

He  peeps,  and  he  feels 

In  the  toes  and  the  heels. 
They  turn  up  the  dishes, — they  turn  up  the  plates, — 
They  take  up  the  poker,  and  poke  out  the  grates ; 

They  turn  up  the  rugs, 

They  examine  the  mugs ; 

Bnt  no  ! — uo  such  thing — 

They  can't  find  tiik  ring! 
And  the  Abbot  declared  that  "  when  nobody  twig- 
ged it, 
Some  ra.scal  or  other  had  popped  in  and  prigged  it!" 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 

He  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his  book  ! 

In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 

He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief! 


He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in  bed; 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  tlie  crown  of  his  Lead; 
He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every  night 
He  should  dream  of  tbe  devil,  and  wake  in  a  fright. 
He  cursed  him  in  eating, he  cursed  him  in  drinking; 
He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing,  in  winking; 
He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in  lying; 
He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in  flying; 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him  dying! — 
Never  was  heard  snch  a  terrible  curse! 

Bnt  what  gave  rise 

To  no  little  surprise, 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  worse  ! 

The  day  was  gone. 

The  night  came  on, 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  searched  till  dawn  ; 

When  the  sacristan  saw. 

On  crumpled  claw, 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw! 

No  longer  gay, 

As  on  yesterday ; 
His  feathers  all  seemed  to  be  turned  the  Avrong  way  : 
His  pinions  drooped,  he  could  hardly  stand, 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your  hand ; 

His  eje  so  dim. 

So  wasted  each  limb, 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried,  "  That's 

HIM  ! 
That's   the   scamp   that  has   done   this   scandalous 

thing. 
That's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord  Cardinal's 
lilXG  !" 

The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 

When  the  monks  he  saw. 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw  ; 
And  turned  his  bald  head  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  Avay !" 

Slower  and  slower 

He  limped  on  before, 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry  door. 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 

'Mid  the  sticks  and  the  straw. 
Was  the  ring  in  the  nest  of  that  little  Jackdaw  ! 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  called  for  his  book, 
And  otV  that  terrible  curse  ho  took  ; 

The  mute  expression 

Served  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitution. 
The  Jaclvdaw  got  pleuar3-  absolution  ! 

Wlicn  tho.so  words  were  heard 

Thaf  poor  little  bird 


EICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM.—TUOMAS  PRIXGLE. 


407 


Was  so  changed  in  a  moment, 'twas  really  absurd: 

He  grew  sleek  and  lat  ; 

In  addition  to  that, 
A  thick  crop  of  feathers  came,  thick  as  a  mat  ; 

His  tail  waggled  more 

Than  ever  before  ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impudent  air, 
No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. 

He  hopped  now  about 

With  a  gait  quite  devout ; 
At  matins,  at  vespers,  lie  never  was  out ; 
And,  so  for  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's  beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore. 
Or  slumbered  in  prayer-time  and  happened  to  snore, 

That  good  Jackdaw 

Would  give  a  great  "  Caw  !" 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  so  anj^  more !" 
Wliile  many  remarked,  as  his  manners  they  saw. 
That  they  "never  had  known  such  a  pious  Jack- 
daw !" 

He  long  lived  the  pride 

Of  that  country-side. 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 

When,  as  words  wei'e  too  faint 

His  merits  to  paint. 
The  Conclave  determined  to  make  him  a  Saint. 
And  on  newly-made  Saints  and  Popes,  as  you  know. 
It's  the  custom  at  Rome  new  names  to  bestow  ; 
So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of  Jem  Crow! 


(Tljomas  yriiunlc. 


SONG. 


'Tis  sweet  to  think  the  pure  ethereal  being. 
Whose  mortal  form  reposes  with  the  dead, 

Still  hovers  round  unseen,  yet  not  unseeing, 
Benignly  smiling  o'er  the  mourner's  bed! 

She  comes  in  dreams,  a  thing  of  light  and  lightness; 

I  hear  her  voice  in  still  small  accents  tell 
Of  realms  of  bliss  and  never-fading  brightness. 

Where  those  who  loved  on  earth  together  dwell. 

Ah,  yet  awhile,  blessed  shade,  thy  flight  delaying, 
Tlie  kindred  soul  with  mystic  converse  cheer; 

To  her  rapt  gaze,  in  Aisions  bland,  displaying 
The  unearthly  glories  of  thy  happier  sphere ! 

Yet,  yet  remain  !   till  freed  like  thee,  delighted, 
She  spurns  the  thraldom  of  encumbering  clay ; 

Then,  as  on  earth,  in  teuderest  love  united. 
Together  seek  the  realms  of  endless  day  ! 


Piinglc  (1788-1834)  was  a  native  of  Roxburghshire, 
Scotland.  He  was  the  author  of  "Scenes  of  Teviotdalc, 
Ephemerides,  and  otlicr  Poems,"  all  showing  fine  feel- 
ing and  a  cultivated  taste.  In  1820  he  emigrated  to  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  with  his  father  and  several  broth- 
ers ;  but  from  lameness,  caused  by  an  accident  when 
young,  Thomas  was  ill  fitted  for  a  life  of  haidsliip.  He 
returned  to  England,  and  got  a  living  by  his  pen.  lie 
edited  a  literary  annual,  entitled  "Friendship's  Otfer- 
ing,"  and  wrote  a  series  of  "African  Sketches,"  con- 
taining an  interesting  personal  narrative.  His  poem, 
"Afar  in  the  Desert,"  was  much  admired  by  Coleridge. 
It  was  repeatedly  altered.  Pringle's  "Poetical  Works," 
with  a  memoir  by  Leitch  Ritchie,  appeared  in  1839. 


AFAE  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  busli-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  Present,  I  cling  to  the  Past ; 
When  the  eye  is  suifused  with  regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years ; 
And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  ; 
And  my  native  laud,  whose  magical  name 
Tlirills  to  my  beart  like  electric  flame ; 
The  home  of  my  childhood ;  the  haunts  of  my  prime ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 
When  the  feelings  Avere  young,  and  the  world  Avas 

new ; 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view; — 
All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  foregone  ! 
And  I,  a  lone  exile,  remembered  of  none ; 
My  high  aims  abandoned,  my  good  acts  nudoue. 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 
With  that  saduess  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may 

scan, 
I  fly  to  the  desert,  afar  from  man  I 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
AYith  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life. 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression, corruption, and  strife — 
The  jiroud  mau's  frown,  and  the  base  man's  fear ; 
The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  suff"ercr's  tear, — 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly. 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  mclanclioly  : 
When  my  bo.som  is  full,  and  mj'  thoughts  are  high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh: 
Oh,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride ! 


408 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  URITISH  and  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
Anil  li>  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed, 
With  the  death-franght  firelock  in  uiy  hand — 
The  only  law  of  the  desert  land. 

Al'iir  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

I5y  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen; 

By  valleys  remote,  where  the  Oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartcbeest  graze, 

And  the  kiulh  and  eland  nnluuited  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'erhung  with  wild  vine ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood. 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  wliere  the  wild-ass  is  drinking  his  lill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  ; 
O'er  the  brown  Karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain  ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Wliere  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest. 
Far  hid  from  the  jiitilcss  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  jiarched  Karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 

Away,  away  in  the  wilderness  vast. 

Where  the  Avhite  man's  foot  hath  never  passed. 

And  tiie  quivered  Cor.'inna  or  Bechuan 

Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan  : 

A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear. 

Which  Man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 

With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone; 

Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root. 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 

And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink. 

Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink  : 

A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides. 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 

Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount. 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 

Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye; 

But  the  barren  earth,  and  the  burning  sky, 


And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round. 
Spread — void  of  living  siglit  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone. 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone, 
"A  still  small  voice"  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child). 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear. 
Saying,  ''  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near !" 


THE  EMIGRANT'S   FAREW^ELL. 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu  I 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  blue. 

Farewell,  ye  hills  of  glorious  deeds. 
And  streams  renowned  in  song ! 

Fai'ewell,  ye  blithesome  braes  and  meads 
Our  hearts  have  loved  so  long ! 

Farewell,  ye  broomy  elfin  knowes. 
Where  thyme  and  harebells  grow — 

Farewell,  ye  hoary  haunted  howes, 
O'erhung  with  birk  and  sloe ! 

The  battle-mound,  the  Border  tower. 

That  Scotia's  annals  tell ; 
The  martyr's  grave,  the  lover's  bower — 

To  each,  to  all — farewell! 

Home  of  our  hearts  !   our  father's  home  ! 

Land  of  the  brave  and  free ! 
The  sail  is  flapping  on  the  foam 

Tliat  bears  us  far  from  thee ! 

W"e  seek  a  wild  and  distant  shore. 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  main  ; 
We  leave  thee  to  return  no  more. 

Or  view  thy  cliffs  again  ! 

But  may  dishonor  Idight  our  fame. 
And  quench  our  household  fires, 

W^hen  we,  or  ours,  forget  thy  name. 
Green  island  of  our  sires ! 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 

And  Scotland's  mountains  blue  ! 


WILLIAM  TIIOM.— JAMES  ABRAHAM  HILLIIOUSE. 


409 


'lUilliam  <iljoni. 


Among  tlie  uneducated  poets  Thorn  (1789-1848)  de- 
serves im  honorable  mention.  Ho  was  a  native  of  Aber- 
deen, Scotland,  and  learned  to  read  and  write  before  he 
was  ten  years  old.  His  life  thenceforth  was  one  of  la- 
bor and  vicissitude.  His  occupation  was  lirst  that  of  a 
weaver;  he  married,  and  took  up  that  of  a  peddler.  In 
this  he  incurred  penury  and  suflerini>:,  so  that  he  often 
had  to  lind  his  lodgings  in  cold  barns ;  and  on  one  of 
these  occasions  a  child  of  his  own  perished  from  starva- 
tion and  exposure.  In  1840  he  removed  to  Inverury,  and 
while  there  began  to  write  poetry,  which  attracted  jnib- 
lic  attention.  He  was  enabled  to  go  to  Loudon,  and  in 
1844  published  "  Rhymes  and  Recollections  of  a  Hand- 
loom  Weaver."  The  volume  was  well  received;  and, on 
a  second  visit  to  London,  he  was  entertained  at  a  public 
dinner.  Returning  to  Scotland,  he  took  up  his  abode  in 
Dundee;  and,  after  a  period  of  poverty  and  distress,  died 
there  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine.  Some  of  his  poems  are 
remarkable  for  tenderness  and  grace,  combined  with 
strong  religious  convictions. 


THE   MITHEELESS  BAIRN. 

When  a'  itber  bainiies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
By  auuty,  or  cousin,  or  freeky  graud-dame, 
Wha  Stan's  last  au'  hauely,  an'  naebody  cariu'  ? 
'Tis  the  puir  doited  loouie,  the  mitherless  bairu ! 

The  mitherless  bairn  gaugs  to  his  lane  bed ; 
Naue  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare  head ; 
His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  airn, 
Au'  litheless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairu. 

Aueath  his  cauld  brow  siccau  dreams  hover  there, 
O'  bauds  that  wout  kindly  to  kame  his  dark  hair; 
But  moruin'  briugs  clutches,  a'  reckless  an'  stern, 
That  lo'e  uae  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Yon  sister,  that  sang  o'er  his  saftly-rocked  bed, 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  manimie  is  laid; 
The  fatlier  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn, 
An'  kens  ua'  the  Avrangs  o'  his  mitherless  bairu. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o'  his  birth, 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on  earth. 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi'  the  mitherless  bairn ! 

Oh,  speak  him  ua  harshly-:  be  trembles  the  while; 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile  : 
lu  their  dark  liour  o'  auguish  the  heartless  shall 

learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  bairn ! 


DREASIINGS  OF  THE  BEREAVED. 

The  morning  breaks  l)onny  o'er  moviutain  an' stream. 
An'  troubles  the  hallowed  breath  o'  my  dream  ; 
The  gowd  liglit  of  morning  is  sweot  to  the  e'e, 
But,  ghost-gathering  midnight,  thou'rt  dearer  to  me ! 
The  dull  common  world  then  sinks  from  my  sight, 
An'  ftiirer  creations  arise  to  the  night ; 
When  drowsy  oppression  has  sleep-sealed  my  e'e, 
Then  bright  are  the  visions  awakened  to  me ! 

Oh,  come,  spirit-mother!   discourse  of  the  hours 
My  young  bosom  beat  all  its  beating  to  yours, 
W^hen  heart-woven  wishes  in  soft  counsel  fell 
On  ears — how  uuheedful  proved  sorrow  might  tell! 
That  deathless  aftection  uae  trial  could  break ; 
When  a'  else  forsook  me,  ye  Avouldua  forsake  : 
Then  come,  O  my  mother !   come  often  to  me. 
An'  soon  an'  forever  I'll  come  unto  thee ! 

An'  then,  shrouded  loveliness!   soul-wiuning  Jean, 
How  cold  was  thy  Imud  on  my  bosom  yestreen ! 
'Twas  kind — for  the  lowe  that  your  e'e  kindled  there 
Will  burn,  ay,  an'  burn  till  that  breast  beat  nae  mair. 
Our  bairuies  sleep  round  me ;  oh,  bless  ye  their  sleep ! 
Your  ain  dark-e'ed  Willie  will  waukeu  an'  weep ! 
But,  blithe  in  his  weepin',  he'll  tell  me  how  yon, 
His  heaveu-hamed  mammie,  was  dautiu'  his  brow. 

Tho'  dark  be  our  dwalliu',  our  happin'  tho'  bare, 
Au'  night  closes  round  us  in  caulduess  an'  care, 
Aftection  will  warm  us — an'  bright  are  the  beams 
That  halo  our  hame  in  yon  dear  laud  o'  dreams : 
Then  weel  may  I  welcome  the  night's  deathy  reign, 
Wi'  souls  of  the  dearest  I  mingle  me  then ; 
The  gowd  light  of  moruing  is  lightless  to  me, 
But  oh  for  the  night  wi'  its  ghost  revehie ! 


Panics  3braljam  tjillljousc. 


Ilillhouse  (1789-1841)  was  a  native  of  New  Haven,  and 
a  graduate  of  Yale,  of  the  class  of  1808.  He  passed  three 
years  in  Boston,  preparing  for  a  mercantile  career.  The 
war  checked  his  enterprises,  and  he  betook  himself  to 
dramatic  composition.  After  the  peace  he  engaged  in 
commerce  in  New  York.  He  visited  England  in  1819; 
and  Zachary  Macaulay,  father  of  Lord  Macaulay,  spoke 
of  him  as  "the  most  accomplished  young  man  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted."  Witlidrawing  from  busi- 
ness, he  married,  and  removed  to  a  country-seat  near 
New  Haven,  where  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  passed 
iu  elegant  leisure.     There  he  produced  the  drama  of 


410 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Iliidad,"  published  in  1825.  It  is  written  with  consid- 
erable power,  and  shows  jrrcat  refinement  of  taste  and 
purity  oldietion.  In  it  the  machinery  of  the  supernat- 
ural is  introduced. 


INTERVIEW  OF  IIADAD  AND  TAMAK. 

From  "  Hadad." 
The  garden  of  Absalom's  hoioie  on   Mount  Zlon,  near 

the  jxtlaee  overlooking  the  eitij.     T.\jmai;  hHTukj  hy  a 

fountain. 

Tamar.  How  aromatic  evening  grows!    The  llowers 
And  spicy  shrubs  exhale  like  oiiycha; 
Spikenard  and  henna  emulate  iu  sweets. 
Blessed  hour!  which  lie,  who  fashioned  it  so  fair, 
So  softly  glowing,  so  contemplative, 
Hath  set,  and  sanctified  to  look  on  man. 
And  lo !   the  smoke  of  evening  sacrifice 
Ascends  from  out  the  tabernacle. — Heaven 
Accept  the  expiation,  and  forgive 
This  day's  offences! — Ha!  the  wonted  strain' 
Precursor  of  his  coming! — Whence  can  this? 
It  seems  to  flow  from  some  unearthly  hand — 

Enter  Hadad. 

Hadad.  Does  beauteous  Tamar  view  iu  this  clear 
fount 
Herself  or  heaveu  ? 

Tain.  Nay,  Hadad,  tell  me  whence 

Those  sad,  mysterious  sounds. 

Had.  What  sounds,  dear  princess? 

Tarn.  Surely,  thou   know'st ;    and  now  I   almost 
think 
Some  spiritual  creature  waits  on  thee. 

Had.  I  heard  no  sounds  but  such  as  evening  sends 
Up  from  the  city  to  these  quiet  shades — 
A  blended  murmur,  sweetly  liarmonizing 
With  flowing  fountains,  feathered  minstrelsy. 
And  voices  from  the  hills. 

Tarn.  The  sounds  I  mean 

Floated  like  mouriiiul  music  round  my  head 
From  unseen  lingers. 

Had.  When  ? 

Tarn.  Now,  as  thou  earnest. 

Had.  'Tis  but  tliy  fancy,  wrought 
To  ecstasy;    or  else  thy  graudsire's  harp 
Kesoundiug  from  his  tower  at  even-tide. 
I've  lingered  to  enjoy  its  solemn  tones 
Till  the  broad  moon,  that  rose  o'er  Olivet, 
Stood  listening  in  the  zenith;   yea,  have  deemed 
Viols  and  heavenly  voices  answer  him. 

Tarn.  But  these — 

Had.  Were  we  in  Syria,  I  might  say 

The  Naiad  of  the  fount,  or  some  sweet  nymph. 


The  goddess  of  these  shades,  rejoiced  in  thee, 
And  gave  thee  salutations;    but  I  fear 
Judah  would  call  mo  inlidel  to  Moses. 

Tarn.  How   like  my  fancy  I     WIumi   these  straius 
luecede 
Thy  steps,  as  oft  they  do,  I  love  to  think 
Some  gentle  being  who  delights  iu  us 
Is  hovering  near,  and  warns  me  of  thy  coming ; 
But  they  are  dirge-like. 

Had.  Youthful  fantasy 

Attuned  to  sadness  makes  them  seem  so,  lady ; 
So  evening's  charming  voices,  welcomed  ever 
As  signs  of  rest  and  peace; — the  watchman's  call, 
The  closing  gates,  the  Levite's  mellow  trump, 
Aunouncing  the  returning  moon,  the  pipe 
Of  swains,  the  bleat,  the  bark,  the  housing-bell, 
Send  melancholy  to  a  drooping  soul. 

Tarn.  But  how  delicious  are  the  pensive  dreams 
That  steal  upon  the  fancy  at  their  call ! 

Had.  Delicious  to  behold  the  world  at  rest ! 
Meek  labor  wipes  his  brow,  and  intermits 
The  curse  to  clasp  the  youuglings  of  his  cot ; 
Herdsmen   and  shepherds  fold  their  flocks,  —  and 

hark ! 
What  merry  straius  they  send  from  Olivet! 
The  jar  of  life  is  still;   the  city  speaks 
In  gentle  murmurs ;   voices  chime  with  lutes 
Waked  iu  the  streets  and  gardeus ;   loving  pairs 
Eye  the  red  west  iu  one  another's  arms ; 
And  nature,  breathing  dew  and  fragrance,  yields 
A  glimpse  of  happiness  which  He  who  formed 
Earth  and  the  stars  hath  power  to  make  eternal. 


llVilliam  linox. 

Knox  (1789-1S-3.5)  was  a  younu;  Scottish  poet  of  consid- 
erable talent,  who  died  in  Edinburgh,  and  was  the  autlioi- 
of  "The  Lonely  Heartli,"  "Songs  of  Zion,"  "The  Harp 
of  Zion,"  etc.  Sir  Walter  Scott  thus  mentions  him  in 
his  diary:  "His  father  was  a  respectable  yeoman,  and 
he  himself  succeeding  to  good  farms  luidcr  the  Duke  of 
Buceleuch,  became  too  soon  his  own  master,  and  plunged 
into  dissipation  and  ruin.  His  talent  then  showed  itself 
in  a  fine  strain  of  pensive  poetry."  Tlic  piece  we  quote 
was  a  favorite  with  Abraham  Lincoln,  President  cf  the 
United  States.  lie  often  referred  to  it.  Tlieie  are  sev- 
eral versions  of  the  poem.  We  have  given  the  most  au- 
thentic. 


OH  !  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL 
BE   PROUD? 

Oh!    why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 
Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 


JVILLIJM  EXOX.  — WILLIAM  GLEX. 


411 


A  flasU  of  tlic  ligbtuing,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Ho  passes  from  life  to  liis  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 

Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be  laid  ; 

Autl  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the 

higli 
Shall  iiiuulder  to  dust,  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  aftectiou  who  proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed, 
Each,  all,  are  awa}-  to  tlieir  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  oa  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose 

eye 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  the   memory  of  those   that  beloved  her  and 

praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn ; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave. 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  gi'ave. 

The  peasant,  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap  ; 
The  herdsman,  who  climbed  with  his  goats  to  the 

steep ; 
The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread. 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint,  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven  ; 
The  sinner,  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven  ; 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  tlie  guilty  and  just. 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  and  the  weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  that  our  fixthcrs  have  been  ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen  ; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fatlicrs  would 

think  ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would 

shrink ; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would  cling ; 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  ou  the  wing. 


They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold  ; 
Tlicy  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  hauglity  is  cold ; 
They  grieved,  but  iu>  Avail  fioni  their  slumbers  may 

come ; 
They  joyed,  but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died — ay,  they  died!  and  we,  things  tiiat  are 

now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode. 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  xiilgrimagc  road. 

Yea!   hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 
Are  mingled  together  like  sunshine  and  rain  ; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and  the  dirge 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  twink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breatli, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud  ; 
Oh !   why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 


lUilliam  (Dlcu. 


Among  Scottish  song-writers,  Glen  (1789-1826),  a  na- 
tive of  Glasgow,  acquired  considerable  popularity.  He 
was  well  educated,  and  bred  to  mercantile  pursuits,  re- 
siding for  some  time  iu  the  West  Indies.  But  he  was 
unfortunate  in  business,  and  his  life,  toward  its  close, 
was  clouded  by  destitution  and  dependence.  He  died 
of  consumption.  In  1815  he  published  "Poems,  chiefly 
Lyrical." 

WAE'S   ME   FOR  PEINCE   CHARLIE. 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha'  door. 

He  warbled  sweet  an'  clear!}-. 
An'  aye  the  owercome  o'  his  sang 

Was,  "Wae's  me  for  Px'ince  Charlie!" 
Oh  !   whan  I  heard  the  bonnie  soun', 

The  tears  cam'  drappin'  rarely; 
I  took  my  bannet  aff  my  head. 

For  weel  I  lo'ed  Prince  Charlie. 

Quoth  I,  "My  bird,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bird, 

Is  that  a  sang  yc  borrow  ? 
Are  these  some  words  ye've  learned  by  lieart. 

Or  a  lilt'  o'  dule  an'  sorrow  ?" 
"  Oh  no,  no,  no  !"   the  wee  bird  sang, 

"  I've  flown  sin'  mornin'  early, 
But  sic  a  day  o'  wind  and  rain  ! — - 

Oh  !   wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ! 

'  A  ballad  or  song ;  to  lilt,  to  sing. 


412 


CTCLOrJWIA    OF  BlllTlSH  AXD  A.MElllCAX  I'UETRY. 


"  Oil  hills  that  are  by  right  \ns  aiii, 

Ilii  roves  a  lanely  stranger; 
On  every  side  he's  pressed  by  waut — 

On  evcrj'  side  is  danger. 
Yestreen  I  met  him  in  a  gl*!n, 

My  heart  maist  burstit  fairly, 
For  sadly  changed  indeed  was  he — 

Ob !  wac's  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! 

"  Dark  night  cam'  on,  the  tempest  roared 

Lond  o'er  the  liills  an'  valleys ; 
An'  whare  was't  that  your  prince  lay  down, 

Whaso  hame  should  been  a  palace  ? 
lie  rowed  him  in  a  Highland  plaid, 

AVhich  covered  him  but  sparely, 
An'  slept  beneath  a  bush  o'  broom, — 

Oh  !   Avae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie !" 

But  now  the  bird  saw  some  red-coats, 

Au'  he  shook  his  wings  wi'  anger : 
"Oh!   this  is  no  a  laud  for  me, 

I'll  tarry  here  nae  lauger." 
He  hovered  on  the  wing  awhile, 

Ere  he  departed  fairly ; 
But  weel  I  mind  the  farewecl  strain 

Was,  "  Wae's  me  for  Priuce  Charlie !" 


Uicljarb  i)t\\x\\  lllilbc. 

Wilde  (1789-1847),  a  native  of  Dublin,  Ireland,  came 
to  America  in  1797,  and  settled  in  Georgia.  He  became 
attorney-general  of  that  State,  and  represented  it  in  Con- 
gress most  of  the  time  from  1815  to  1835.  He  was  a 
genial,  noble -hearted  gentleman,  with  decided  literary 
tastes.  We  have  pleasant  recollections  of  our  acquaint- 
ance with  him  in  Washington. 


SONNET:    TO   THE   MOCKING-BIRD. 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods!   thou  motley  fool! 
Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 
Thine  ever-ready  uotes  of  ridicule 
Pur-sue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe  : 
Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe. 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school ; 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scofling  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule ! 
For  such  thou  art  by  day, — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain. 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacc^ues  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


STANZAS. 

My  life  is  like  the  snnnner  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky. 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed. 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  ma  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief. 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat. 
All  trace  wiU  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race. 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea — 

But  none,  alas !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 


^Ici'aulicr  tyUl  (!:ncrctt. 


Everett  (ITDO-lS-tT)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  and  a 
graduate  of  Harvard.  He  entered  college  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  and  graduated  the  first  in  liis  class.  He  studied 
law  with  John  Quincy  Adams,  went  with  him  as  secre- 
tary of  legation  to  Russia  in  1809,  served  as  Minister  to 
Spain  in  1839,  and  on  his  return  home  edited  the  North 
American  Review.  He  was  President  of  Jetrcrson  College, 
Louisiana,  in  1811.  In  1840  he  went  to  Canton  as  United 
States  Minister  to  the  Chinese  Empire,  and  died  there  at 
the  age  of  fifty-seven.  He  was  a  lre<iuent  contributor 
to  the  Jioston  JlisceUany,  and  in  184G  published  two  vol- 
umes of  "Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays,  with  Poems."' 
He  was  a  brother  of  Edward  Everett  and  John,  both  of 
them  writers  of  poetry. 


THE   YOUNG  AMERICAN. 

Seion  of  a  mighty  stock  ! 
Hands  of  iron — hearts  of  oak — 
Follow  with  unflinching  tread 
Where  the  noble  fathers  led. 


ALEXANDER  HILL  EVEBETT.— THOMAS  DOUBLEDAY.—CnAllLES   WOLFE. 


413 


Craft  and  subtle  treachery, 
Gallant  youth !   are  not  for  thee  ; 
Follow  thou  in  word  and  deeds 
Where  the  God  within  thee  leads! 

Honesty  with  steady  eye, 
Truth  and  pure  simplicity, 
Love  that  gently  winneth  hearts,— 
These  shall  be  thy  only  arts  : 

Prudent  in  the  council  train, 
Dauntless  on  the  battle-jilaiu, 
Eeady  at  the  country's  need 
For  her  glorious  cause  to  bleed ! 

AYhere  the  dews  of  night  distil 
Upon  Vernon's  holy  hill ; 
Where  above  it,  gleaming  far, 
Freedom  lights  her  guiding  star : 

Thither  turn  the  steady  eye. 
Flashing  with  a  purpose  high  ; 
Thithei",  with  devotion  meet, 
Often  turn  the  pilgrim  feet ! 

Let  the  noble  motto  be, 
God, — the  Country — Liberty  ! 
Planted  on  Eeligion's  rock, 
Thou  shalt  stand  in  every  shock. 

Laugh  at  danger  far  or  near ! 
tSpuru  at  baseness— spurn  at  fear! 
Still,  with  persevering  might, 
Speak  the  truth,  and  do  the  right. 

So  shall  Peace,  a  charming  guest, 
Dove-like  in  thy  bosom  rest ; 
So  shall  Honor's  steady  blaze 
Beam  upon  thy  closing  daj's. 

Happy  if  celestial  favor 
Smile  upon  the  high  endeavor ; 
Happy  if  it  be  thj-^  call 
In  the  holy  cause  to  fall. 


(tljomas  PoublcLiar). 

Doubleday  (1790-1870),  a  native  of  England,  was  the 
associate  author  of  a  little  volume  of  verse  published  in 
1818,  and  entitled  "  Sixty-five  Sonnets  :  with  Prefatory 
Remarks  on  the  accordance  of  the  Sonnet  with  the  pow- 
ers of  the  English  Language.    Also  a  few  Miscellaneous 


Poems:"  the  joint  production  of  Doubleday  and  his 
cousin,  William  Greene.  Doubleday  afterward  rose  to 
eminence  as  a  writer  on  political,  social,  and  financial 
subjects. 


THE   WALLFLOWER. 

I  will  not  praise  the  often-flattered  rose. 
Or,  virgin-like,  with  blushing  charms  half  seen, 
Or  when,  in  dazzling  splendor,  like  a  (pieen. 
All  her  magnificence  of  state  she  shows ; 
No,  nor  that  nun-like  lily  which  but  blows 
Beneath  the  valley's  cool  and  shady  screen  ; 
Nor  yet  the  sunflower,  that  with  warrior  mien 
Still  eyes  the  orb  of  glory  where  it  glows ; 
But  thou,  neglected  wallflower !   to  my  breast 
And  Muse  art  dearest, — wildest,  sweetest  flower ! 
To  whom  alone  the  privilege  is  given 
Proudly  to. root  thyself  above  the  rest, 
As  Genius  does,  and  from  thy  rocky  tower 
Lend  fragrance  to  the  purest  breath  of  heaven. 


Cljarlcs  illolfc. 


Wolfe  (1791-1833)  was  a  native  of  Dublin.  On  the 
death  of  his  father,  his  mother  removed  to  England,  and 
placed  Charles  at  Hyde  Abbey  School,  in  Winchester, 
where  he  remained  till  1808,  when  the  family-  returned  to 
Ireland.  He  then  entered  Trinity  College,  where  he  ac- 
quired distinction  for  scholarship  and  literarj'  ability. 
In  1817  he  obtained  a  curacy  in  Tyrone.  His  incessant 
attention  to  his  parish  duties  undermined  his  delicate 
constitution,  and  he  died  young  of  consumption.  His 
lines  on  the  "Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore"  were  pro- 
nounced \)y  Byron  "the  most  perfect  ode  in  the  lan- 
guage." But  Wolfe's  song,  "Go,  forget  me,"  is  hardly 
less  deserving  of  praise.  It  is  unsurpassed  in  delicacy 
of  pathos,  and  has  been  wedded  to  appropriate  music. 
His  "Remains"  were  published  in  1S2G. 


THE   BURIAL   OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

He  was  killed  at  Corunna,  where  he  fell  iu  the  arms  of  vic- 
torj',  1809.  With  his  dj'iiig  breath  he  faltered  out  a  message  to 
his  mother.  Sir  John  Moore  had  ofieu  said  that  if  he  were  kill- 
ed iu  battle,  he  wished  to  be  buried  where  he  fell.  The  body 
was  removed  at  midnight  to  the  citadel  of  Corunna.  A  grave 
was  dug  for  him  on  the  rampart  there  by  a  party  of  the  nth  Reg- 
iment, the  aides-de-camp  attending  by  turns.  Tso  coffin  could 
be  procured ;  and  the  officers  of  his  staff  wrapped  the  body, 
dressed  as  it  was,  in  a  military  cloak  and  blankets.  The  inter- 
ment was  hastened,  for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing 
was  heard. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 


414 


CYCLOrJiDlA    OF  lililTISU  AND  AMERICAN  rOETKY. 


AVc  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  nij^ht, 
The  sods  with  our  hayouots  turnii);^  ; 

liy  the  stnij^f^liufj  inooubeanrs  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him  ; 

But  ho  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  wo  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  Ave  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  wc  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  iiillow. 

That  the  foo  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
bead, 
And  we  far  awaj'  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him  ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

Wo  carved  not  a  lino,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory! 


IF   I   HAD  THOUGHT. 

\i  I  had  thought  thou  conldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side. 

That  thou  conldst  mortal  be : 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  passed 

The  time  would  e'er  bo  oV-r, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shonldst  smile  no  more! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 
And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 

And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 
That  I  must  look  in  vain  : 


But,  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 
What  thou  ne'er  left'st  inisaid ; 

And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 
Sweet  Mary,  thou  art  dead! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  even  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  ])ress  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  : 
AVhile  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Tliou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 
But  there !   I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave, 

And  I  am  now  alone. 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me  ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  ; 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before. 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 


CO,  FORGET   ME. 

Go,  forget  me — why  should  sorrow 
O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 

Go,  forget  me — and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile  and  sweetlj'  sing. 

Smile — though  I  shall  not  be  near  thee  ; 

Sing — though  I  shall  never  hear  thee : 
May  thy  soul  Avith  pleasure  shine 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  suu,  thy  presence  glowing. 
Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light ; 

And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  goiug, 
Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 

All  things  looked  so  bright  about  thee, 

That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee; 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too  refined. 

Go,  thou  vision,  wildly  gleaming. 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell ; 
Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming — 

Hope  anil  Beauty!   faro  ye  Avell ! 
Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted — 

Glory's  burning,  generous  swell, 

Fancy,  and  the  Poet's  shell. 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


415 


Cljarlcs  Spraciuc. 


Spraguc  (17'.I1-187G)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  Mass.,  and 
entered  upon  mercantile  pursuits  at  an  early  age.  In 
1825  lie  became  cashier  of  the  Globe  Bank,  an  otiice  he 
lield  thirty-nine  years.  He  then  retired  from  active  life. 
His  literary  tastes  were  developed  early.  He  wrote  prize 
odes  for  the  opening  of  theatres,  and  delivered  a  poem, 
entitled  "Curiosity,"  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Soci- 
ety of  Harvard  College.  An  edition  of  his  collected 
poems  was  published  in  1876.  Upright,  generous,  and 
independent,  few  poets  have  been  more  respected  for 
moral  worth  and  nobility  of  character.  His  son,  Cliarles 
J.  Sprague  (born  1823),  seems  to  have  inherited  much  of 
his  father's  genius  and  worth. 


THE   WINGED  WORSHIPPERS. 

During  the  chiircli  service,  two  little  birds  flew  in  and  perched 
upon  the  cornices. 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  lieaveu  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  jierch  ye  here. 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  Aveep  ; 

Penance  is  not  for  yon, 
Bles.sed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays, 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Tlien  spread  each  wing 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands. 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd. 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 


'Twere  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed. 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY. 

To  the  sages  who  spoke,  to  the  heroes  who  bled, 
To  the  day  and  the  deed,  strike  the  harp-strings 
of  glory ! 
Let  the  song  of  the  ransonictl  remember  the  dead, 
And  the  tongue  of  the  eloquent  hallow  the  story ! 
O'er  the  bones  of  the  bold 
Be  that  story  long  told. 
And  on  Fame's  golden   tablets    their   triumphs 
enrolled 
Who   on   Freedom's  green   hills  Freedom's  banner 

unfurled. 
And  the  beacon-fire  raised  that  gave  light  to  the 
world ! 

They  are  gone — mighty  men! — and  they  sleep  in 
their  fame  : 
Shall  we  ever  forget  them  ?    Oh,  never !  no,  never ! 
Let  our  sous  learn  from  us  to  embalm  each  great 
name, 
And  the  anthem  send  down — "Independence  for- 
ever !" 

Wake,  Avake,  heart  and  tongue ! 
Keep  the  theme  ever  young  ; 
Let  their  deeds  through  the  long   line   of  ages 
be  sung 
Who   on  Freedom's  green   hills  Freedom's  banner 

unfurled, 
And  the  beacon-fire  raised  that  gave  light  to  the 
world ! 


SHAKSPEARE. 

FROM  AX  ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  SHAKSPEARE  CELEBRA- 
TION IN   BOSTON,  MASS.,  IN  1823. 

Then  Shaksiieare  rose  ! — 
Across  the  trembling  strings  < 

His  daring  hand  he  flings, 
And  lo  !   a  new  creation  glows  ! — 
There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vas.sal  train  his  high  commands  fulfil. 

Madness,  with  his  frightful  scream  ; 

Vengeance,  leaning  on  his  lance  ; 
Avarice,  with  his  blade  and  beam  ; 

Hatred,  blasting  with  a  glance ; 


416 


CTCLOPJiDIA   OF  BRlTISn  AND  AMElilCJX  POETIiY. 


Remorse,  tliat  weeps ;  and  Rage,  tliat.  roars ; 
And  Jealonsj',  tliat  dotes,  but  dooms  and  murders, 
yet  adores. 

Mirtli,  his  face  with  sunbeams  lit, 
Waking  Laughter's  merry  swell. 

Arm-in-arm  with  fresh-eyed  Wit, 
That  waves  his  tingling  lash  while  Folly  shakes 
his  bell. 

Despair,  that  haunts  the  gurgling  stream, 
Kissed  by  the  virgin  moon's  cold  beam. 
Where  some  lost  maid  wild  chaplets  wreathes, 
And,  swan-like,  there  her  own  dirge  breathes ; 
Then,  broken-hearted,  sinks  to  rest 
Beueath  the  bubbling  wave  that  shrouds  her  ma- 
niac breast. 

Young  Love,  with  eye  of  tender  gloom. 
Now  drooping  o'er  the  hallowed  tomb 
Where  his  plighted  victims  lie. 
Where  they  met,  but  met  to  die ; 
And  now,  when  crimson  buds  are  sleeping, 

Through  the  dewy  arbor  peeping, 
Where  beauty's  child,  the  frowning  world  forgot, 
To  youth's  devoted  tale  is  listening, 
Kapture  on  her  dark  lash  glisteniug, 
While  fairies  leave  their  cowslip  cells,  and  guard 
the  happy  spot. 

Thus  rise  the  phantom  throng, 
Obedient  to  their  master's  song, 
And  lead  in  willing  chain  the  wondering  soul  along! 


I   SEE   TIIEE   STILL. 

I  see  thee  still ! 
Remembrance,  faithful  to  lior  trust. 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou'rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night ; 
lu  dreams  I  meet  thee  as  of  old, 
Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear : 
In  every  scene  to  memory  dear 

I  see  thee  still ! 

I  see  thee  still 
In  every  hallowed  token  round : 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound. 


This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 
Tins  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided  ; 
These  llowers,  all  withered  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me; 
Tliis  book  was  thine — here  didst  thou  read  ; 
This  picture — ah  yes!   here  indeed 
I  see  thee  still ! 

I  see  thee  si  ill ! 
Here  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat. 
Here  was  thy  favorite  fireside  seat; 
This  was  thy  chamber — here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watched  thy  sad  decay; 
llcic,  oil  lliis  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie — 
Here,  on  this  pillow,  thou  didst  die ! 
Dark  hour !   once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 
As  then  I  saw  thee  pale  and  cold, 

I  see  thee  still ! 

I  see  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined — 
Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  mind  ; 
Let  earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
IJut  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust: 
Thee,  O  my  sister !   'tis  not  thee, 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone  : 
There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still ! 


fjcnrn  i^avi  illilnmn. 

Milman  (1791-18C8),  the  son  of  an  eminent  physician, 
was  a  native  of  London.  At  Oxford  he  distinguished 
himself  as  a  classical  scholar,  and  took  a  prize  for  his 
poem  on  the  Apollo-Belvidcre.  Having  studied  for  tlie 
Church,  he  was  made  dean  of  St.  Paul's  in  1849.  lie  first 
appeared  as  an  author  in  1817,  in  his  tragedy  of"  Fazio," 
produced  at  Drury  Lane,  February  .5th,  1818,  and  after- 
ward revived  with  great  success  by  the  acting  of  Fanny 
Kcnible  botli  in  England  and  the  United  States.  Mibnan 
wrote  otlicr  dramatic  pieces:  "Samor"  (1818);  "The  Fall 
of  Jerusalem"  (1820);  "Bclshazzar"  (1822);  "The  Martyr 
ofAulioch"(lS23);  and  "AnncBolcyn"  (1826);  also  sev- 
eral niiiior  poems.  lie  was  the  author  of  a  "  History  of 
the  Jews"  and  a  "History  of  Christianity,"  both  highly 
esteemed  works.  As  a  poet  he  shows  high  culture  and  a 
refined  literary  taste.  As  a  man  he  was  greatly  beloved 
by  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances.  His  histories  gave  rise 
to  controversy.  He  was  accused  of  treating  the  Bible  as 
a  philosophical  inquirer  would  treat  any  profane  work 
of  antiquity— as  having  ascribed  to  natural  causes  events 
which  the  Scriptures  declare  to  be  miraculous,  and  as 
having,  therefore,  unwittingly  contributed  to  subvert  the 
bulwarks  of  the  faith  he  was  bound  to  defend. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


417 


THE   APOLLO-BELYIDEKE.' 

NEWDIGATE   PRIZE   POEM,  WRITTEN  DURING  THE   AU- 
THOR'S  UNIVERSITY  COURSE. 

Heard  ye  the  arrow  hurtle  in  tlie  sky  ? 

Heard  ye  the  dragou-niouster's  deathful  ery  ? 

lu  settled  majesty  of  calm  disdaiu, 

Proud  of  his  might,  yet  scornful  of  the  slaiu, 

The  heavenly  Archer  stands, — no  human  birth, 

No  perishable  denizen  of  earth  : 

Youth  blooms  immortal  in  his  beardless  face, 

A  god  in  strength,  Avith  more  than  godlike  grace ; 

All,  all  divine — no  struggling  muscle  glows, 

Through  heaving  vein  no  mantling  life-blood  flows, 

But  animate  with  deity  alone. 

In  deathless  glory  lives  the  breathing  stone. 

Bright  kindling  with  a  conqueror's  stern  delight. 
His  keen  eye  tracks  the  arrow's  fateful  flight ; 
Burns  his  indignant  cheek  with  vengeful  fire. 
And  his  lip  quivers  with  insulting  ire  ; 
Firm  fixed  his  tread,  yet  light,  as  when  on  high 
He  walks  the  impalpable  and  pathless  sky ; 
The  rich  luxuriance  of  his  hair,  confined 
In  graceful  ringlets,  wantons  on  the  wind, 
That  lifts  in  sport  his  mantle's  di"oopiug  fold. 
Proud  to  display  that  form  of  faultless  mould. 
Mighty  Ephesian!"   with  an  eagle's  flight 
TLy  proud  soul  mounted  through  the  fields  of  light, 
Viewed  the   bright   conclave   of  Heaven's  blessed 

abode, 
And  the  cold  marble  leaped  to  life  a  god  ; 
Contagious  awe  through  breatldess  myriads  ran. 
And  nations  bowed  before  the  Tvork  of  man. 
For  mild  he  seemed,  as  in  Elysian  bowers, 
Wasting  in  careless  ease  the  joyous  hours ; 
Haughty,  as  bards  have  sung,  with  princely  sway 
Curbing  the  fierce  flame-breathing  steeds  of  day; 
Beauteous  as  vision  seen  in  dreamy  sleep. 
By  holy  maid  on  Delphi's  haunted  steep, 
'Mid  the  dim  twilight  of  the  laurel  gi'ove, 
Too  fair  to  worship,  too  divine  to  love. 

Yet  on  that  form,  in  -wild,  delirious  trance, 
With  more  than  reverence  gazed  the  Maid  of  France. 
Day  after  day  the  love-sick  dreamer  stood 
With  him  alone,  nor  thought  it  solitude ; 
To  cherish  grief,  her  last,  her  dearest  care, 
Her  one  fond  hope, — to  perish  of  despair. 
Oft  as  the  shifting  light  her  sight  beguiled, 
Blushing  she  shrank,  and  thought  the  marble  smiled ; 

'  The  Apollo  Is  in  the  act  of  watching  the  arrow  wilh  which 
he  slew  the  serpent  Python. 
"  Agasias  of  Ephesus. 

27 


Oft  breathless  listening  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
A  voice  of  music  melt  upon  her  ear. 
Slowly  she  waned,  and  cold  and  senseless  grown, 
dosed  her  dim  eyes,  herself  benumbed  to  stone. 
Yet  love  in  death  a  sickly  strength  supplied, 
Once  more  she  gazed,  then  feebly  smiled,  and  died.' 


STANZAS.  *  *  *  MAY  22,  1837. 

Founded  on  an  incident  at  the  grave  of  Sophia  Lockhart, 
daughter  of  Sir  Walter  Scott:— Mr.  Milniau  having  read  the 
service  on  the  occasion. 

Over  that  solemn  pageant  mute  and  dark, 
Where  in  the  grave  we  laid  to  rest 
Heaven's  latest,  not  least  welcome  guest. 

What  didst  thou  on  the  wing,  thou  jocund  lark ! 
Hovering  in  nnrebnked  glee. 
And  carolling  above  that  mournful  company? 

Oh,  thou  light-loving  and  melodious  bird ! 
At  every  sad  and  solemn  fall 
Of  mine  own  voice — each  interval 

In  the  soul-elevating  prayer,  I  heard 
Thy  quivering  descant  full  and  clear — 
Discord  not  unharmonious  to  the  ear. 

We  laid  her  there — the  Minstrel's  darling  child! 
Seemed  it  then  meet  that,  borne  away 
From  the  close  city's  dubious  day, 
Her  dirge  should  be  thy  native  wood-note  wild  ? 
Nui'sed  upon  Nature's  lap,  her  sleep 
Should  be  where  birds  may  sing  and  dewy  flowers 
weep. 

Ascendest  thou,  air-wandering  messenger. 
Above  us  .slowly  lingering  yet. 
To  bear  our  deep,  our  mute  regret — 
To  Avaft  upon  thy  faithful  wing  to  her 
The  husband's  fondest,  last  farewell — 
Love's   final   parting   pang,  the   unspoke,  the    un- 
speakable ? 

Or  didst  thou  rather  chide  with  thy  blithe  voice 
Our  selfish  grief,  that  would  delay 
Her  passage  to  a  brighter  day  ; 

Bidding  us  mourn  no  longer,  but  rejoice 

That  it  hath  heavenward  flown,  like  thee — 
That  spirit  from  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow  free  ? 


1  The  foregoing  fact  is  related  in  the  work  of  M.  Pinel  on 
Insanity. 


418 


CYCLOrJWIA    OF  BRlTlSn  AND  AMEIiWAX  VOETRY. 


I  watched  tliee  lessening,  lessening  to  the  sight, 
Still  faint  and  fainter  winnowing 
The  snnshino  with  thy  dwindling  wing — 

A  speck,  a  movement  in  the  inHled  light, 
Till  thoii  wert  melted  in  the  sky. 
An  nudistinguished  part  of  bright  inlinity. 

Meet  emblem  of  that  lightsome  spirit  thon  I 
That  still,  wherever  it  might  come. 
Shed  snnshino  o'er  that  happy  home  ; 
Her  task  of  kindliness  and  gladness  now 
Absolv^^d,  with  the  element  above 
Ilath    mingled,  and   become   pnrc   light,  pure  joy, 
pnre  love. 


THE  LOVE   OF  GOD. 

TWO   SONNETS. 
I. 

Love  Thee ! — O  Thon,  the  world's  eternal  Sire ! 

Whose  palace  is  the  vast  infinity. 

Time,  space,  height,  depth,  O    God !    are    fnll   of 

Thee, 
And  sun-eyed  seraphs  tremble  and  admire. 
Love  Thee ! — but  Thon  art  girt  with  vengefid  fire, 
And  mountains  quake,  and  banded  nations  tlee. 
And  terror  shakes  the  wide  unfathomed  sea, 
When  the  heaven's  rock  -with  thy  tempestuous  ire. 
O  Thon  !  too  vast  for  thought  to  comprehend, 
That  wast  ere  time, — shalt  be  when  time  is  o'er; 
Ages  and  worlds  begin — grow  old — and  end. 
Systems  and  suns  thy  changeless  throne  before. 
Commence  aud  close  their  cycles : — lost,  I  bend 
To  earth  my  prostrate  soul,  and  shudder  and  adore! 


Love  Thee! — oh,  clad  in  human  lowliness, 

— In  whom  each  heart  its  mortal  kindred  knows — 

Our  flesh,  our  form,  our  tears,  our  pains,  our  woes, — 

A  fellow-wanderer  o'er  earth's  Avilderuess! 

Love   Tliee !    whose    every    word   but  breathes   to 

bless  ! 
Through  Tliee,  from  long-.sealed  lips,  glad  language 

ilows  ; 
The  blind  their  eyes,  that  laugh  with  light,  unelo.se  ; 
And  babes,  niichid.  Thy  garment's  hem  caress. 
— I  see  Thee,  doomed  by  bitterest  pangs  to  die, 
Tp  the  sad  hill,  with  willing  footsteps,  move. 
With  scourge,  and  taunt,  and  wanton  agony, 
While  the  cross  uods,  in  hideous  gloom,  above, 
Though  all — even  there — be  radiant  Deity! 
— Speechless  I  gaze,  and  my  whole  soul  is  Love ! 


fni^ia  Cjunthj   iciiijourncri. 


Mrs.  Sigourney  (17'.)l-18G.j)  was  a  native  of  Norwidi, 
Conn.  She  was  a  most  prolific  writer  of  prose  and 
verse,  but  excelled  rather  in  tlie  former.  She  fdlcd  a 
large  space  in  American  literature,  and  her  writings  all 
have  a  salutary  moral  tcnclcnej'.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Lydia  Howard  Ilunlly. 


AUGUST   11:    THE   BLESSED  KAIX. 

"Thou,  O  God,  didst  send  a  plentiful  rain,  whereby  thou  didst 
couflrm  thine  inheritance  when  it  was  weary." — Pealiii  lxviii.9. 

I  marked  at  morn  the  thirsty  earth, 

By  lingering  drought  oppressed, 
Like  sick  man  in  his  fever  heat, 

With  parching  brow  and  breast; 
But  evening  brought  a  cheering  sound 

Of  music  o'er  the  pane — 
The  voice  of  heavenly  showers  that  said. 

Oh,  blcssdd,  blessed  rain  ! 

The  pale  and  suffocating  jdants 

That  bowed  them.selves  to  die 
Imbibed  the  pnre,  reprieving  drops, 

Sweet  gift  of  a  pitying  sky; 
The  fern  and  heath  upon  the  rock, 

And  the  daisy  on  the  jdain, 
Each  whispered  to  (heir  new-born  buds. 
Oh,  blessed,  blessed  rain  ! 

The  herds  that  o'er  the  wasted  fields 

Koanu'd  with  dejected  eye 
To  find  their  verdant  pa.stnre  brown. 

Their  crystal  brooklet  dry. 
Rejoiced  within  the  mantling  pool 

To  stand  refreshed  again, 
Each  infant  ripple  leaping  high 

To  meet  the  blessed  rain. 

The  farmer  sees  his  crisping  corn, 

Whose  tassels  swept  the  ground, 
Uplift  once  more  a  stately  head, 

AVith  hopeful  beauty  crowned; 
While  the  idly  lingering  water-wheel. 

Where  the  miller  ground  his  grain. 
Turns  gayly  round,  with  a  dashing  sound, 

At  the  touch  of  the  blessdd  rain. 

Lord,  if  our  drooping  souls  too  long 
Should  close  their  upward  wing, 

And  the  adhesive  dust  of  earth 
All  darkly  round  them  cling, — 


LYDIA   IIISTLY  SIGOURXEY.— THOMAS  LYLE. 


419 


Send  tbou  such  showers  of  qiiickeiiiiu 

That  the  augelic  train 
Shall  to  our  grateful  shout  respoiid. 

Oh,  bless«5cl,  blessed  raiu ! 


INDIAN  NAMES. 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away — 

That  noble  race  aud  brave  ; 
That  their  light  cauoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave  ; 
That  'mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed 

There  rings  uo  hunter's  shout ; 
But  their  uame  is  ou  your  waters — 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curled  ; 
"Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world ; 
"Where  red  Missouri  briugeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  "West, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

Ou  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  saj'  their  cone-like  cabins. 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale. 
Have  fled  away  like  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale  : 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  liills, 

Their  baptism  ou  your  shore ; 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Upon  her  lordly  crown. 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown  ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

"Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
Aud  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachuset  hides  its  lingering  voice 

"Within  his  rocky  heart, 
Aud  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart ; 
Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust ; 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


Ye  call  these  red-browed  brethren 

The  insects  of  an  hour, 
Crushed  like  the  noteless  worm  amid 

The  regions  of  their  ]iower ; 
Ye  drive  them  from  their  fathers'  lauds, 

Ye  break  of  faith  the  seal ; 
But  can  ye  from  the  court  of  Heaven 

Exclude  their  last  appeal  ? 

Ye  see  their  unresisting  tribes, 

With  toilsome  step  and  slow, 
Ou  through  the  trackless  desert  pass, 

A  caravan  ♦f  woe  : 
Think  ye  the  Eternal  Ear  is  deaf? 

His  .sleepless  A'ision  dim  ? 
Think  ye  the  soul's  blood  may  not  cry 

From  that  far  land  to  him  ? 


itijomas  Cijlc. 


Lyle  (1793-18.59)  was  a  native  of  Paisley.  Scotland.  In 
1816  he  was  admitted  to  practice  as  a  surgeon.  His  fa- 
vorite study  was  botany.  lie  loved  to  ramble  along  the 
banks  of  the  Kelvin,  some  two  miles  north-west  of  Glas- 
gow, where  he  wrote  bis  one  famous  song,  founded  on 
one  of  older  date,  commencing, 

"Oh,  the  shearing's  uae  for  you,  bouuie  lassie,  O  !' 


KELVIN   GROVE. 

Let  us  haste  to  Kelvin  Grove,  bonnie  lassie,  0 ! 
Through  its  mazes  let  us  rove,  bonnie  lassie,  O  ! 

Where  the  rose  in  all  her  pride 

Paints  the  hollow  dingle-side. 
Where  the  midnight  fairies  glide,  bonnie  lassie,  O ! 

Let  us  wander  by  the  mill,  bonnie  lassie,  O  ! 
To  the  cove  beside  the  rill,  bonnie  lassie,  01 

Where  the  gleus  rebound  the  call 

Of  the  roaring  water's  fall, 
Through  the  mountaiu's  rocky  hall,  bonnie  lassie,  O I 

Though  I  dare  not  call  thee  mine,  bonnie  lassie,  O! 
As  the  smile  of  fortune's  thine,  bonnie  lassie,  O  I 

Yet,  with  fortune  on  my  side, 

I  could  stay  thy  father's  pride. 
And  win  thee  for  my  bride,  bonnie  lassie,  01 

But  the  frowns  of  fortune  lower,  bonnie  lassie,  O  I 
On  thy  lover  at  this  hour,  bonnie  lassie,  O! 
Ere  yon  golden  orb  of  day 
Wake  the  warblers  on  the  spray, 
From  this  laud  I  must  away,  bonnie  lassie,  O ! 


420 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlien  farewell  to  Kelvin  Grove,  bonuio  lassie,  O ! 

Aiul  adieu  to  all  I  love,  bouuie  lassie,  O! 
To  the  river  winding  clear, 
To  the  fiaf;;rant-scented  brere, 

Even  to  thee,  of  all  most  dear,  boniiio  lassie,  O  ! 

When  upon  a  foreign  shore,  bonnie  lassie,  O ! 
Should  I  fall  'mid  battle's  roar,  bonnie  lassie,  O! 

Then,  Helen,  shonldst  thou  hear 

Of  thy  lover  on  his  bier. 
To  Lis  memory  shed  a  tear,  bonuio  lassie,  O ! 


llVilliam  ().  (LimroD. 


■\Villiam,  the  father  of  tlie  more  distinguished  Henry 
Timrod,  was  born  on  a  phintation  not  far  from  Charles- 
ton, S.  C,  in  1793.  He  was  of  German  descent.  While 
yet  a  boy,  he  chose  tlic  trade  of  a  bookbinder,  and  be- 
came a  skilled  meclnmic,  but  afterward  held  an  honora- 
ble position  in  the  Charleston  Custom-house.  He  had 
rare  conversational  abilities,  and  was  well  versed  in  Eng- 
lish belles-lettres.  In  the  Nullification  Controversy  of 
1832-1833,  he  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Union  with  in- 
trepid zeal.  In  1S30  he  went  to  St.Augustine  as  the  cap- 
tain of  a  militia  company,  to  repel  the  attacks  of  Indians. 
In  this  expedition  he  contracted  disease  from  exposure, 
and  died  in  1838. 


TO   IIAKRY. 

Harry,  my  little  blue-eyed  boy, 
I  love  to  hear  thee  playing  near ; 

There's  music  in  thy  shouts  of  joy 
To  a  fond  futher'.s  ear. 

I  love  to  see  the  lines  of  mirth 

Mantle  thy  cheek  and  forehead  fair. 

As  if  all  plea-sures  of  the  earth 
Had  met  to  revel  there  : 

For,  gazing  on  thee,  do  I  sigh 

That  these  most  happy  hours  will  flee, 
And  thy  full  share  of  misery 

Must  fall  in  life  on  thee ! 

Tliero  is  no  lasting  grief  below. 

My  Harry,  that  tlows  not  from  guilt: 

Thou  canst  not  read  my  meaning  now, — 
In  after-times  thou  wilt. 

Thou'lt  read  it  wlien  the  ehnreh  yard  clay 
Shall  lie  upon  thy  father's  breast ; 

And  he,  though  dead,  will  i)oint  the  way 
Tliou  shalt  be  always  blessed. 


They'll  tell  thee  this  terrestrial  ball. 
To  man  for  his  enjoyment  given. 

Is  but  a  state  of  sinful  thrall 
To  keep  the  soul  from  heaven. 

My  boy!   the  verdure-crowndd  hills, 

Tlie  vale  where  flowers  inuumerons  blow. 

The  music  of  ten  thousand  rills 
Will  tell  thee  'tis  not  so. 

God  is  no  tyrant,  who  would  spiead 
Unnumbered  dainties  to  tlie  eyes. 

Yet  teach  the  hungering  child  to  dread 
That  touching  them  he  dies ! 

Xo  I   all  can  do  his  creatures  good 

He  scatters  round  with  hand  profuse — 

The  only  precept  understood, 
'•  Enjoy,  but  not  abuse  !" 


JJcrrii  Urjssljc  SljcUcij. 

Unsurpassed  in  genius  among  England's  lyric  poets, 
Shelley,  the  son  of  a  baronet,  was  born  at  his  father's 
seat,  Field  Place,  near  Horsham,  in  Sussex,  August  4th, 
1702.  When  ten  years  of  age,  he  was  put  to  a  public 
school — Sion  House— where  he  was  harshly  treated  both 
by  teachers  and  school-fellows.  At  Eton  his  sensitive 
spirit  was  again  outraged  by  ill-usage  under  the  fagging 
system  then  tolerated.  Hence  he  early  conceived  a  bitter 
hatred  for  all  forms  of  oppression,  and  resistance  to  estab- 
lished authority  grew  almost  to  a  principle.  In  the  ex- 
quisite introduction  to  his  "  Revolt  of  Islam,"  addressed 
to  liis  second  wife,  he  refers  to  these  early  intluences. 

At  Oxford,  Shelley  studied  hard,  but  irregularly,  and 
spent  much  of  his  leisure  in  chemical  experiments.  In 
conjunction  with  a  fellow-collegian,  Mr.  Hogg,  he  com- 
posed a  small  treatise,  "The  Necessity  of  Atheism;" 
and  the  result  was  that  both  the  heterodox  students 
were,  in  1811,  expelled  from  college. 

"At  the  age  of  seventeen,"  says  Mrs.  Shelley,  "fragile 
in  health  and  frame,  of  the  purest  luibits  in  morals,  full 
of  devoted  generosity  and  universal  kindness,  resolved, 
at  every  personal  sacrifice,  to  do  right,  burning  with  a 
desire  for  affection  and  sympathy,  he  was  treated  as  a 
reprobate,  cast  forth  as  a  criminal."  At  eighteen  he  pro- 
duced his  atheistical  poem  of  "Queen  Mab,"  abounding 
in  passages  of  great  beauty,  and  showing  a  woudeifully 
precocious  intellect.  At  nineteen  he  made  an  imprudent 
marriage,  for  which  he  was  cast  oft"  by  his  family.  After 
the  birth  of  two  children,  he  was  separated  from  bis  wife, 
and  went  abroad.  Shortly  after  liis  retvn-n  to  England  in 
181G,  his  wife  committed  suicide,  which  subjected  Shelley 
to  much  obloquy  and  misrepresentation.  He  contracted 
a  second  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Godwin,  author 
of  "Caleb  Williams,"  and  in  1818  quitted  England,  never 
to  return. 


PERCY  BTSSHE  SHELLEY. 


421 


Besides  "Queen  Mab,"  Shelley  had  written  "Alastor; 
or,  The  Spirit  of  Solitude,"  remarkable  for  beauty  and 
picturesqueness  of  dietion  and  boldness  of  imagination  ; 
also,  "  The  Revolt  of  Islam."  In  181'J  appeared  his  trag- 
edy of  "The  Cenei,"  full  of  passion  and  power.  In  Ita- 
ly he  renewed  his  acquaintanee  with  Byron,  who  thought 
Shelley's  philosophy  "too  spiritual  and  romantic."  In 
1821  Shelley  wrote  his  noble  poem  of  "  Adonais  "  on  the 
death  of  Keats.  The  next  year— 1822 — was  the  last  of 
Shelley's  own  life.  He  had  ended  his  lament  for  Keats 
with  a  foreboding — 

"What  Adouais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become?" 

Indeed,  there  is  something  startlingly  prophetic  of  the 
very  incidents  of  his  own  death  in  the  concluding  lines 
of  this  extraordinary  poem  : 

"Tlie  soft  sky  smiles;   the  low  wind  whispers  near. 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  ;    oh,  hasten  tliither  ! 
No  more  let  life  divide  what  death  can  join  together." 

"My  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng, 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given. 
The  massy  earth,  the  sphered  sliies  are  riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully  afar : 
While,  barning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven. 
The  sou!  of  Adonais,  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal  are." 

The  very  character  of  the  tempest  in  which  Shelley  went 
down  in  his  sail-boat  seems  to  be  here  prefigured. 

Shelley's  favorite  amusement  had  been  boating  and 
sailing ;  and,  while  returning  one  day — July  8th,  1822 — 
from  Leghorn — whither  he  had  gone  to  welcome  Leigh 
Hunt  to  Ital5-^tlic  boat  in  which  he  sailed,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Williams  and  a  single  seaman,  went  down  in  the 
Baj'  of  Spezia,  in  a  sudden  thunder-storm,  and  all  per- 
ished. A  volume  of  Kcats's  poetry  was  found  open  in 
Shelley's  coat-pocket  when  his  body  was  washed  ashore. 
In  accordance  with  his  own  desire,  the  body,  when  re- 
covered, was  burnt  on  the  beach,  and  the  ashes  were  in- 
terred at  Rome. 

Whatever  his  speculative  beliefs  may  have  been,  Shel- 
ley, in  pursuing  the  ideals  he  did,  showed  that  he  was 
no  atheist  at  heart.  That  he  believed  intuitively  and  in- 
tensely in  a  conscious  immortality,  is  evident  from  one 
of  his  letters  to  Godwin,  and  from  many  passages  in  his 
poems.  His  belief  in  absolute  goodness  must  have  led 
him  logically,  at  last,  to  belief  in  a  Supreme  Spirit  of 
good ;  but  the  early  despotism  he  had  encountered  and 
striven  against  for  the  free  opinions  of  his  youth  proba- 
bly had  its  eficct  in  biassing  his  will  against  his  own  in- 
tuitional convictions.  That  he  would  eventually  have 
emerged  into  a  state  of  mind  far  different  from  that  of 
his  immature  years,  is  more  tlian  probable.  "Poetry," 
he  says,  "redeems  from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  di- 
vinity in  man."  That  thought  could  hardly  have  been 
uttered  by  one  logically  or  emotionally  an  atheist.  In- 
deed, his  is  an  atheism  that  may  be  subjected  to  endless 
confutation  froiu  his  own  best  utterances. 

One  of  his  recent  biographers  (Mr.  J.  A.  Symonds)  saj-s 
of  him  :  "He  composed  with  all  his  faculties,  mental, 
emotional,  and  physical,  at  the  utmost  strain,  at  a  white- 
heat  of  intense  fervor,  striving  to  attain  the  truest  and 


most  passionate  investiture  for  the  thoughts  which  had 
intlamed  his  ever  (luick  imagination.  The  result  is  that 
his  finest  work  has  more  the  stamp  of  something  natural 
and  elemental — the  wind,  the  sea,  the  depth  of  air — than 
of  a  mere  artistic  product." 

The  accuracy  of  this  description  is  strikingly  manifest 
in  "Adonais."  There  is  a  tradition  that  no  publisher 
would  accept  this  poem,  and  he  was  at  last  obliged  to 
publish  it  at  his  own  expense  in  the  old  Italian  city  of 
Pisa.  The  other  day  a  stray  single  copy  of  this  first 
edition  of  the  "Adonais"  was  sold  for  $50. 


THE   CLOUD. 

I  bring  frcsli  showers  for  the  thirsting  tlowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

111  their  iioouday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  wakeu 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
Wheu  rocked  to  rest  ou  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  snu. 
I  v\ield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  -whiten  the  green  plains  under; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snoY^"  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Liglitniug  my  pilot  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettereil  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion 

This  pilot  is  gnidiug  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  i)urple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

While  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

AVhen  the  morning-star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 


422 


VYCLOrJiDIA    OF  JililTISII  AM)   AMKIilVAX  POETRY. 


And  wlion    Riinaet  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea 

l»'iH';itli 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  lovo, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  Avings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbM  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glinmiering  o'er  n)y  lleeee-like  floor. 

By  the  midniglit  breezes  strewn. 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

TIio  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl ; 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  colnmus  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  throngh  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When    the   powers   of  the   air   are   chained  to   my 
chair. 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds   and  siinbcanis,  with   their   convex 
gleams, 
IJuild  up  till'  bine  don»o  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


STANZAS, 

WUITTKN   IN   DIMIXTION,  NEAIJ  NAPLES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  an<l  bright ; 
Blue  i.sles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  light ; 
The  breath  of  the  luoist  air  is  light 

Around  its  unexpauded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  Aoice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods. 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  disscdved  in  star-showers,  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone  ; 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  oceau 
Ls  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas!    I  have  nor  hope  nor  health. 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  Avalked  with  inward  glory  crowned, — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Other  I  see  whom  these  surround, — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; — 
To  nu>  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear. 

Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 
They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 

Wlidiii  men  love  not — and  yet  regret, 
I'niike  this  day,  wliieli,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


423 


THE  FUGITIVES. 


Tho  ■naters  are  flasbiiiiyf, 
The  white  liail  is  dashiiij^, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing — 
Away ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging. 
The  minster  bells  ringing — 
Come  away ! 

The  Earth,  is  like  Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion 
Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm- 
Come  away ! 


"Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale  ; — 
A  bold  pilot,  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now," — 
Shouted  he — 

And  she  cried  :    "  Ply  the  oar ! 
Put  off  gayly  from  shore  !" — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death. 
Mixed  with  hail,  siiecked  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke  ; 
And,  though  dumb  iu  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 
From  the  lee. 


"And  fear'st  thou,  and  foar'st  thou  ? 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea — 
I  and  thou?" 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low  ;  — 


While  around  tho  lashed  Ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion. 
Is  Avithdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shattered,  and  shifted 
To  and  fro. 


In  the  court  of  the  fortress, 
Beside  the  pale  portress. 
Like  a  blood-hound  well  beaten, 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame ; 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father — 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  e'er  clung  to  child. 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 
Of  his  name ! 


TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 
(Bird  thou  never  wert) 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  eartb  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  tire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And    singing    still    dost    soar,   and    soaring    ever 
siugest. 

Iu  tho  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run. 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


424 


CYCLOP JEDI A    OF  BRiriSH  AXD   AMERICAN  POETRY 


Kcon  as  aro  the  arrows 

Of  that  silviT  sidiorc, 
"Wlioso  iuteuso  lainii  narrows 

111  the  white  dawn  tlt-ar, 
Uutil  wc  Lardly  sec, — wc  i\'A  tliat  it  is  tliore. 

All  the  oartii  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  wheu  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The    moon   rains   out   her   beauis,  and   heaven   is 
overllowed. 

What  thou  art,  we  know  not : 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Droiis  so  bright  to  see 
As  fiom  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singiug  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
W^ith  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glowworm  goldeu 

lu  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  ai-rial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  aud  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with   too   much   sweet   these  heavy- 
wingdd  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers — 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  aud  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 


I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Ilymcucal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hiddt-ii  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyauco 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest,  but  never  knew  love's  sad  satietj-. 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  .' 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

W^itli  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  aro  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scoruer  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know. 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


425 


ODE   TO   THE  WE8T   WIND. 

I. 

O  wild  West  Wiiuljtliou  breath  of  Antnnin's  being! 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  euchanter  fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !     O  thou 
Who  ehariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  -wiugdd  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  "withiu  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  tlocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  aud  odors  plain  and  hill! 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  aud  preserver, — hear,  oh  hear ! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  com- 
motion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  taugled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean. 

Angels  of  raiu  aud  lightning !   there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Ma?nad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  raiu,  aud  fire,  aud  hail  will  burst !  oh,  hear ! 


Thou  who  didst  wakcu  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baite's  bay, 
Aud  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  iutenser  day, 


All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 

For  -whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  iuto  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  aud  suddenly  grow  gray  Avith  fear, 
And  tremble,  and  despoil  themselves!   oh,  hear! 


If  I  -were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  -were  as  iu  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  Avanderings  over  heaven — 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce    seemed    a    vision  —  I    -would    ue'er    have 
striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  iu  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upou  the  thorns  of  life !     I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  aud  bowed 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  aud  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is ; 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet,  though  iu  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  mo,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  heartli 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !     O  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 


426 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I  ARISE  FKOM  DREAMS  OF  THEE. 

I  aiiso  from  dreams  of  Ihco, 

III   the  lirst  sweet  sleep  of  iiiglit, 

"NVlien  tlie  winds  are  breathing  h)w, 

And  the  stars  arc  shininj;  hriglit  : 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee  ; 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? — 

To  thy  eliamber-wiiidow,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  tlie  dark,  the  silent  stream  ; 

The  champak  odors  fail, 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream. 

The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 

As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

0  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Oh,  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail. 

Let  thy  love  iu  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
Jly  cheek  is  cold  and  ■white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  lond  and  fast. 
Oh,  press  it  close  to  thino  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


INVOCATION. 

Rarely,  rarely  comest  thon. 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Manj'  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  siuco  thou  art  lied  away. 

How  .shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scofif  at  pain. 
Spirit  false !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

Even  the  siglis  of  grief 
Reproach  thee  that  thou  art  not  near. 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 


Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure  ; — 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Tliou  wilt  come  for  pleasure; — 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  earth  in  new  leaves  dressed, 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  goldeu  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms — 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  bo 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good  : 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee  ; 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life!     Oh,  come. 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night?   ah,  no  ;   the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite  ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  gooil-u\g\\X. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good. 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight  ? 

Be  it  not  said,  though  understood. 
Then  it  will  be  good-night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move, 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light. 

The  night  is  good, — because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good-night. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


4-27 


ONE   WORD   IS   TOO   OFTEN  PROFANED. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it ; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prndeuco  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Thau  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  uot 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  ahove 

Aud  the  heavens  reject  not  ? 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  onr  sorrow. 


A  LAMENT. 

O  world !     O  life  !     O  time  ! 

On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 
Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before  : 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more — oh,  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 

A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 
Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — oh,  never  more  ! 


ON  A  FADED   VIOLET. 

The  color  from  the  flower  is  gone, 

Which  like  thy  sweet  eyes  smiled  on  me  ; 

The  odor  from  the  flower  is  flown, 

Which  breathed  of  thee,  and  only  thee ! 

A  withered,  lifeless,  vacant  form. 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast, 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I  weep — my  tears  revive  it  not ; 

I  sigh — it  breathes  no  more  on  me ; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 


ADONAIS : 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 

I. 
I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais !   though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers. 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  ;  say — with  me 
Died  Adonais ! — till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  ! 


W^here  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  bj^  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?   where  was  lorn  Urania 
AVhen  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  paradise 
She  sat,  while  one,  with  soft  enamored  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies. 
With   which,  like   flowers   that   mock  the   corse 
beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 


Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?    Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend  : — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  unite  voice,  and  laughs  at  our 
despair. 

IV. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  ■^•eep  again  ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania! — He  died. 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  libcrtioide. 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood ;   he  went,  unterrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death  ;   but  his  clear  sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of 

light. 

V. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 

Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb  ; 

Aud  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 


428 


CYCLOPJiDIA    or  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Wlioso  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
III  which  S1U18  perished;   others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  god, 
Have  sunlv,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  tiie  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  sereuo 
abode. 

VI. 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has  perished, 
'     The  nursling  of  tliy  widowhood,  wiio  grew, 
Like  a  pale  llower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished. 
And  fed  with  true-lovo  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last. 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipped  before  they  blew 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste  ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay. 
He  came;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  awaj- ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !   while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  iu  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not!   surely  he  takes  his  till 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


Ho  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  uever  more ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  jialo  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais! — The  quick  dreams. 
The  passiou-wingdd  ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  Hocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain. 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprang ;  and  mouru 

their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after   their  sweet 

pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  nor  lind  a  home 

a<rain. 


And  one  with  trembling  hand  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries, 
"Our  love,  onr  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  e^es, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  llower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  dream  has  loosened  from  his  braiu." 
Lost  angel  of  a  ruined  paradise ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  ontwept  its  rain. 


One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs,  as  if  embalming  them ; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem  ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak; 
And  dull  the  barb(?d  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 


Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit. 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wout  to  draw  the 

breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music:  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  Avhich  the  cold  night  clips. 
It  flashed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its 
eclipse. 

XIII. 

And  others  came, — Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  rersuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  gliiiinieriug  Incarna- 
tions 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blindwith  teal's,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes. 
Came  in  slow  pomp; — the  moving  pomp  might 
seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  nioiilded  into  thought, 
Fniiii  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet  sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 


rEECY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


429 


Wet  with  the  tears  which  shouid  adorn  the  gromul, 
Dinuned  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thnnder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  nnqniot  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their 
dismay. 

XV. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains. 
And  feeds  her  grief  -with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green 

spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  jiined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sonnds : — a  drear 
Mnrmnr,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen 

hear. 

XVI. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw 

down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is  flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year  1 
To  Phtpbus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Xor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou  Adonais :   wan  they  stood  and  sere. 
Amid  the  drooping  comrades  of  their  youth. 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odor,  to  sighing  ruth. 


Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth,  with  morning  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee  :   the  curse  of  Cain 
Light    ou    his   head    who    pierced    thy    innocent 

breast, 
And  scared  the   angel   soul   that   was   its   earthly 

guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah  woe  is  me  !     Winter  is  come  and  gone. 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year ; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone ; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's 

bier ; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere, 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden  snake. 
Like  unimprisoued  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 


Through  wood  and  stream,  aiul  field  and  hill  and 

ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst, 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  gi'eat  morning  of  the  world  when  flrst 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;   in  its  stream  immersed. 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves  ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight. 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


The  leprous  corpse,  touched  by  this  spirit  tender. 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death, 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath ; 
Naught  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which 

knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning? — the  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose  ! 


Alas !   that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be. 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  he  mortal !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?   of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must 

borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow. 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year 

to  sorrow. 

XXII. 
He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
*'  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery ;  "  childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than   his  with  tears  and 

sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes. 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried:  "Arise!" 
Swift  as  a  thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendor  sprung. 


She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 


430 


CYCLOr.ElUA    OF  JilUTISH  JXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Even  as  a  ghost  abaiuloiiiiig  a  bier, 
Has  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  four 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  wrapped  Urania ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atniosi)herc 
Of  stormy  mist ;   so  swept  her  on  her  way. 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adouais  lay. 


Out  of  her  secret  paradise  she  sped, 

Through  canijjs  and  cities,  rough  with  stone  and 

steel. 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  acrio  tread 
Yielding  uot,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbdd  tongues,  and   thoughts  more  sharp 

than  they, 
Kent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel. 
Whose  sacred  blood,  lilcc  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Taved  witJi  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 

XXV. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  tliat  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Kevisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through   those   limbs,  so   late   her  dear 

delight. 
"Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night! 
Leave  me  not !"  cried  Urania :   her  distress 
Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her 
vain  caress. 

XXVI. 

"  Stay  yet  awhile !   speak  to  me  once  again  ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
Tiiat  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  sur- 

\\\v, 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adouais !   I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  de- 
part ! 

XXVII. 

"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert. 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  ])aths  of  men 

Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  tiiough  mighty 

heart 
Dare  tin'   unpashircd  dragon   in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 
Or,  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 


Thy  spirit  should  have  fdled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The    monsters   of  life's   waste    had    lied   from    thee 
like  deer. 

XXVIIX. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue  ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead  : 
Tiie  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed. 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how  they  fled, 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow. 
The  I'ythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow. 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  as 
they  go. 

XXIX. 

"  Tlie  sun  conies  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn  ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gatiiered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  tiie  immortal  stars  awake  again  ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  liviug  men  : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  Avhen 
Itsinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

XXX. 

Thus  ceased  she  :   and  the  mountain   shepherds 

came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  heaven  is  bent. 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
Tlio  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his 
tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Mid  others  of  less  note  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;   com])ani()nless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell :   he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Natui'e's  naked  loveliness, 
Acta'on-likc  ;   and  now  ho  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness; 
And  bis  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their 
prey. 

XXXII. 

A  pard-like  S])irit,  beautiful  and  swit't  — 

A  Love  in  desolation  masked,— a  Power 

CJirt  round  with  weakness; — it  can  scarce  uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


4:51 


It  is  .1  tl^iug  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow ; — even  while  we  sjjoak 
Is  it  not  brokeu  ?     On  the  withering  llower 
Tlie  killing  sun  smiles  brightly;   on  a  cheek 
TIic  life  ean   I)ui'n  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart 
may  break. 

XXXIII. 

His  bead  was  bonud  with  pausies  overblown. 
And  foded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ; 
And  a  light  spear,  topped  with  a  cypress  cone. 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  tbe  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

XXXIV. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears  :  well  knew  that  gen- 
tle band 
Who  in  another's  f;ite  now  wept  his  own. 
As  iu  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow.     Sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's   mien,  and  murmured,  "Who  art 

thou  ?" 
He  answered  not,  but,  with  a  sudden  hand. 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
"Which   was   like  Cain's   or   Christ's,  —  oh,  that   it 
should  be  so ! 

XXXV, 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  o'er  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 
Iu  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  he  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honored  the  departed  one  ; 
Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown  : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong. 
But  what  was  howling  iu  one  breast  alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song. 
Whose    master's   hand   is    cold,  whose   silver   lyre 
unstrung. 


Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame! 
Live!   fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow : 
Remorse  and  self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ; 
Hot  shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tix'uible  thou  shalt — as  now. 


Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion-kites  that  scream  below: 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  aud  change,  uuquenchably  the  same, 
AVhile  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace !  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life— 
'Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
W^ith  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings — we  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;   fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  aud  consume  us  day  by  day. 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  liv- 
ing clay. 

XL. 

He  has  outsoai'ed  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny,  aud  hate  aud  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight. 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  aud  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  iu  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  buru, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  uulamented  urn. 


He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he; 
]Mourii  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ! 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 
Cease,  yc  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  aud  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 


432 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


O'er  the  iibaiuloncd  cnrtli.  now  leiivo  it  bare 
Even  to  (he  Joyoiis  stars  wliicli  siiiilf  on  its  ck'spair! 


Ho  is  made  one  with  Nature;   there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  bo  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  -where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII. 

Ho  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 

there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  thej''  wear ; 
Torturing  the  unwilling  dross   that   checks   its 

llight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  heaven's 

light. 

XLIV. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  bo  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb ; 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  ■which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy 


The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose   from    tiieir    thrones    built    beyond   mortal 

thought, 
Far  in  the  uuapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solenni  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  hiiu  ;    Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  ho  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;   and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 


And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark. 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 


So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  Las  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascendcd  majesty. 
Silent  alone  amid  a  heaven  of  song. 
Assume   thy   wingdd   throne,  thou   Vesper   of  our 
throng !" 

XIA'II. 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?   oh,  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch  !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp    Avith    thy    panting    soul    the    pendulous 

Earth  ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :   then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  tiie 

brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre. 

Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :  'tis  naught 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religious  there 

Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought 

For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 

Glory   from   those    who    made   the    Avorld   their 

prey; 
And  ho  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 


Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  paradise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains 

rise. 
And  dowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses,  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infimt's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  tho  grass  is  spread. 


And  gray    walls   moulder   round,  on   which    dull 

Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  lire  upon  a  hoary  brand; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  witli  wedge  sublime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  iiim  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  menu)ry,  doth  stand 
Like  llame  transformed  to  marble;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


43:; 


Have  pitched  iu  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 
death, 
AVolcomiug  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished 
breath. 

LI. 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  yoiuig  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrows  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each  ;   and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou  !   too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  retnrnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  w  ind 
Seek  shelter  iu  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 


The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass  ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  tiy ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost 

seek  I 
Follow  where  all  is  tied  ! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music, — words  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 


Why    linger,  why    turn   back,  why    shrink,  my 

heart  ? 
Thj'  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart  I 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man,  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near: 
"Tis  Adonais  calls !   oh,  hasten  thither, 
Xo  more  let  Life  divide  Avhat  Death  can  join  to- 
gether. 

LIV. 

Tliat  Light  whose  smiles  kindle  the  universe, 
That  Beauty  iu  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  whicli  the  eclipsing  curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  aud  beast,  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim.  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortalitv. 


The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 

Descends  on  me;   mv  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
'28 


Far    from    the    shore,  far    from    the    trembling 

throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  : 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
While,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of'Adouais,  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal  are. 


INVOCATION  TO  NATURE. 

Fbom  "Alastor;   or,  The  Sfirit  of  Solitcde." 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  I 

If  our  great  mother  have  imbued  my  soul 

With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 

Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine ; 

If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  aud  even. 

With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 

And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness ; 

If  autumu's  hollow  sighs  iu  the  sere  wood, 

And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 

Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  aud  bare  boughs ; 

If  Sjiring's  voluptuous  pantings,  when  she  breathes 

Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  me ; 

If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 

I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 

Aud  cherished  these  my  kindred  ; — then  forgive 

This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw 

No  portion  of  your  wonted  favor  now! 


SONNET. 

Ye  hasten  to  the  dead!     What  seek  ye  there. 

Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 

Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's  livery  wear  ? 

O  thou  quick  heart  which  pantest  to  possess 

All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair ! 

Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldst  guess 

Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayst 

go, 
Aud   that    which   never   yet    was   known    wouldst 

know — 
Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press 
With  such  swift  feet  life's  green  and  pleasant  path, 
Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  woe 
A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  gray  death  ? 
O  heart,  aud  mind,  and  thoughts'     What  thing  do 

you 
Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below  ? 


434 


CTCLOrJEDIA    OF  liniTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


DEDICATION.' 

TO   MAUY . 

"  There  is  no  dnnger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is:   there's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowled<;:e:  neither  is  it  lawl'iil 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law." 

CUAl'MAN. 

So  now  my  sniniiur  task  is  ciuU'd,  Mary, 
Anil  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  lioart's  home ; 
As  to  liis  qtieeii  some  victor  knight  of  faery, 
Earning  bright  spoils  for  lier  enchanted  dome ; 
Nor  tliou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night. 
If  it  indeed  njay  cleave  its  natal  gloom. 
Its  doubtful  prouiise  thus  I  would  unite 
AVith  thy  beloved  name,  thou  child  of  love  and  light. 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 
Is  ended, — and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  brauches  mix  and  meet, 
Or  where,  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-falls  leap  among  Avild  islands  green. 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-growu  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen: 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has  ever  been. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend, 

when  lirst 
The  clouds  which   wrap   this  world  from  youth 

did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep :   a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept  I  knew  not  why ;   until  there  rose. 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices  that,  alas ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes, — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  .around — 
ISnt  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes. 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny 

ground : 
So  without  shame  I  spake: — "I  will  be  Avise, 
And  just,  ami  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power ;   for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controlled 
My   tears,  my  heart  grew   calm,  and  I   was  meek 
and  bold. 

'  The  dedication  of  Shelley's  "Revolt  of  Islam"  to  his  wife, 
the  daughter  of  William  Godwin,  is  one  of  the  most  tenderly 
beautiful  poems  in  the  language. 


And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore ; 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linkdd  armor  for  ray  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind  ; 
Thus  power   and   hope  were   strengthcin-d  more 

and  more 
W^ithin  me,  till  there  came  ui)ou  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  i)iued. 

Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one!  — 
Such  once  I  souglit  in  vain  ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone  : — 
Yet  uever  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone 
Which   crushed   aud   withered   mine,  that   could 
not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog  until  revived  by  thee. 

Thou  friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Fell  like  bright  spring  upon  some  herbless  plain, — 
How  beautiful  and  calm,  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  wheu  the  mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  didst  burst  aud  rend  in  twain, 
And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among. 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in 

vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  sjurit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long. 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journeyed  now :   no  more  companionlcss, 
AYhere  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  steru  content, 
Wiien  poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 
When  infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent, 
And  cherished  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 
To  trample  :  this  was  ours,  and  we  luishakeu  stood  I 

Now  has  descended  a  sereuer  hour, 

And  with  inconstant  fortune  friends  return  ; 

Though  sufteriug  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the 

power. 
Which  says: — Let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  .scorn. 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  arc  born 
To  fdl  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn  ; 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me 
Tiie  parents  of  the  .song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 


PEBCY  BTSSnE  SHELLEY. 


435 


Is  it  that  uow  my  iuexperieucetl  liugers 
Hut  strike  the  prelude  to  a  loftier  strain  ? 
Or  must  tlie  lyre  ou  which  mj^  spirit  lingers 
Soou  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound  again, 
Tliough  it  might  shake  the  anarch  Custom's  reign, 
And  charm  the  miuds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway, 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's?     I  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away, 
AndDeath  and  Love  are  yet  contending  for  their  prey. 

And  what  art  thou  ?    I  know,  but  dare  not  speak  : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  light  thine  ample  forehead  wears, 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  sonl  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth, 
Of  glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring  child  : 
I  wonder  not — for  one  then  left  this  earth 
AVhose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild. 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  nudefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory ;   still  her  fame 
Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and  wild 
Which  shake  these  latter  dajs ;   and  thou  canst 
claim 
The  shelter  from  thy  sire  of  an  immortal  name. 

One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spirit. 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it. 
As  some  lone  man,  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home :— unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race. 
And  faith  and  custom  .and  low-thoughted  cares, 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwell- 
ing-j)lace. 

Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  blind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  friend !   can  look  from  our  tranquillitj' 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, — 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by, 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's 

sight. 
That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguished 

liKht. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY. 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats,  though  unseen  among  us ;   visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 

As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower; 

Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain 
shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; 

Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening. 
Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  nuisic  fled, 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 

Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou  gone? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  aiul  leave  our  state. 

This  dim,  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  whj'  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river ; 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown  ; 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  why  man  hath  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  iioet  these  responses  given  ; 
Therefore  the  names  of  demon,  ghost,  and  heaven. 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor : 

Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  ciiarm  might  not  avail 
to  sever. 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream. 

Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  Hoi)e,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds,  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
INIan  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 

Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 

Keep  with  thy  glorious  traiu  firm  state  within  liis 
heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  iu  lovers'  eyes; 

Thou,  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishmeut. 


436 


CYVLUr^EDlA    OF  BUITISII  AM)  AMJJUICAX  roETllY. 


Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame! 
Depart  not  as  tliy  shadow  cani(; : 
Depart  not,  lest  tlie  grave  shouUl  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

Wliilo  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber, cave,  and  ruin, 

And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  jtoisonous  names  with  which  our  youth 
is  fed  : 

I  was  not  heard  :   I  saw  them  not : 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me  : 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy ! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine  :   have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 

With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes, even  now 
I  call  the  ithautoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :   they  have  in  vi- 
sioned  bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 

Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night : 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow, 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thoii  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 

That  thou,  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 

When  noon  is  past :   there  is  a  harmony 

In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen. 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 

And  every  form  containing  thee, 

Wliom,*8i'iuiT  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


LINES  TO   A   REVIEWER. 

Alas !   good  friend,  what  ]>rofit  can  yon  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 
There  is  no  sport  in  hate  where  all  the  rago 
Is  on  one  side.     lu  vain  would  vou  assuage 


Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile, 

III  which  not  even  contempt  lurks,  to  beguile 

Your  heart,  by  some  faint  sympathy  of  hate: 

Oh,  conquer  what  you  cannot  satiate! 

For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 

Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 

In  winter  noon.     Of  your  antipathy 

If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  yon  are  free 

To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me. 


iJolju  Kcblc. 


Keble  (1793-1866),  the  son  of  a  Gloucestershire  clergy- 
man, was  educated  at  Oxford,  where  he  took  first-class 
honors.  After  discharging  the  duties  of  Professor  of 
Poetry,  he  was  preferred  to  the  rectory  of  Ilurslcy,  near 
Winchester,  in  1835,  which  he  held  until  his  death.  His 
"Christian  Year"  was  published  in  1827, and  had  a  mar- 
vellous success,  having  gone  through  some  seventy  edi- 
tions in  England,  and  about  as  many  in  the  United  States. 
His  "Lyra  Innocentiuni"  appeared  in  1847.  Keble  was 
one  of  the  originators  of  the  "Tractarian  Movement," 
inculcating  reverence  for  Catholic  tradition,  and  belief 
in  the  divine  prerogatives  of  the  priesthood. 


MORNING. 

From  "The  Christian  Yeab." 

Hues  of  the  rich  unfolding  morn, 
That,  ere  the  glorious  sun  bo  born, 
By  some  soft  touch  invisible 
Around  his  path  are  taught  to  swell  ; — 

Thou  rustling  bi-ceze,  so  fresh  and  gay, 
That  daucest  forth  at  opening  day, 
And,  brushing  by  with  joyous  wing, 
Wakeuest  each  little  leaf  to  sing; — 

Ye  fragrant  clouds  of  dewy  steam, 
IJy  which  deep  grove  and  tangled  stream 
Pay,  for  soft  rains  in  season  given. 
Their  tribute  to  the  genial  heaven ; — 

Why  waste  your  treasures  of  delight 
Upon  our  thankless,  joyless  sight, 
Who  day  by  day  to  sin  awake. 
Seldom  of  heaven  and  you  partake  f 

Oh!    timely  happy,  timely  wise, 
Ile.irts  that  with  rising  morn  arise! 
Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view 
Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new! 


JOHN  EEBLE. 


437 


New  every  morning  is  the  lovo 
Onr  walvcning  and  uprising  iirove ; 
Tlirougb  sleep  and  darkness  safely  brought, 
Restored  to  life,  and  power,  and  thought. 

Xew  mercies,  each  returning  day. 
Hover  around  us  while  wo  pray  ; 
New  jierils  past,  new  sins  forgiven. 
New  thoughts  of  God,  uew  hopes  of  heaven. 

If  on  our  daily  course  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  tind, 
New  treasures  still,  of  countless  price, 
God  will  i>rovide  for  sacrilice. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes,  will  lovelier  be. 
As  more  of  Heaven  in  each  we  see ; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Shall  dawn  on  everj-^  cross  aiid  care. 

As  for  some  dear  familiar  strain 
Untired  we  ask,  and  ask  again, 
Ever,  in  its  melodious  store, 
Finding  a  siiell  unheard  before  ; 

Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene. 

When  they  have  sworn,  and  steadfiist  mean, 

Counting  the  cost,  in  all  t'  espy 

Their  God,  in  all  themselves  deny. 

Oil,  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice  ! 
"What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life's  dnllest,  dreariest  walk ! 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloistered  cell, 
Our  neighbor  and  onr  work  farewell. 
Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky : 

The  trivial  round,  the  common  task. 
Would  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask — 
Room  to  deny  ourselves,  a  road 
To  bring  us  daily  nearer  God. 

Seek  we  no  more  :   content  with  these, 
Let  present  rapture,  comfort,  ease, 
As  Heaven  shall  bid  them,  come  and  go  : — 
The  secret  this  of  rest  be-low. 

Only,  O  Lord,  in  thy  dear  love 
Fit  us  for  perfect  rest  above ; 


And  help  us,  this  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  "wo  pray. 


EVENING. 

From  "The  Christian  Year." 

'Tis  gone,  that  bright  and  orbt^d  blaze, 
Fast  fading  from  our  wistful  gaze  ; 
Yon  mantling  cloud  has  hid  from  sight 
The  last  faint  pulse  of  quivering  light. 

In  darkness  and  in  weariuess 
The  traveller  on  his  way  must  press, 
No  gleam  to  watch  on  tree  or  tower 
Whiliug  away  the  lonesome  hour. 

Sun  of  my  soul!   thou  Saviour  dear! 
It  is  not  uight  if  thou  be  near: 
Oh,  may  no  earth-born  cloud  arise 
To  hide  thee  from  thy  servant's  eyes. 

When  round  thy  wondrous  works  below 
My  searching,  rapturous  glance  I  throw, 
Tracing  out  wisdom,  power,  and  love, 
In  earth  or  sky,  in  stream  or  grove ; — 

Or,  by  the  light  thy  words  disclose. 
Watch  Time's  full  river  as  it  flows. 
Scanning  thy  gracious  providence. 
Where  not  too  deep  for  mortal  sense  : — 

When  with  dear  friends  sweet  talk  I  hold, 
And  all  the  flowers  of  life  unfold  ; 
Let  not  my  heart  within  me  burn, 
Except  in  all  I  thee  discern. 

When  the  soft  dews  of  kindly  sleep 
]SIy  wearied  eyelids  gently  steep, 
Be  my  last  thought  bow  sweet  to  rest 
Forever  on  my  Saviour's  breast  I 

Abide  with  me  from  morn  till  eve,    • 
For  without  thee  I  cannot  live  : 
Abide  with  rae  when  night  is  nigh, 
For  -without  thee  I  dare  not  die. 

Thou  Franier  of  the  light  and  dark, 
Steer  through  the  tempest  thine  own  ark  : 
Amid  the  howling  wintry  sea 
We  are  in  port  if  wo  have  thee. 


438 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  JiUlTISH  AND  AMKUICAN  POETRY. 


The  rulers  of  this  Chiistian  laud, 
'Twixt  llicf  and  us  oidahicd  to  staud — 
Guide  lliuu  their  course,  O  Lord,  aright, 
Let  all  do  all  as  iu  thy  eight. 

Uh  I   by  thiuo  own  sad  burden,  boruo 
.So  meekly  up  the  hill  of  scorn. 
Teach  thou  thy  priests  their  daily  cross 
To  bear  as  thiue,  nor  count  it  loss ! 

If  some  poor  wandering  child  of  thine 
Have  spurned  to-day  the  voice  divine. 
Now,  Lord,  the  gracious  Avork  begin; 
Let  him  no  more  lie  down  in  sin. 

Watch  by  the  sick  :   enrich  the  poor 
With  blessings  from  thy  boundless  store  : 
Be  every  mourner's  sleep  to-night 
Like  infants'  slumbers,  pure  and  light. 

Come  near  and  bless  ns  T\hen  ^ve  wake, 
Ere  through  the  world  our  way  we  take ; 
Till  in  the  ocean  of  thy  lovo 
We  lose  ourselves  in  heaven  above. 


ADDRESS  TO   TOETS. 

Vc  whose  hearts  are  beating  high 
With  the  pulse  of  poesy ; 
Heirs  of  more  than  royal  race, 
Framed  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace 
God's  own  work  to  do  on  earth 

(If  the  word  be  not  too  bold). 
Giving  virtue  a  new  birth, 

And  a  life  that  ne'er  grows  old — 

Sovereign  masters  of  all  hearts ! 
Know  ye  who  hath  set  your  parts  ? 
He  who  gave  you  breath  to  sing. 
By  whose  strength  ye  sweep  the  string, 
He  hath  chosen  you  to  lead 

His  hosannas  hero  below  ; — 
Mount,  and  claim  your  glorious  meed ; 

Linger  not  Avith  sin  and  woe. 

But  if  ye  should  hold  your  peace. 
Deem  not  that  the  song  would  cease: — 
Angels  round  His  glory-throne  ; 
Stars,  his  guiding  hand  that  own  ; 
Flowers,  that  grow  beneath  our  feet; 
Stones,  in  earth's  dark  womb  that  rest- 


High  and  low  in  choir  shall  meet, 
Ere  his  name  shall  be  unblessed. 

Lord,  by  every  minstrel  tongue 
Be  thy  ])raise  so  duly  sung 
That  thine  angels'  harps  may  ne'er 
Fail  to  find  lit  echoing  here! 
We  the  Avhile,  of  meaner  birth, 

Who  in  that  divinest  spell 
Dare  not  hope  to  join  on  earth — 

Give  us  grace  to  listen  well. 

But  should  thankless  silence  seal 
Lips  that  might  half  heaven  reveal — • 
Should  bards  in  idol-hymns  profane 
The  sacred  soul-enthralling  strain 
(As  in  this  bad  Avorld  below 

Noblest  things  lind  vilest  using). 
Then  thy  power  and  mercy  show, 

In  vile  things  noble  breath  infusing. 

Then  waken  into  sound  divine 
The  very  pavement  of  thj'  shrine. 
Till  we,  like  heaven's  star-sprinkled  lloor. 
Faintly  give  back  what  we  adore. 
Childlike  though  the  voices  be, 

And  untunable  the  parts. 
Thou  wilt  own  the  minstrelsy, 

If  it  flow  from  childlike  hearts. 


A    THOUGHT. 

PllOVEEBS    XIV.  10. 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone. 
Since  all  alone  (so  Heaven  has  willed)  we  die, 

Nor  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next  our  own. 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  and  sigh  f 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range  apart ; 

Our  eyes  see  all  around,  in  gloom  or  glow. 

Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  bt>rrowcd  from  the  heart. 


3oIin  fjoiuavLi  JJarinc. 

AMERICAN. 

Pnync  (170:2-1852),  altliough  the  author  and  compiler 
of  tlic  successful  drama  of  "Brutus,"  -will  be  better 
known  to  posterity  for  his  charming  song  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home."  It  was  originally  written  for  his  ope- 
retta of  "Clari,  the  ihiid  of  Milan."  Though  it  owes 
nuich  of  its  popularity  to  the  music  to  which  it  is  fit- 


JOHN  HOW  J  ED  PAYNE.— JOHN  BOWRING. 


439 


ted,  it  Las  the  true  elements  of  genuine  poetry  —  sim- 
plicity and  fidelity  to  nature.  Upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand  copies,  set  to  music,  were  sold  in  1832. 
The  publishers  made  two  thousand  guineas  by  it  in  two 
years.  Payne  was  a  native  of  tlie  city  of  New  York.  In 
1809  he  appeared  there  as  "  Young  Norval,"  at  the  Park 
Theatre.  In  1813  he  went  to  England,  where  he  became 
a  successful  playwrigiit.  In  1833  he  returned  to  Ameri- 
ca, and  was  appointed  United  States  Consul  at  Tunis, 
where  he  died. 


HOME,  SWEET   HOME! 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  tliongh  we  may  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  Immble,  there's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  it  there, 
■\Vhich,  go  through  the  world,  you'll  not  meet  with 
elsewhere. 

Home  !   home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  pleasure  dazzles  in  vain  : 
Ah,  give  me  my  lowlj'  thatched  cottage  again  ! 
The  birds  singing  sweetly  that  came  to  mj^  call — 
Give  me  them,  and  that  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all. 

Home  !  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  uo  place  like  home ! 


iJolju  33oronng. 


Bowring  (1792-1872)  was  a  native  of  Exeter.  In  1825 
he  became  editor  of  the  Westminster  lieview.  He  sat  some 
time  in  Parliament,  and  in  1854  was  knighted  and  made 
Governor  of  Hongkong.  He  was  the  literary  executor 
of  Jeremy  Bentham.  He  wrote  devotional  poetrj'  of 
merit,  and  made  some  excellent  translations  from  the 
Russian,  Polish,  and  other  modern  languages. 


ODE   TO   GOD. 

From  the  Russian  of  Gabriel  Eomanowitch  Debzhavin. 

O  thou  Eternal  One !   whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  ; 

Unchanged  through  Time's  all-devastating  flight, 
Thon  only  God ; — there  is  no  God  beside ! 

Being  above  all  beings!     Mighty  One! 

Whom  none  can  comprehend,  and  none  explore ; 

Who  fiU'st  existence  with  thyself  alone  ; 
Embracing  all — supporting — ruling  o'er — 
Being,  whom  we  call  God — and  know  no  more ! 

In  its  sublime  research,  Philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep,  may  count 

The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays;  but,  God!  for  thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure;  none  can  mount 


Up  to  thy  mysteries ;   Reason's  brightest  spark, 
Though  kindled  by  thy  light,  in  vaiu  would  try 

To  trace  thj^  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thonglit  can  mount  so  high, 
E'en  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence  ; — Lord,  on  thee 

Eternity  had  its  foundation  ;   all 

Sprang  forth  from  thee, — of  light,  joy,  harmony, 

Sole  origin  ;   all  life,  all  beauty,  thine. 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 
Thou  art,  and  Avert,  and  shalt  be !  glorious,  great, 
Life-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround, 
Upheld  by  thee,  by  thee  ius^iired  with  breath  I 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death. 

As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze. 
So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth,  from  thee ; 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  thy  praise. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  thy  hand. 

Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss ; 
They  own  thy  power,  accomplish  thy  command. 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  crystal  light, 

A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams. 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether,  burning  bright, 

Suns  lighting  systems,  with  their  joyous  beams  ? 

But  thou  to  those  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes !   as  a  drop  of  water  iu  the  sea, 
All  this  magnificence  in  thee  is  lost : 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  thee  ? 
And  what  am  I,  then  ?   Heaven's  unnumbered  host. 

Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  snblimest  thought, 

Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 

Against  thy  greatness, — is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity  ! — What  am  I,  then  ? — Naught ! 

Nanglit!     But  the  efllnence  of  thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too  : 

Yes,  in  ray  spirit  doth  thy  spirit  shine. 
As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught !     But  I  live,  and  on  Hope's  pinions  fly 
Eager  toward  thy  presence  ;   for  in  thee 

I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell,  aspiring  high. 


440 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BIUTISn  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Even  to  tlio  tlirono  of  tlij'  diviiiity. 

I  iiiii,  <)  (iod  !    and  hiurly  tlioii  must  \w  ! 

Tliou  art!   dirocting,  ji;iii(liiijl  all,  tlnm  art! 

Direct  my  niulorstaiidiiijj,  then,  to  tlu'c; 
Control  my  spirit,  jiuido  my  wauiloriiig  heart; 

TlioufrU  but  an  atom  'mid  immoiisity, 
Still  I  am  something  fashioned  by  thy  liaiul ; 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
Ou  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realm  where  angels  have  their  birth, 

Just  on  the  boundary  of  the  spirit  land ! 

Tlie  chaiu  of  being  is  complete  in  me; 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost ; 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit — Deity  ! 

I  can  oonnnaud  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 
A  monarch  and  a  slave  ;   a  ■worm,  a  god ! 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?    So  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ?    Unknown  ?    This  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 

From  out  itself  alone  it  could  not  be! 

Creator,  yes!   thy  wisdom  and  thy  word 

Created  Hie.     Thou  source  of  life  and  good ! 

Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord! 

Thy  light,  thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude, 

Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
O'er  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 

The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 

Its  heavenly  flight,  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
E'en  to  its  source — to  thee — its  Author  there! 

()  thought  ineffable!     O  vision  blessed! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  thee. 
Yet  shall  thy  shadowed  image  fdl  our  breast. 

And  waft  its  homage  to  thy  Deity. 
God !   thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar ; 

Thus  seek  thy  presence.  Being  wise  and  good! — 
'Jlid  thy  vast  works,  admire,  obey,  adore  ; 

And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  its  gratitude. 


WISDOM    AND    WEALTH. 

From  the  ItcssiAN  of  Khemnitzer. 

I  once  saw  a  poor  fellow,  keen  and  clever, 
Witty  and  wise ;   he  paid  a  man  a  visit, 
And  no  one  noticed  him,  and  no  one  ever 
Gave  him  a  welcome.   "  Strange !"  cried  he ;  "  whence 

is  it?'' 
He  walked  on  this  side,  then  on  that. 
He  tried  to  introduce  a  social  chat ; 


Now  here,  now  there,  in  vain  ho  tried  ; 
Scmie  formally  and  freezingly  replied. 
And  some  said,  by  their  silence,  "  Better  stay   at 
home." 

A  rich  man  burst  the  door. 

As  Crn>sus  rich  ;    I'm  sure 
Ho  could  not  pride  himself  ni)on  his  wit; 
And  as  for  wisdom,  he  had  none  of  it ; 
He  had  what  some  think  better — he  had  wealth. 

What  a  confusion  !   all  stand  up  erect — 
These  crowd  around  to  ask  him  of  his  health  ; 

These  bow  in  honest  duty  and  respect ; 
And  these  arrange  a  sofa  or  a  chair; 
And  these  conduct  him  there. 
"Allow  nie,  sir,  the  honor;"  then  a  bow 
Down  to  the  earth — is 't  i)ossible  to  show 
Meet  gratitude  for  such  kind  condescension  ? 

The  poor  man  hung  his  head. 

And  to  himself  he  said, 
"This  is  indeed  lieyond  my  comprehension:" 
Then  looking  round,  one  friendly  face  he  found, 
And  said,  "Pray  tell  me  why  is  wealth  preferred 
To  wisdom?"     "That's  a  sillj-  question,  friend !" 
Rejdied  the  other.     "  Have  you  never  heard, 

A  man  may  lend  his  store 

Of  gold  or  silver  ore, 
But  whdom  none  can  borrow,  none  can  lend  ?" 


TRL^  COURAGE. 

Onward!   throw  all  terrors  oil"! 

Slight  the  scorner, — scorn  the  scoff. 

In  the  race,  ami  not  the  prize, 

(ilory's  true  distinction  lies. 

Triumph  herds  with  meanest  things, — 

Common  robbers,  vilest  kings, 

'Mid  the  reckless  multitude! 

But  the  generous,  but  the  good. 

Stand  in  modesty  alone, 

Still  serenely  struggling  on, 

Planting  peacefully  the  seeds 

Of  bright  hopes  and  better  deeds. 

Mark  the  slowly-moving  plough  : 
Is  its  day  of  victory  vow? 
It  defiles  the  emerald  sod, 
'Whelms  the  flowers  beneath  the  clod. 
Wait  the  swiftly-coming  hours, — 
Fairer  green  and  sweeter  flowers. 
Richer  fruits,  will  soon  appear. 
Cornucopias  of  the  year! 


SIB  JOHN  HERSCHEL.—HEW  JINSLIE. 


441 


Sir  3olju  tjcrarljcl 


Ilerschel,  the  celebrated  astronomer,  was  born  at 
Slough,  near  Windsor,  in  1792,  and  studied  at  St..  John's 
College,  Cambridge.  lie  died  at  Collingwood,  Kent,  in 
1871,  aged  seventy-nine.  Profoundly  versed  as  he  was 
in  the  physical  sciences,  he  was  master  of  an  elegant 
English  style,  and  did  not  utterly  neglect  poetry.  In- 
tellectuall}-,  he  was  symmetrically  developed.  Ilis  ex- 
pedition to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  his  residence 
there  four  years,  at  his  own  expense,  for  a  purely  scien- 
tific object,  shows  the  extent  of  his  devotion  to  science. 
On  his  return,  he  Mas  covered  with  honorary  distinc- 
tions. In  reference  to  the  notion  that  scientiflc  study 
leads  to  a  doubt  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  he  de- 
clares that  the  effect  on  every  well -constituted  mind 
must  be  the  direct  contrary.  Of  the  hexameter  stanzas 
we  quote,  the  first  was  made  in  a  dream  in  1841,  and 
written  down  immediately  on  waking. 


THROW  THYSELF   OX  THY  GOD. 

Throw  thyself  on  tliy  God, 

Nor  mock  liim  with  feeble  denial ; 

Sure  of  Lis  love,  and  oh  ! 

Sure  of  bis  mercy  at  last ; 

Bitter  and  deep  tbongli  the  draught, 

Y'et  shuu  Dot  the  cup  of  thy  trial, 

But  iu  its  healing  eifect, 

Smile  at  its  bitterness  jiast. 

Pray  for  that  holier  cup 

"\Vliile  sweet  ■^ith  bitter  lies  blending, 

Tears  iu  tlie  cheerful  eye, 

Smiles  on  the  sorrowing  cheek. 

Death  expiring  iu  life, 

When  the  long-drawn  struggle  is  ending; 

Triumph  and  joy  to  the  strong, 

Strength  to  the  weary  and  weak. 


Ainslie  (179:2-1878)  was  a  native  of  the  parish  of  Daill_v, 
Ayrshire.  He  was  for  a  time  the  amanuensis  of  Dugald 
Stewart.  In  1822,  having  married,  he  set  sail  for  New 
York,  tried  farming,  then  had  some  experience  with  Rob- 
ert Owen's  community  at  New  Harmony,  Iiul.,  then  tried 
the  occupation  of  a  brewer,  then  that  of  superintending 
the  erection  of  mills  and  factoiies  in  the  Western  States. 
He  finally  (1827)  settled  in  Louisville,  Ky.,  where,  his 
son  getting  iuto  prosperous  circumstances,  the  old  man 
was  enabled  to  devote  himself  to  literary  pursuits  the 
rest  of  his  life.  His  volume  of  "  Scottish  Songs,  Ballads, 
and  Poems"  was  published  by  Redtield,  New  York,  in 
18.55.  Ainslie  was  a  poet  from  his  youth,  and  in  some 
of  his  productions  exhibits  much  of  the  spirit  of  Burns. 


He  lived  to  his  eighty -sixth  year,  and  his  death  was 
caused  by  a  severe  shock  from  falling. 


SIGIIINGS  FOR  THE   SEA-SIDE. 

At  the  stent  o'  my  string, 

When  a  fourth  of  the  earth 
Lay  'tween  me  and  Scotland — 

Dear  laud  o'  my  birth, — 
Wi'  the  richest  of  valleys, 

And  waters  as  bright 
As  the  sun  in  midsummer 

Illumes  wi'  his  light,— 
And  surrounded  wi'  a' 

That  the  heart  or  the  head, 
The  body  or  the  mou' 

O'  mortal  could  need, — ■ 
I  ha'e  paused  in  sic  plenty, 

And  stuck  iu  my  track, 
As  a  tug  frae  my  tether 

Would,  mak'  me  look  back, — 
Look  back  to  auld  hills 

Iu  their  red  heather  bloom, 
To  glens  wi'  their  burnies, 

And  hillocks  o'  broom, — - 
To  some  lonp  iu  our  loch, 

Whar  the  Avave  gaes  to  sleep, 
Or  the  black  craggy  headlands 

That  bulwark  the  deep  ; — • 
Wi'  the  sea  lashing  in 

Wi'  the  wind  and  the  tide — 
Ay,  'twas  then  that  I  sickened, 

'Twas  then  that  I  cried : — 

0  !   gio  me  a  sough  o'  the  auld  saut  sea, 

A  scent  o'  his  brine  again. 
To  stiffen  the  wilt  that  this  wilderness 

Has  brought  on  this  breast  and  brain. 

Let  mo  hear  his  roar  on  the  rocky  shore, 

His  thud  on  the  shelly  sand  ; 
For  my  spirit's  bowed,  and  my  heart  is  dowed, 

AVi'  the  gloom  o'  this  forost  land. 

Your  sweeping  Hoods  an'  your  waving  woods 

Look  bravo  in  the  suns  o'  June; 
But  the  breath  o'  the  swamp  brews  a  sickly  damp, 

And  there's  death  in  the  dark  lagoon. 

Ay,  gie  me  the  jaup  o'  the  dear  auld  saut, 

A  scent  o'  his  briue  again  ! 
To  stiffen  the  wilt  that  this  wilderness 

Has  laid  on  this  bosom  and  brain. 


442 


CYCL0P2EDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOKTRY. 


THE  INGLE-SIDE. 

It's  rare  to  sco  tlio  nioiiiin.i!;  l)lcoz(',' 

Like  a  bonfire  frae  the  sea ; 
It's  fair  to  see  the  bnruie'  kiss 

Tlio  lip  o'  tlio  llowcry  lea ; 
An'  tino  it  is  on  j^rcon  liill-sicle, 

Where  hums  the  hiiiny  bee; 
But  rarer,  fairer,  liner  fair. 

Is  the  ingle-siile  to  mc. 

Glens  may  be  gilt  •\vi'  gowaiis  rare. 

The  birds  may  1111  the  tree, 
An'  haughs^  ha'e  a'  the  scented  ware 

That  simmer's  growth  can  gie  ; 
But  the  cantio  hearth,  where  cronies  meet. 

An'  the  darling  o'  our  e'e, 
Tliat  makes  to  ns  a  warld  complete, — 

Oh,  the  ingle-side's  for  me ! 


5ol)n  duster. 


Anster  (1793-  1SG7)  was  a  native  of  Cliarlcville,  Ire- 
laud,  and  became  Kcgius  Professor  of  Civil  Law  in  Trin- 
ity Colic'^e,  Dublin.  He  published  "Poems,  with  Trans- 
lations from  the  German,"  in  1819.  His  masterly  ti'aus- 
lation  of  "Faustus,"  from  the  German  of  Goethe,  ap- 
peared in  183.5.  He  contributed  largely  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine  and  the  Dublin  Uuioersity  Magazine. 


THE   FAIRY  CHILD. 

The  woman  in  whose  character  these  lines  are  written  pup- 
jjoses  her  child  etolen  by  a  fairy.  I  need  not  mention  how 
prevalent  the  superstition  was  amoiiij  tlie  i)easantry  which  at- 
tributed instances  of  sudden  death  to  tlie  agency  of  these 
spirits. 

The  summer  sun  was  sinking 

With  a  mild  light,  calm  and  mellow; 
It  shone  on  my  little  boy's  bonny  cheeks. 

And  his  loose  locks  of  yellow ; 
The  robin  was  singing  sweetly, 

And  his  song  was  sad  aiul  tender ; 
And  my  little  boy's  eyes,  while  he  heard  the  song, 

Smiled  with  a  sweet,  soft  splendor. 

My  little  boy  lay  on  my  bosom, 

Wliile  his  soul  the  song  was  quaffing; 

The  joy  of  his  soul  had  tinged  his  cheek. 
And  his  heart  and  his  eye  were  laughing. 


I  sat  alone  in  my  cottage, 

Tlio  midnight  needle  plying  ; 
I  feared  for  my  child,  for  the  rusli's  light 

lu  the  socket  now  was  <lyiug ! 

There  came  a  hand  to  my  lonely  latch, 

Lik(!  the  wind  at  midnight  moaning: 
1  knelt  to  pray,  but  rose  again, 

For  I  heard  my  little  boy  groaning  ; 
I  crossed  my  brow,  and  I  crossed  my  breast, 

But  tiiat  night  mj'  child  departed — 
They  left  a  weakling  in  his  stead, 

And  I  am  broken-hearted  ! 

Oh,  it  cannot  be  my  own  sweet  boy. 

For  his  eyes  are  dim  and  hollow; 
My  little  boy  is  gone — is  gone. 

And  his  mother  soon  Avill  follow  ! 
The  dirge  for  the  dead  will  be  sung  for  me. 

And  the  mass  be  chanted  meetly ; 
And  I  shall  sleep  with  my  little  boy. 

In  the  moonlight  chureh-vard  sweetlv. 


»  Dlaze. 


2  Stream. 


3  Vallcvs. 


THE    DAYS    OF    YOUTH. 

FnoM  THE  "  Prelude  to  Facstcs." 

Give  me,  oh  give  ine  back  the  days 

When  I — I  too — was  youngs 

And  felt,  as  they  now  feel,  each  coming  hour 

New  consciousness  of  power. 

Oh,  happy,  happy  time,  above  all  praise  ! 

Theu  thoughts  on  thoughts  aud  crowding  fancies 

sprung, 
Ami  found  a  language  in  unbiddou  lays — 
rniiiterniitted  streams  from  fountains  ever  flowing. 
Then,  as  I  wandered  free. 
In  every  field  for  mo 

Its  thousand  flowers  were  blowing ! 
A  veil  through  which  I  did  not  see, 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  Avorld  was  thrown — 
In  every  bud  a  mystery, 
Magic  in  everything  unknown  : — 
The  fields,  the  grove,  the  air  was  haunted, 
And  all  that  ago  has  disenchanted ! 
Yes!   give  me — give  me  back  the  days  of  youth, 
Poor,  yet  how  rich: — my  glad  inheritance 
The  inextingni.shable  love  of  truth, 
AVhile  life's  realities  were  all  romance — 
Give  me,  oh  give  youth's  passions  uncoufined. 
The  rush  of  Joy  that  felt  almost  like  pain, 
Its  hate,  its  love,  its  own  tumultuous  mind ; — 
(Jive  me  mv  vouth  again  ! 


JOHN  ANSTER.—JOHN  NEAL. 


443 


THE    SOUL    OF    ELOQUENCE. 

Translation  from  Goethe's  "  Faustus." 

How  shall  we  loaru  to  sway  the  niiiuls  of  nieu 
By  eloqnonco  ?   to  rule  them  ?   to  persnaile  ? 
Do  you  seek  geuiiiue  aud  worth j'  fame  ? 
Reason  aud  bouest  feeling  want  no  arts 
Of  utterance,  ask  no  toil  of  elocution  ! 

And  when  you  speak  in  earnest,  do  you  need 
A  search  for  words  ?     Oh,  these  fine  holiday  phrases 
In  which  you  robe  your  worn-out  commonplaces, — 
These  scraps  of  paper  which  you  crimp  and  curl. 
And  twist  into  a  thousand  idle  shajies, — 
These  filagree  ornaments, — are  good  for  nothing! 
Cost  time  and  pains,  please  few,  impose  on  no  one  ; 
Are  nni-efreshiug  as  the  wind  that  whistles 
In  autuuin  'mong  the  dry  and  wrinkled  leaves. 

If  feeliug  does  not  prompt,  in  vain  you  strive: 
If  from  the  soul  the  language  does  not  come, 
By  its  own  impulse,  to  impel  the  hearts 
Of  hearers  with  communicated  power, — 
In  vain  you  strive,  in  vain  yon  study  earnestly, 
Toil  on  forever,  piece  together  fragments. 
Cook  np  your  broken  scraps  of  sentences. 
And  blow,  with  puffing  breath,  a  struggling  light, 
Glimmering  confusedly  now,  now  cold  in  ashes — 
Startle  the  school-boys  with  your  metaphors — 
Aud,  if  such  food  may  suit  your  appetite, 
^Yin  the  vain  wonder  of  applauding  children ! 
But  never  hope  to  stir  the  hearts  of  men, 
Aud  mould  the  souls  of  many  into  one, 
Bj'  words  which  come  not  native  from  the  heart. 


3q\)\\  ^cal. 

AMERICAN. 

Xeal  (1793-1876)  was  a  native  of  Portland,  Maine. 
From  his  "Autobiography"  (1869),  written  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  poet  Longfellow,  we  learn  that  lie  was  of 
Quaker  descent,  and  could  trace  back  his  ancestry  to 
the  time  of  George  Fox.  He  had  a  twin-sister,  Rachel. 
"At  the  age  of  twelve,"  he  says,  "my  education  was 
completed.  I  never  went  to  school  another  daj'." 
Thenceforth  he  was  self- instructed.  Quitting  the  re- 
tail shop  where  he  had  been  placed  as  a  boy,  he  taught 
drawing  and  penmanship  for  av.iiile;  then  became  a 
dry-goods  jobber  successively  in  Boston,  New  York,  and 
Baltimore,  in  the  latter  city  going  into  partnership  with 
the  poet  Pierpont.  Failing  in  business  (1815),  he  stud- 
ied law  ;  then  tried  literature,  publishing  (1817)  his  novel 
of  "Keep  Cool,"  "Goldau,  and  other  Poems,"  "Otho: 
a  Tragedy,"  besides  supplying  editorial  matter  for  the 
Baltimore  Telegraph.  He  wrote  with  great  rapidity,  and 
became  one  of  the  most  voluminous  of  American  au- 
thors.    His  novels  "Seventy-six"  aud  "Logan"  were 


republished  in  London.  Of  his  poetry  he  himself  says, 
"  It  is  disfigured  by  extravagance,  and  overloaded  with 
imagery;"  aud  ho  tells  us  that  he  got  the  sobriquet  of 
"John  O'Cataract"  because  of  his  impetuosity,  his  fiery 
temper,  and  his  Irish  name. 

In  18:24  Neal  went  to  England,  became  domiciled  with 
Jeremy  Beutham,  and  wrote  for  Blackwood' s  Marjazine  up 
to  1826,  when  he  returned  to  Portland.  Here  he  opened 
a  law-office,  but  in  1828  started  The  Yaiikee,  a  weekly  pa- 
per, which  he  edited  a  year  or  two  with  much  vigor.  Of 
his  contributions  to  magazines  and  reviews,  it  may  be 
said  their  name  is  legion.  At  one  time,  by  way  of  vari- 
ety, he  gave  lessons  in  sparring  and  fencing,  for  he  was 
an  accomplished  athlete.  When  eighty-two  years  old, 
being  in  a  horse-car  with  some  old  gentlemen,  they  were 
insulted  by  a  robust,  ruffianly  fellow,  whereupon  Neal 
grappled  him,  and  pitched  him  out  of  the  car.  A  firm 
friend,  and  a  somewhat  tenacious  eueni}',  Neal  was  re- 
membered as  a  warm-hearted,  honorable  man,  and  a  de- 
lightful companion. 


GOLDAU. 

A  small  village  of  the  same  name  in  the  valley  of  Goldau, 
Switzerland,  wa;5  entirely  destroyed,  along  with  some  adjoining 
villages,  September  2d,  1806,  by  a  landslip  of  the  Rossberg, 
wliicli  then  took  place,  and  which  also  converted  this  once 
beautiful  valley  into  a  scene  of  desolation,  covering  it  with 
enormous  rocks  and  other  debris.  Upward  of  four  hundred  and 
fifty  human  beings  were  killed,  one  hundred  and  eleven  houses 
destroyed,  and  whole  herds  of  cattle  swept  away.  The  portion 
of  the  mountain  that  fell  was  about  three  miles  long,  a  thou- 
sand feet  broad,  and  a  hundred  feet  thick. 

0  Switzerland!   my  country!   'tis  to  thee 

1  strike  my  harp  in  agony : — 
My  country !   nurse  of  Liberty ! 
Home  of  the  gallant,  great,  and  free. 
My  sullen  harp  I  strike  to  thee. 

Oh !   I  have  lost  you  all ! 
Parents,  and  home,  aud  friends : 

Ye  sleep  beneath  a  mountain  pall, 
A  mountain's  plnmage  o'er  yon  bends. 
The  cliff-yew  of  funereal  gloom, 
Is  now  the  only  mourning  plume 
That  nods  above  a  people's  tomb. 
Of  the  echoes  that  swim  o'er  thy  bright  blue  lake. 
And,  deep  in  its  caverns,  their  merry  bells  shake, 

Aud  repeat  the  young  huntsman's  cry ; — 
That  clatter  aud  laugh  when  the  goatherds  take 
Their  browsing  docks,  at  the  morning's  break. 
Far  over  the  hills, — not  one  is  awake 
In  the  swell  of  thy  peaceable  sky. 
Thej'  sit  on  that  wave  with  a  motionless  wing, 
Aud  their  cymbals  are  mute;  and  the  desert  birds 

sing 
Their  unanswered  notes  to  the  wave  and  the  skj-, 
Oue  startling  and  sudden,  nuchaugeable  cry — - 
As  they  stoop  their  broad  wing,  and  go  sluggishly  by : 


444 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  ASD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


For  deep  in  that  blite-bosonietl  water  is  laid 

As  iiiuoccnt,  true,  and  lovely  a  maid 

As  ever  in  cbeerfnlness  carolled  her  song 

In  the  blithe  niountain  air  as  she  bounded  along. — 

Tho  heavens  are  all  bine,  and  the  billow's  bright 

verge 
Is  frothily  laved  by  a  whispering  surge, 
That  heaves  incessant,  a  tranquil  dirge. 

To  lull  the  pale  forms  that  sleep  below; 

Forms  that  rock  as  tho  waters  flow. 
That  bright  lake  is  still  as  a  li(inid  sky, 
And  when  o'er  its  bosom  the  swift  clouds  fly, 
They  pass  like  thoughts  o'er  a  clear  blue  eye  I 
The  fringe  of  thin  foam  that  their  sepulchre  binds, 
Is  as  light  as  a  cloud  that  is  borne  hy  tho  winds; 
While  over  its  bosom  the  dim  vapors  hover, 
And  flutterless  skims  the  snowy-winged  plover: 
Swiftly  passing  away — like  a  hauuted  wing; 
With  a  drooping  plume,  that  may  not  fling 
Oue  sound  of  life,  or  a  rustling  note. 
O'er    that    sleepless    tomb,  where    my    loved   ones 

float. 
Oh  I  cool  and  fresh  is  that  bright  blue  lake, 
While  over  its  stillness  uo  sounds  awake  ; 
No  sights  but  those  of  the  hill-top  fountain 
That  swims   on   the   height   of  a   cloud- wrapped 
mountain, 

The  basin  of  tho  rainbow  stream, 

The  sunset  gush,  the  morning  gleam, 

The  pictnie  of  the  poet's  dream. 

Land  of  proud  hearts,  where  freedom  broods 
Amid  her  home  of  echoing  woods. 
The  mother  of  the  mountain  floods, — 

Dark,  Goldau,  is  thy  vale  ! 

The  spirits  of  Rigi  shall  wail 

On  their  cloud-bosomed  deep,  as  thoy  sail 
In  mist  where  thy  children  are  lying  : 
As  their  thunders   once  paused  in  their  headlong 

descent, 
And  delayed  their  discharge,  while  thy  desert  was 
rent 

With  the  cries  of  thy  sons  who  were  dying. 

No  chariots  of  Are  on  the  clouds  careered; 

No  warrior-arm,  with  its  falchion  reared:, 
No  death-angel's  trump  o'er  the  ocean  was  blown  ; 
No  mantle  of  wrath  o'er  the  heaven  was  thrown  ; 
No  armies  of  light,  with  their  banners  of  flame. 
Or  neighing  steeds,  through  tho  sunset  came, 

Or  leaping  from  space  a]»peared ! 
No  earthquakes  reeled,  no  Thunderer  stormed ; 
No  fetterless  dead  o'er  the  bright  sky  swarmed; 
No  voices  in  heaven  were  heard! 


But  the  hour  when  the  sun  in  his  pride  went  down, 

While  his  parting  hung  rich  o'er  the  world, — 
While  abroad  o'er  the   sky  his   flush   mantle   was 
blown. 
And  his  red-rushing  streamers  unfurled, — 
Au  everlasting  hill  was  torn 
From  its  perpetual  base,  aiul  borne, 
In  gold  and  crimsou  vapors  dressed. 
To  where  a  people  are  at  rest! 
Slowly  it  came  in  its  mountain  wrath. 
And  the  forests  vanished  before  its  path  ; 
And  the  rude  clitfs  bowed,  and  the  waters  fled, 
Aud  the  living  were  buried,  while  over  their  head 
They  heard  the  full  march  of  the  foe  as  he  sped, 
And  the  valley  of  life  was  the  tomb  of  the  dead ! 
The  clouds  were  all  bright ;   uo  lightnings  flew ; 
And  over  that  valley  no  death-blast  blew : 
Xo  storm  passed  by  on  his  cloudy  wing  ; 
No  twang  was  heard  from  the  sky-archer's  string; 
But  the  dark  old  hill  in  its  strength  came  down. 
While  the  shedding  of  day  on  its  summit  was  thrown, 
A  glory  all  light,  like  a  wind-wreathed  crown; 
While  the  tame  bird  flew  to  the  vulture's  uest, 
And  the  vulture  forbore  in  that  hour  to  molest. 

The  mountain  sepulchre  of  all  I  loved! 
The  village  sank — and  the  monarch  trees 
Leaned  back  from  the  encountering  breeze, 
While  this  tremendous  pageant  moved  ! 
The  mountain  forsook  his  perpetual  throne. 
Came  dowu  from  his  rock,  aud  his  path  is  shown 
In  barrenness  and  ruin,  where 
Tho  secret  of  his  power  lies  bare  : 
His  rocks  in  nakedness  arise. 
His  desolation  mocks  the  skies! 

Sweet  vale,  Goldau,  farewell ! 

Au  Alpine  monument  may  dwell 

I'pou  thy  bosom,  O  my  home ! 
The  mountain,  thy  pall  and  thy  prison,  may  keep 

thee, 
I  shall  see  thee  no  uuue,  but  till  death  I  will  weep 

thee ; 
Of  thj-  blue  lake  will  dream,  wherever  I  roam. 
And  wish  myself  wrapped  in  its  i)eaceful  foam. 


C)cnrn  Jrancis  f  ntc. 

Lytc  (1703-1847)  was  a  native  of  Ednam,  Scotland, 
where  the  poet  Thomson  was  born.  He  entered  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  carried  off  on  three  occasions  the 
priz.e  for  English  poetry.  He  studied  for  the  ministry, 
and,  after  some  changes,  settled  as  a  clergyman  at  Brix- 
ham,  Devonshire.    Here  he  labored  successfully  for  twen- 


HEXRY  FRANCIS  LYTE.— NATHANIEL  LANGDON  FROTIIINdllAM. 


445 


ty  years,  and  composed  most  of  his  hymns.  His  liealth 
failini?,  he  went  to  Nice,  where  he  died.  His  noble  hymn, 
"Abide  with  Me,"  was  written  in  1S47,  in  view  of  his 
approaching  departure  from  cartli.  It  was  the  last,  as 
it  was  the  best,  of  his  productions. 


HYMN:   "ABIDE   WITH  ME." 

Abide  with  me!  fast  fiills  the  eveu-tide  ; 
The  darkness  deepens  ;   Lord,  -with  mo  abide  ! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with  me ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim;   its  glories  pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  aronnd  I  see  ; 

0  thou,  who  chaiigest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  -word ; 
But  as  tliou  dwell'st  ^vith  thy  disciples,  Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free. 
Come,  not  to  sojonrn,  brrt  abide,  with  me ! 

Come  not  in  terrors  as  the  King  of  kings ; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  thy  wings  ; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea ; 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  thus  abide  with  me  ! 

Tliou  on  nij-  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile  ; 
And,  though  rebellions  and  perverse  meanwhile, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  thee. 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me ! 

1  need  tliy  presence  every  passing  hour : 

What  but  thy  grace  can  foil  the  tempter's  power? 
Who  like  thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can  be  ? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  oh,  abide  with  me  ! 

I  fear  no  foe,  with  thee  at  hand  to  bless : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness : 
Where  is  Death's  sting  ?  where,  Grave,  thy  victory  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  thou  abide  w  ith  mc  ? 

Hold,  then,  thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes! 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to  the  skies! 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  Earth's  vain  shadows 

11  ee  ; 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  nie ! 


FROM  LINES  ON  "EVENING." 

Sweet  evening  hour!   sweet  evening  hour! 
That  calms  the  air,  and  shuts  the  flower; 


That  brings  the  wild  bird  to  her  nest. 
The  infant  to  its  mothers  breast. 

Sweet  hour!   that  bids  the  laborer  cease, 
'i'liat  gives  the  weary  team  release, 
That  leads  them  home,  and  crowns  them  there 
Willi  rest  aud  shelter,  food  and  care. 

Oh  season  of  soft  sounds  and  hues, 
Of  twilight  walks  among  the  dews. 
Of  feelings  calm,  and  converse  sweet, 
Aud  thoughts  too  shadowy  to  repeat! 

Yes,  lovely  hour!   thou  art  the  time 
When  feelings  flow,  and  wishes  climb; 
When  timid  souls  begin  to  dare. 
And  God  receives  and  answers  jn-ayer. 

Then,  as  the  earth  recedes  from  sight, 
Heaven  seems  to  ope  her  fields  of  light, 
And  call  the  fettered  soul  above 
From  sin  aud  grief,  to  peace  and  love. 

Who  has  not  felt  that  Evening's  hour 
Draws  forth  devotion's  tenderest  power; 
That  guardian  spirits  round  us  stand. 
And  God  himself  seems  most  at  hand  ? 

Sweet  hour !  for  heavenly  musing  made — 
When  Isaac  walked,  and  Daniel  prayed; 
When  Abram's  offering  God  did  own, 
And  Jesus  loved  to  be  alone ! 


^atljanicl  £ancibon  Jrotljinciljain. 


A  native  of  Boston,  and  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  Froth- 
ingham  (1793-1870)  studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was  set- 
tled over  a  parish  in  Boston  several  years.  He  published 
some  excellent  translations  from  the  German,  and  made 
several  visits  to  Europe.  The  latter  part  of  his  life  he 
became  blind  ;  and  he  pathetically  alludes,  in  the  poem 
we  quote,  to  the  fact  that  the  blind,  when  they  dream, 
have  no  sense  of  their  deprivation.  His  son,  Oetavius 
Brooks  Frothingliam  (born  in  Boston,  1823),  is  a  clergy- 
man of  the  liberal  school,  and  the  author  of  some  ap- 
proved hymns. 


THE   SIGHT   OF   THE   BLIND. 

"I  always  see  in  dreams,"  she  said, 
"Nor  tlien  believe  that  I  am  blind." 
That  simple  thought  a  shadowy  pleasure  shed 
Within  mv  mind. 


446 


CYCLOPJiDlA   OF  JilUTJSH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ill  a  liko  doom,  the  nij^lits  aflord 
A  like  display  of  mercy  done: 
How  oft  I've  dreamed  of  sijjlit  as  full  restored  ! 
Not  onco  as  gone. 

Restored  as  with  a  Hash  !   I  gaze 
On  open  books  -with  letters  plain  ; 
And  scenes  and  faces  of  the  dearer  days 
Are  bright  again. 

O  sleep !   in  pity  thou  art  made 
A  double  boon  to  such  as  we  : 
Beneath  closed  lids  and  folds  of  deepest  shade 
AVc  think  wo  see. 

O  Providence!   when  all  is  dark 
Around  our  steps  and  o'er  thy  will, 
The  mercy-seat  that  hides  the  covenant-ark 
Has  angels  still. 

Thou  who  art  light !   illume  the  page 
Within  ;   renew  these  respites  sweet, 
And  show,  beyond  the  films  and  wear  of  age. 
Both  walk  and  seat. 


O   GOTT,  DU    FROMMER    GOTT! 

From  the  Geeman  of  Joiiann  Heerman,  1G30. 

O  God,  thou  faithfnl  God  ! 

Thou  well-spring  of  all  blessing! 
In  whom  we  all  exist, 

From  whom  we're  all  possessing ; — 
Give  me  a  body  sound  ; 

And  in  it,  bnilded  well. 
Let  an  nnbleraished  soul 

And  a  good  conscience  dwell. 

Afford  me  will  and  strength 

To  do  the  work  assigned  me. 
Whereto,  in  my  true  place, 

Thy  law  may  call  and  find  mo. 
Let  it  be  timely  done, 

With  eager  readiness; 
And  what  is  done  in  thee 

Have  ever  good  success. 

Help  mo  to  speak  but  lliat 

Wiiieh  I  can  stand  maintaining. 

And  banish  from  my  lips 

The  word  that's  coarse  and  staining; 

And  when  the  duty  comes 
To  speak  with  earnest  stress, 


Then  grant  the  needed  force 
Unmixed  wilh  I)itternc8S. 

When  trouble;  shall  break  in. 

Let  me  not  turn  desi)airer; 
But  give  a  steadfast  heart, 

And  make  nu;  a  cross-bearer. 
When  help  and  comfort  fail. 

Send  to  my  side  the  Friend, 
Who,  closer  than  a  brother. 

Shall  watch  the  sorrow's  end. 


lUilliam  iHacjiuu. 

Maginn  (1793-1842),  tlic  "Odolierty"  o{  Blacktcood'x 
Miujardiie,  from  1819  to  1828,  was  a  native  of  Cork.  He 
received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  in  his  twenty-fourth  year. 
There  was  much  scholarly  wit  and  satirical  power  in 
his  writings;  but  his  literary  career  was  irregular,  and 
his  intemperate  habits  made  it  a  failure.  lie  -was  often 
arrested,  and  lodged  in  jail.  He  was  one  of  the  chief 
supporters  of  Fraser^s  Mar/azinc  (1880),  and  for  a  time 
co-editor  of  the  Standard  newspaper.  In  1838  he  com- 
menced a  scries  of  Homeric  ballads  in  Blackwood's  Jlaga- 
zine.    He  Avas  also  distinguished  as  a  Shakspeariau  critic. 


THE   IRISHMAN. 
I. 
There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Leith, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man  ; 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 
She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman — 
A  nasty,  ngly  Irishman^ 
A  wild,  tremendous  Irishman — 
A  tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping,  rantinj 
roaring  Irishman ! 


His  face  was  noways  beautiful. 

For  with  small-pox  'twas  scarred  across ; 
And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
Were  almost  double  a  yard  across. 
Oil,  the  lump  of  an  Irishman — 
The  whiskey-devouring  Irishman  — 
The  great  he-rogue,  with  his  wonderful  brognc- 
tho  fighting,  rioting  Irishman  ! 


One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle-green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear; 

And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking  legs 
Weie  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear! 


WILLIAM  MAG IXX.— FELICIA  HEMAXS. 


447 


Oh,  tbo  great  big  Iiishnian — 
The  rattling,  battliug  Irishman — 
The    stampiug,   ramping,   swaggering,   staggt'ring, 
leathering  swash  of  an  Irishman  I 


He  took  so  much  of  Linuly-foot 

That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle,  O  ; 
And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow's  ueck 
"Was  as  broad  as  the  neck  of  a  buft'alo. 
Oh,  the  horrible  Irishman — 
The  thundering,  blundering  Irishman — 
The  slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing,  thrashing, 
hashing  Irishman ! 


His  name  Mas  a  terrible  name  indeed. 

Being  Timothy  Thady  Muliigau  ; 
And  Avheuever  he  emptied  his  tumbler  of  punch. 
He'd  uot  rest  till  he  filled  it  full  agaiu. 
The  booziug,  bruising  Irishman — 
The  'tosicated  Irishman — 
The    Avliiskey,  frisky,  rummy,  gummj",  brandy,  no 
daudy  Irishman ! 


This  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved, 

Like  all  the  girls  of  quality ; 
And  he  broke  the  skulls  of  the  men  of  Leith, 
Just  by  the  "way  of  jollity. 
Oh,  the  leathering  Irishman — 
The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman — 
The  hearts  of  the  maids  and  the  gentlemen's  heads 
were  bothered,  I'm  sure,  bv  this  Irishman. 


indicia  tlcmaus. 


Felicia  Dorothea  Browne  was  the  maiden  name  of  Mrs. 
Hemans.  She  was  born  in  Liverpool,  September  25th, 
1793,  and  died  May  16th,  1835,  aged  forty-one.  Her  fa- 
ther, who  was  a  merchant,  having  experienced  some  re- 
verses in  business,  removed  his  family  to  Wales.  In  1812 
she  married  Captain  Hemans,  but  the  union  was  not  a 
happy  one :  in  1818  he  went  to  Ital}%  and  they  never  met 
again.  Mrs.  Hemans  remained  in  Wales,  her  time  being 
fully  occupied  by  lier  poetical  labors  and  the  education 
of  her  five  boys.  Ill  liealtli,  however,  pressed  upon  her, 
and  she  jirematurely  experienced  decay  of  the  springs  of 
life.  She  died  at  the  house  other  brother,  Major  Browne, 
in  Dublin.  She  had  begun  to  publish  her  poetry  as  earl^' 
as  her  fifteenth  year.  She  wrote  several  long  poems  of 
merit,  and  "The  Vespers  of  Palermo,"  a  tragedy;  but  it 
is  in  her  short  lyrical  pieces  that  she  is  happiest.  Some 
of  these  compare  not  unfiivorably  with  the  best  in  the 


language.  It  has  been  the  fashion  among  youthful  crit- 
ics of  late  to  undervalue  her  productions ;  but  not  a  few 
of  these  have  a  clmrni,  a  tenderness,  and  a  spirit  which 
must  make  them  long  dear  to  the  hearts  of  tlie  many. 
-Over  the  grave  where  her  mortal  remains  were  de])osited 
were  inscribed  tlicse  lines,  from  one  of  her  own  poems : 

"Cahn  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Fair  spirit,  rest  thee  now ! 
Even  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod, 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

"Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath! 
Soul  to  its  phice  on  high  ! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  loolc  in  death 
No  more  may  fear  to  die." 

The  complete  works  of  ^Irs.  Hemans,  with  a  memoir  by 
her  sister,  were  published  in  six  volumes. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side, 

They  filled  one  home  with  glee ; 
Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide 

By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 
The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 

O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 

\\Tiere  are  those  dreamers  now? 

One  'mid  the  forests  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid  ; 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 
The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one — 

He  lies  where  i)earls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapped  his  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 
And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 

Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned  ; 
She  faded  'mid  Italian  flowers, 

The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And,  parted  thus,  they  rest  who  played 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree, 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent-knee  ! 
They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall. 

And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth, — 
Alas  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all. 

And  naught  beyond,  O  Earth! 


448 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  llIUTlSll  ASJJ  AMERICAN  rOETllY. 


THE  riLGRIM  FATIIEKS. 

Tlio  breaking  waves  daslicil  liigli 

On  a  stoni  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  tho  ^Yoods  against  a  stornij'  sky 

Their  giant  branches  tossed; 
And  the  heavy  night  hnnjj^  dark 

The  hills  .and  waters  o'er, 
Wiicn  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  Avild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  conies, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; — 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums. 

And  tho  trumpet  that  sings  of  fiime  ; — 
Not  as  the  flying  come — 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amid  the  storm  they  sang. 

Till  the  stars  heard,  and  tho  sea  ; 
And  tho  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 
Tho  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam. 
And  the  rocking  i)iues  of  the  forest  roared : — 

Such  was  their  welcome  home. 

Tliero  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amid  that  pilgrim  band : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 
There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high. 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Ibight  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas  ?   the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

No — 'twas  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 
Yes,  call  that  holy  ground, 

Which  first  their  brave  feet  trod! 
Tlicy  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found- 

I'reedom  to  worship  God  ! 


THE   HOME   OF  THE   SPIRIT. 

Answer  me,  T)urniiig  stars  of  night  : 
Where  is  the  spirit  gone 


That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight 
As  a  swift  breeze  liatli  ilown  ? 

And  the  stars  answered  me  :   "  We  roll 
In  light  and  power  on  high  : 

But  of  the  never-dying  sonl 
Ask  that  which  cannot  die." 

Oil,  many-toned  and  cliainless  wind, 

Thou  art  a  wanderer  free ; 
Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find 

Far  over  mount  and  sea. 
And  tho  wind  murmured  in  rejily  : 

"  The  blue  deep  I  have  crossed. 
And  met  its  barks  and  billows  high, 

But  not  what  thou  hast  lost." 

Ye  clouds,  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun, 
Answer :   have  ye  a  home  for  those 

Whoso  earthly  race  is  run  ? 
The  bright  clouds  answered :  "  We  depart, 

We  A'anisb  from  the  sky; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart 

For  that  which  eaiiiiot  die." 

Speak,  then,  thou  voice  of  God  within, 

Thou  of  the  deep,  low  tone ! 
Answer  me  through  life's  restless  din — 

Where  is  the  spirit  flown  ? 
And  the  voice  answered:   "Be  thou  still! 

Knoiigh  to  know  is  given  : 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  their  jiart  fultil ; 

Thine  is  to  trust  in  Heaven." 


CASABIANCA. 

Casablanca,  thirteen  years  old,  son  to  the  Admiral  of  the  Ori- 
ent, remained  at  his  \wsi  (in  the  battle  of  the  Nile)  after  the 
ship  had  taken  lire  and  all  the  gnns  had  been  abandoned;  and 
lierislicd  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the  flames  had 
reached  the  powder. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
AVlience  all  but  him  had  fled  ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood. 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm, — 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  ehildlilie,  fonii. 

Tho  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father's  word; 


FELICIA   BEMANS. 


449 


That  father,  faiut  iu  death  below, 
His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud  : — "  Say,  father,  saj' 

If  yet  luy  task  is  done  !"' 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  sou. 

••  Speak,  father  I"'  once  again  he  cried, 

**  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !"' 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  tiames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair ; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  alond, 

'•My  father,  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  lires  made  way. 

They  wrapped  the  ship  iu  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 

Like  banners  in  the  skj-. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — 

The  boy— oh,  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  wiuds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea  !— 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part — 

But  the  noblest  thiug  that  perished  there 
Was  that  voung  faithful  heart ! 


SONNET  ON  GRASMEKE. 

Wordsworth  said  to  Mrs.  Ilemans :  "  I  would  not  give  np  the 
mists  th;U  spiritualize  our  niomitaius  for  all  the  bine  skies  of 
Italy.'"  She  seems  to  have  shared  iu  his  admiraliou  of  the 
scenery  about  Grasmere. 

O  vale  and  lake,  within  your  moutitain  urn. 
Smiling  so  tranquilly,  and  set  so  deep  I 
Oft  doth  your  dreamy  loveliness  return, 
Coloring  the  tender  shadow  of  my  sleep 
With  light  Elysian ; — for  the  hues  that  steep 
Your  shores  iu  melting  lustre  seem  to  float 
On  golden  clouds  from  spirit-lands  remote. 
Isles  of  the  blessed; — and  in  our  memory  keep 
29 


Their  place  -with  holiest  harmonies.     Fair  sceue, 
Most  loved  by  evening  and  lier  dewy  star! 
Oh  I  ne'er  may  man, -with  touch  nnliallowed,  jar 
The  perfect  music  of  the  charm  serene ! 
Still,  still  unchanged,  may  one  sweet  region  wear 
Smiles  that  subdue  the  soul  to  love  and  tears  and 
prayer ! 


THE   MESSENGER-BIRD. 

Some  of  the  Brazilians  pay  veneration  to  a  bird  that  sings 
mournfully  in  the  night-time.  They  say  it  is  a  messenger 
whicli  their  friends  and  relations  have  sent,  and  that  it  brings 
them  news  from  the  other  world. — See  Pioaet's  Ceremoniets  and 
Reli'jious  Customs. 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou  bird ; 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land  ! 
Through  the  dark  pine-groves  let  thy  A'oice  be  heard, 

And  tell  of  the  shadowy  baud  I 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 

In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore  ; 
And  we  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  are  there. 

They  are  there — and  they  weep  no  more ! 

And  we  know  they  have  quenched  their  fever's  thirst 
From  the  Fountain  of  Youth  ere  now, 

For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst 
Which  none  may  find  below ! 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to  earth 

From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers, 
By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth. 

Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours  ; 

Though  they  sat  Avith  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze. 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  fathers'  days 

Which  are  told  to  others  now ! 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain. 

Can  those  who  have  loved  forget  ? 
We  call,  and  they  answer  not  again : 

Do  they  love — do  they  love  us  yet? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief  of  those  that  were  wont  to  share 

His  wandering  through  the  wild  ? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 
And  they  si)eak  not  from  cave  or  hill : 

We  know,  thou  bird,  that  their  land  is  bright  ; 
But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ? 


450 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BlUriSn  AND  AMEUKAX  I'OETRY. 


LEAVE  ME  NOT  YET. 

L(>avo  nio  not  yot — throufjli  rosj-^  skies  from  far, 
But  now  tlui  .song-birds  to  tlicir  nest  return  ; 

Tlic  quivering  imago  of  tlic  first  palo  star 
On  tlio  dim  lake  yet  scarce  begins  to  bnrn  : 
Leave  mo  not  yet ! 

Xot  yet! — oh,  hark!  h)\v  tones  from  liichlen  streams, 
Piercing  the  shivery  leaves,  e'en  now  arise ; 

Tiieir  voices  mingle  not  with  daylight  dreams, 
They  are  of  vesper  hymns  and  harmonies  ; 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 

My  thoughts  arc   like    those   gentle   sounds,  dear 
love  ! 
By  day  shut  np  iu  their  own  still  recess, 
They  wait  for  dews  on  earth,  for  stars  above. 
Then  to  breathe  out  their  soul  of  tenderness : 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 


EVENING  SONG  OF  THE  TYROLESE 

PEASANTS. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree ! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  axe  lies  free, 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done. 

Tlie  twilight  star  to  heaven. 

And  the  summer  dew  to  tlowera, 

And  rest  to  us  is  given 

By  the  cool  soft  evening  hours. 

Sweet  is  the  hour  of  rest ! 

Pleasant  the  wind's  low  sigh, 
And  the  gleaming  of  the  west, 

And  the  turf  whereon  wc  lie. 

Wiien  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  labor's  task  are  o'er, 
And  kindly  voices  greet 

The  tired  one  at  his  door. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree ! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  axe  lies  free, 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done. 

Yes;    tunefnl  is  the  sound 

That  dwells  in  whispering  boughs; 


Welcome  the  freshness  round. 

And  the  gale  that  fans  our  brows. 

P.ut  rest  more  sweet  and  still 
Than  ever  nightfall  gave, 

Onr  longing  hearts  shall  fill 

Li  the  Avorld  beyond  the  grave. 

There  shall  no  tempest  blow. 
No  scorching  noontide  heat; 

There  shall  be  no  more  snow. 
No  weary  wandering  ftset. 

And  we  lift  our  trusting  eyes. 
From  the  hills  our  fathers  ti'od, 

To  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 
To  the  Sabbath  of  our  God. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  axe  lies  free, 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done ! 


HYMN   OF  THE  MOLTs^TAINEERS. 

For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  onr  fathers'  God ! 
Thou  hast  made  thy  children  mighty 

By  the  touch  of  the  niountaiu  sod. 
Thou  hast  fixed  our  ark  of  I'efiige 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God ! 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whoso  light  must  never  die  ; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

'Mid  the  silence  of  the  sky: 
The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage. 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Onr  (Jod,  onr  fathers'  God! 

For  the  dark,  resounding  caverns, 

Where  thy  still  small  voice  is  heard ; 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forest. 

That  by  thy  breath  ai'e  stirred; 
For  the  storms  on  whose  free  i)inious 

Thy  Si)irit  walks  al>road — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  wo  bless  thee, 

Onr  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 


FELICIA   HEMANS.—MRS.  SARAH  A  USTIX. 


451 


The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  liciglits  ; 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master, 

Seeks  there  his  •wild,  delights  ; 
But  Ave  for  tht/  communiou 

Have  sought  tho  mountain  sod — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thoo, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

Tho  banner  of  the  chieftain 

Far,  far  below  us  waves  ; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearniau 

Cannot  reach  our  loftj^  caves  ; 
Thy  dark  clouds  Avrap  the  threshold 

Of  Freedom's  last  abode  : 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  tiithers'  God! 

For  the  shadow  of  thy  presence 

Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread  ; 
For  the  stern  defiles  of  battle, 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead  ; 
For  the  snows,  and  for  the  torrents  ; 

For  the  free  heart's  burial-sod — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 


THE   GREEK  ISLANDER   IX  EXILE. 

A  Greek  islander,  being  taken  to  the  Vale  of  Tenipe,  and 
called  upon  to  admire  its  beantiftil  scenery,  replied,  "Yes,  all 
is  fair;  but  the  sea— where  is  the  sea?" 

Where  is  the  sea  ?— I  languish  here — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 
With  all  its  barks  in  feet  career, 

And  flags  and  breezes  free  I 

I  miss  that  voice  of  waves — the  first 

That  -woke  my  childish  glee  ; 
The  measured  chime — the  thundering  burst — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea? 

Oh  !    rich  your  myrtles'  breath  may  rise, 

Soft,  soft  your  ■winds  may  be  ; 
Yefc  my  sick  heart  within  me  dies  — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 

I  hear  the  shepherd's  mountain  llute, 
I  hear  the  whispering  tree  ; 

The  echoes  of  my  soul  are  mute- 
Where  is  mv  own  blue  sea  ? 


SUNDAY   IN  ENGLAND. 

The  following  admirable  sonnet,  produced  by  Mrs.  Ilemnns 
only  about  three  weeks  before  her  death,  was  dictated  to  her 
brother,  Major  Browne,  April  2Cth,  1S35. 

How  many  blessM  groups  this  hour  are  bending 
TLrongh    England's   primrose   meadow-paths   their 

way 
Toward  spire  and  tower, 'mid  shadowy  elms  ascend- 

i"g, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed 

day  ; 
The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  gray. 
Pour  their  fiiir  children  forth ;   and  hamlets  low. 
With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  winds 

play, 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  freed  vernal  stream.     I  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways, — to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound  ;   yet,  O  my  God  !   I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  dee]}  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 


illrs.  Baralj  '2lustin. 

Mrs.  Austin  (1793-1807),  daughter  of  William  Taylor, 
of  Norwich,  England,  was  noted  for  her  elegant  transla- 
tions froiB  the  German.  She  translated  "  The  Story  with- 
out an  End,"  wrote  "  Chnracteristics  of  Goetlie"  (1833), 
etc.  She  was  the  friend  of  John  Ncal,  who  gives  some 
account  of  her  iu  his  "Autobiography."  Her  daughter. 
Lady  Duff  Gordon,  who  died  in  1801),  was  also  distin- 
guished as  a  translator. 


THE  PASSAGE. 

Fkom  tue  German  of  Uhland. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 
Since  I  cros-sed  this  restless  wave ; 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  ou  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades,  true  and  tried ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth. 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought. 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought  ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 


452 


CYCLOPjEDIA    of  BltlTISH  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


So  whene'er  I  turn  mine  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddeninji  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 

Friends  who  ch)8cd  their  course  before  me. 

Yet  what  binds  ns  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  Avere  those  days  of  yore — 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more ! 

Take,  O  boatinan,  thrice  tliy  fee! — 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly — 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  nic. 


ilolju  (Ularc. 


Clare  (1793-1864)  was  a  native  of  Helpstone,  England. 
His  parents  wore  peasants — his  fiithcr  a  helpless  cripple 
and  a  pauper.  John  got  some  education  by  his  own 
extra  Mork  as  a  ploughboy.  At  thirteen  he  hoarded  up 
a  shilling  to  buy  a  copy  of  Thomson's  "Seasons."  In 
18:20  he  published  "Poems  descriptive  of  Rural  Life  and 
Scenery,  by  John  Clare,  a  Northamptonshire  Peasant." 
The  work  was  kindly  received,  and  soon  he  was  in  pos- 
session of  a  little  fortune.  But  his  prosperity  did  not 
last.  His  discretion  was  not  equal  to  iiis  fortitude.  He 
speculated  in  farming,  wasted  his  little  hoard,  sank  into 
nervous  despondency  and  despair,  and  was  finally  placed 
in  a  lunatic  asylum.  He  remained  here  about  four  years, 
and  then  cfleeted  his  escape.  He  was  retaken,  and  wor- 
ried out  twcntj'  years  more  of  his  unfortunate  life  in 
confinement.  He  was  a  faithful  painter  of  rustic  scenes, 
and  keenly  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  nature.  Tlie  last 
words  of  poor  Clare,  as  he  closed  his  mortal  eyes  for- 
ever, were,  "I  want  to  go  home  I" 


ON  AN  INFANT  KILLED   BY  LIGHTNING. 

As  fearless  as  a  cherub's  rest. 

Now  safe  above  the  cloud, 
A  babe  lay  on  its  mother's  breast 

When  thunders  roared  aloud  : 
It  started  not  to  bear  the  crash, 

But  lield  its  little  hand 
Up,  at  tlie  lightning's  fearful  Hash, 

To  catch  tlie  burning  brand. 

The  tender  mother  stayed  lu-r  bnatli 

In  more  than  grief  awhile, 
To  think  tin;  tiling  that  brought  its  death 

Should  cause  her  babe  to  smile. 
Ay,  it  did  smile  a  heavenly  sniilQ 

To  see  the  lightning  play  ; 


Well  might  she  shriek  when  it  turned  pale, 

And  yet  it  smiled  in  clay! 

O  woman  !    the  diead  Ntorin  was  given 

To  bi;  to  each  a  friend  ; 
It  took  tliy  infant  pure  to  heaven, 

Left  tbeo  impure,  to  mend. 
Thus  Providence  will  oft  appear 

From  God's  own  mouth  to  preach  : 
Ah  !   would  we  were  as  prone  to  hear 

As  Mercy  is  to  teach  ! 


THE  THRUSH'S  NEST:    A  SONNET.' 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn-bush 
That  overhung  a  mole-hill,  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 
Sing  hymns  of  raiitnre,  while  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy — and  oft,  an  niiintrudiug  guest, 
I  watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day  ; 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 
And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 
And  hy-and-by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew. 
There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  aud  blue  : 
And  there  I  witnessed,  in  the  summer  liours, 
A  brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  Luighiiig  skv. 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 

Bowing  adorers  of  the  gale, 
Ye  cowslips  delicately  pale, 

Upraise  your  loaded  stems, 
Unfold  your  cups  in  splendor;   speak! 
Who  decked  you  with  that  ruddy  streak 

And  gilt  your  golden  gems  ? 

Violets,  sweet  tenants  of  the  shade, 
In  purple's  richest  piide  arrayed, 

Your  errand  here  fulfil ! 
Go,  bid  the  artist's  simple  stain 
Your  lustre  imitate,  in  vain, 

And  match  your  Maker's  skill. 


'  Montgomery  snys  of  this  sonnet:  "Here  we  have  in  minia- 
ture tlie  history  and  geograpliy  of  a.  tlirnsh's  ne.st,  so  simply  and 
naturally  set  forth,  that  one  might  think  sucli  strains 

'No  more  difficile 
Than  for  a  blackbird  'tis  to  wliistle.' 

But  let  the  hcnitleps  critic  who  despises  them  try  his  own  hand 
either  at  a  bird's-uest  or  a  sonnet  like  this." 


JOHN  CLARE.— JOnX  GIBSON  LOCKHAUT. 


453 


Daisies,  yc  liowers  of  lowly  birth, 
Embroiderers  of  the  carpet  earth, 

That  stud  the  velvet  sod  ; 
Opeu  to  si)ring's  I'efreshiiig  air, — 
In  sweetest  smiling  bloom  declare 

Your  Maker  and  my  God ! 


LINES  IX  A  LUCID  INTERVAL. 

For  twenty-two  years  Clare  was  the  inmate  of  a  lunatic  asy- 
lum; aiul  (luring  that  time  not  one  of  all  his  great  or  little 
friends  or  patrons  ever  vi.sited  him.  lie  expresses  his  feelings 
at  the  neglect,  in  the  following  lines,  written,  it  would  seem,  iu 
a  lucid  interval. 

I  am  !   yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows  ? 

My  friends  forsake  me  like  a  memory  lost. 
I  am  the  self-consumer  of  mj  woes, 

They  rise  and  vanish,  an  oblivions  host, 
Shadows  of  life,  whose  very  soul  is  lost. 
And  yet  I  am — I  live — though  I  am  tossed 

Into  the  nothingness  of  scorn  and  noise. 
Into  the  living  sea  of  waking  dream. 

Where  there  is  neither  sense  of  life  nor  joys. 
But  the  huge  shipwreck  of  my  own  esteem 

And  all  that's  dear.     Even  those  I  loved  the  best 

Are  strange— nay,  they  are  stranger  than  the  rest. 

I  long  for  scenes  where  man  has  never  trod, 
For  scenes  where  woman  never  smiled  or  wept; 

There  to  abide  with  my  creator,  God, 

And  sleep  as  I  in  childhood  sweetly  slept 

Full  of  high  thoughts,  unborn.     So  let  me  lie. 

The  grass  below;   above,  the  vaulted  sky. 


loljn  (!3ib0on  £ockljart. 

Lockbart  (179J-18.54),  the  son  of  a  Glasgow  minister, 
and  the  son-in-law  and  biographer  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
was  born  in  the  county  of  Lanark,  Scotland,  and  was  ed- 
ucated at  Glasgow  and  Oxford.  After  a  brief  trial  of  the 
law,  he  devoted  himself  to  literary  pursuits  ;  wrote  "  Va- 
lerius," "Reginald  Dalton,"  "Adam  Blair,"  and  other 
novels;  also,  some  very  spirited  versions  of  Spanish  bal- 
lads. He,  moreover,  contributed  to  Blackwood's  3fafjn- 
zine,  and  edited  the  Quarterly  Jieview  from  1826  to  18.53. 
Ill  health  and  private  calamities  and  bereavements  dark- 
ened his  latter  days.  His  "  Life  of  Scott  "  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  biographies  in  the  language,  hardly  sur- 
passed by  BoswelTs  "  Life  of  Johnson."  As  a  poet,  he 
was  versatile,  and  might  have  excelled  had  he  made  poe- 
try his  exclusive  tield.  His  "Captain  Paton's  Lament," 
published  m BlackwooiVs  Mcujazuw.  iu  1819,  is  an  admirable 
specimen  of  the  humorous  in  elegy.  Captain  Paton  was 
a  well-known  character  in  Glasgow,  who  died  in  1807. 


CAPTAIN  PATON'S  LAMENT. 

Touch  once  more  a  sober  measure. 

And  let  i)unch  and  tears  be  shed, 
For  a  prince  of  good  old  fellows, 

That,  alack-a-day !  is  dead  ; 
For  a  prince  of  worthy  fellows, 

And  a  pretty  man  also. 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket 

In  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe. 
Oh  I   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

His  waistcoat,  coat,  and  breeches 

Were  all  cut  otf  the  same  web, 
Of  a  beautiful  snuff-color, 

Of  a  modest  geuty  drab ; 
The  blue  stripe  in  his  stocking 

Kound  his  neat,  slim  leg  did  go, 
And  his  ruffles  of  the  cambric  fine. 

They  were  whiter  than  the  snow. 
Oh !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

His  hair  was  curled  in  order, 

At  the  rising  of  tlie  sun. 
In  comely  rows  and  buckles  smart 

That  about  his  ears  did  run  ; 
And  before  there  was  a  toupee. 

That  some  inches  up  did  grow; 
And  behind  there  w-as  a  long  queue. 

That  did  o'er  his  shoulders  flow. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

And  whenever  we  foregathered, 

He  took  off  his  wee  three-cockit. 
And  he  proffered  j'oii  his  snuffbox. 

Which  he  drew  from  his  side-pocket ; 
And  on  Bnrdett  or  Bonaparte 

He  would  make  a  remark  or  so, 
And  then  along  the  plainstones 

Like  a  provost  lie  would  go. 
Oh !   we  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

In  dirty  days  he  picked  well 

His  footsteps  with  his  rattan  : 
Oh,  you  ne'er  could  see  the  least  speck 

On  the  shoes  of  Captain  Paton. 
And  on  entering  the  coffee-room 

About  two,  all  men  did  know 


454 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  SlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlii-y  would  SCO  him,  AA'itli  liis  Courier, 
111  the  iiiiiUllo  of  tlio  row. 
Oil!    we  ne'er  sliall  sec  the  like  of  (';ii>t;uii  Tjiton 
no  mo'o ! 

Now  and  then  upon  a.  Sunday 

He  invited  nio  to  dine 
On  a  herring  and  a  mutton-chop, 

Which  his  maid  dressed  very  fine. 
There  was  also  a  little  Malmsey, 

And  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux, 
Whicii  between  me  and  the  captain 

Passed  nimbly  to  and  fro. 
Oh  !  I  ne'er  sliall  lake  potluck  with  Captain  Paton 


Or,  if  a  bowl  was  mentioned. 

The  captain  lie  would  ring, 
And  bid  Nelly  run  to  the  Westport, 

And  a  stoup  of  water  bring : 
Then  would  lie  mix  the  genuine  stuif, 

As  they  made  it  long  ago. 
With  limes  that  on  his  property 

lu  Trinidad  did  grow. 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  taste  the  like  of  Captain  Paton's 
launch  no  mo'e ! 

And  then  all  the  time  lie  would  discourse 

So  sensible  and  courteous, 
Perhaps  talking  of  the  last  sermon 

He  had  heard  from  Dr.  Porteous ; 
Of  some  little  bit  of  scandal 

About  Mrs.  So-and-So, 
Which  he  scarce  could  credit,  having  heard 

The  con  but  not  the  jjro .' 
Oh!   we  shall  ne'er  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e  I 

Or,  when  the  candles  were  brouglit  forth. 

And  the  night  was  fairly  setting  in, 
He  would  tell  some  fine  old  stories 

About  Miudon-field  or  Dettingeii  ; 
How  he  fought  with  a  French  major, 

And  despatched  him  at  a  blow, 
While  his  blood  ran  out  like  water 

On  the  soft  grass  below ! 
Oh  !  we  ne'er  shall  hear  the  like  from  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

But  at  last  the  captain  sickened, 
And  grew  worse  from  day  to  day ; 

Aujl  all  missed  him  in  the  coflfee-room, 
From  which  now  he  stayed  away ; 


Oil  Sabbaths,  too,  the  Wynd  kirk 

Made  a  melancholy  show. 
All  for  wanting  of  the  jiresence 
Of  our  venerable  bean! 
Oh  !   wc  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  I'atoii 
no  mo'e  ! 

And,  in  spite  of  all  that  Cleghorn 

And  Corkindale  could  do, 
It  was  plain,  from  twenty  symptoms, 

That  death  was  in  his  view; 
So  the  captain  made  his  test'meut, 

And  submitted  to  his  foe  ; 
And  wc  laid  him  by  the  Kam'.s-horn  kirk — 

'Tis  the  way  we  all  must  go ! 
Oh!    wc  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton 
no  mo'e ! 

Join  all  in  chorus,  jolly  boys, 

And  let  punch  and  tears  be  shed, 
For  this  prince  of  good  old  fellows, 

That,  alack-a-day !   is  dead  ; 
For  this  prince  of  worthy  fellows  — 

And  a  pretty  man  also — 
That  has  left  the  Saltmarket 

In  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe ! 
For  it  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  of  Captain  Paton  no 


BEYOND. 

When  youthful  faith  hath  fled, 

Of  loving  take  thy  leave ; 
Be  constant  to  the  dead, — 

The  dead  cannot  deceive. 

Sweet,  modest  flowers  of  spring. 
How  fleet  your  balmy  day! 

And  man's  brief  year  can  bring 
No  secondary  May, — 

No  earthly  burst  again 

Of  gladness  out  of  gloom  ; 

Fond  hope  and  vision  wane 
Ungrateful  to  the  tomb. 

But  'tis  an  old  belief 

That  on  some  solemn  shore. 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  grief, 

Dear  friends  shall  meet  once  more. 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  time, 
And  sin,  and  fate's  control, 


JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKE  ART. 


455 


Serene  in  endless  ])iinio 
Of  body  luul  of  .soul. 

That  creed  I  fain  -would  keep, 
That  hope  I'll  not  forego ; 

Eternal  be  tlie  sleep, 
Unless  to  waken  so ! 


LAMENTATION    FOR    CELIN. 

Fkom  "  Lockhakt's  Spanish  Ballads." 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada, 

When  all  its  bolts  are  barred — 
At  twilight,  at  the  Vega  Gate — 

There  is  a  trampling  heard ; 
There  is  a  trami)ling  heard, 

As  of  horses  treading  slow. 
And  a  weeping  voice  of  women, 

And  a  heavy  sound  of  woe. 
•What  tower  is  fallen?   what  star  is  set? 

What  chief  come  these  bewailing  ?" 
"A  tower  is  fallen!   a  star  is  set! 

Alas,  alas  for  Celiu  !" 

Three  times  thej'  knock,  three  times  they  cry. 

And  wide  the  doors  they  throw  ; 
Dejectedly  they  enter. 

And  mournfully  they  go  ! 
In  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand 

Beneath  the  hollow  porch, 
Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand 

A  black  and  flaming  torch. 
Wet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by. 

And  all  around  is  wailing  ; 
For  all  have  heard  the  misery — 

'•Alas,  alas  for  Celiu!" 

Him  yesterday  a  Moor  did  slay 

Of  Beucerraje's  blood  : 
'Twas  at  the  solemn  jousting; 

Around  the  nobles  stood  ; 
The  nobles  of  the  land  were  by. 

And  ladies  bright  and  fair 
Looked  from  their  latticed  windows, 

The  haughty  sight  to  share. 
But  now  the  nobles  all  lament. 

The  ladies  are  bcM^ailing ; 
For  he  was  Granada's  darliug  knight — 

"Alas,  alas  for  Celin  !" 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals, 
lu  order,  two  by  two, 


With  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread, 

Most  pitiful  to  view; 
Behind  him  his  four  sisters, — 

Each  wrapped  in  sable  veil, — 
Between  the  tambour's  dismal  strokes, 

Take  iip  the  d(deful  tale  : 
When  stops  the  muihed  drum,  ye  hear 

Their  brotherlcss  bewailing  ; 
And  all  the  people,  I'ar  and  near, 

Cry,  "Alas,  alas  for  Celin  !" 

Oh!   lovely  lies  he  on  his  l)ier, 

Above  the  purple  pall, 
Tlie  flower  of  all  Granada's  youth. 

The  loveliest  of  them  all ; 
His  dark,  dark  eye  is  closed, 

His  rosy  lip  is  pale. 
The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim 

Upon  his  burnished  mail ; 
And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour 

Breaks  in  upon  their  Availing : 
Its  sound  is  like  no  earthlj'  sound — ■ 

"Alas,  alas  for  Celin  !" 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands. 

The  Moor  stands  at  his  door ; 
One  maid,  is  wringing  of  her  hands. 

And  one  is  weeping  sore. 
Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads, 

And  ashes  black  they  strew 
Upon  their  broidered  garments 

Of  crimson,  green,  and  blue. 
Before  each  gate  the  bier  stands  still ; 

Tiien  bursts  the  loud  bewailing, 
From  door  and  lattice,  high  and.  low, — 

"Alas,  alas  for  Celiu!"' 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth. 

When  she  hears  the  i)eople  cry ; 
Her  hair  is  white  as  silver. 

Like  horn  her  glazed  ej-e  : 
'Twas  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast. 

That  nursed  him  long  ago  ; 
She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament. 

But  soon  she  well  shall  know ! 
With  one  deep  shriek  she  through  doth  break. 

When  her  ears  receive  their  wailing: 
"Let  mo  kiss  my  Celin  ere  I  die! — 

Alas,  alas  for  Celin  !'" 

>  Lockhavt's  translations  of  ancient  Spanish  ball.-ids,  publish- 
ed in  his  2Tih  year,  are  admirable  specimens  of  highly  skilSiil 
literary  work.  Some  of  them  are  much  superior  to  the  originals 
in  the  spirit  and  music  of  the  versification,  while  the  proper 
simplicity  of  the  ballad  form  is  always  faithfully  preserved. 


456 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRT. 


Panics  Sljcvi^au  Knomlcs. 

Dramatist,  poet,  teacher, aclur, ami  clcr^yinaii,  Kiiowlcs 
(1794-18G2)  was  a  native  ofCork,  Irclaiul.  Goiiit;-  to  Lon- 
don, he  made  the  actjuaintancc  of  llazlitt,  of  whom  he 
speaks  as  his  "mental  sire."  Knowlcs  produced  the 
successful  plays  of  "William  Tell,"  "Virginius,"  "The 
lluncliback,"  "The  "Wife,"  etc.  The  success  of  "The 
Hunchback"  in  America  led  to  the  author's  own  visit; 
and  he  appeared  on  the  staj^e  in  the  principal  cities  of 
the  United  States  in  the  part  of  Master  Walter.  He  did 
not  succeed  either  as  an  actor  or  lecturer,  his  Irish 
brogue  often  marring  the  effect  of  his  elocution.  We 
knew  him  well,  having  met  him  in  Boston,  Washington, 
and  Philadelphia.  From  the  latter  city  he  sent  us,  while 
we  were  editing  the ^o.s<0)i.l^?rts,  the  poem  entitled  "The 
Actor's  Craft,"  which  wc  first  published,  and  have  here 
quoted.  Few  copies  of  it,  we  believe,  are  in  existence. 
IIow  far  his  views  in  regard  to  the  stage  were  modified 
when  he  returned  to  England  and  became  a  Baptist  min- 
ister, we  cannot  say.  His  literary'  and  dramatic  merits 
are  unquestionable.  See  the  poem  by  Ciiarles  Lamb  on 
his  "  Virginius,"  in  which  Macready  had  a  great  success. 


FKOM  THE  LAST  ACT  OF  "VIRGINIUS." 

Scene  —  House   of  Yirgixiu.s.      Present,  Yirgixius, 

NuMiTonirs,  Skrvia. 

Eiifer  IciLirs. 

Virginius.  Come,  come,  make  ready.    Brother,  you 
and  he 
Go  on  before :   I'll  bring  her  after  you. 

Icilius.  Ha ! 

Numitorius.  My  Icilins,  what  a  sight  is  there! 
Virginius'  reason  is  a  wreck,  so  stripped, 
So  broken  by  the  ■wave  and  wind,  you  scarce 
Would  know  it  was  tlie  gallant  bark  you  saw 
Riding  so  late  in  safety. 

Ml.  {taking  ViRGiNlus's  hand).  Father,  fatlier ! 
That  art  no  more  a  father ! 

Virg.  Ha!    what  wet 

Is  this  upon  my  hand  ?   a  tear,  boy  ?     Fie  ! 
For  shame !     Is  that  the  weapon  yon  would  guard 
Your  bride  with  ?     First  assay  what  steel  can  do. 

Num.  Not  a  tear  has  blessed  his  eye  since  her 
death  !     No  wonder ! 
The  fever  of  his  brain,  that  now  burns  out. 
Has  drunk  the  source  of  sorrow's  torrents  dry. 

Icil.  You  would  not  have  it  otherwise  ?    'Twas  fit 
The  bolt  that  struck  the  sole  remaining  branch. 
And  blasted  it,  should  set  the  trunk  on  lire ! 

Num.  If  we  could  make  him  weep — 

7ci7.  I  have  that  will  make  him, 
If  aught  will  do  it.     'Tis  her  urn.     'Twas  that 
"Which  first  drew  tears  from  nic.     I'll  fetch  it.     lint 
I  cannot  think  you  Avise  to  wake  a  man 


Who's  at  the  mercy  of  a  tempest.     Better 
Vou  suflV-r  him  to  sleep  it  through.      [Exit  IciLluS. 
i'irg.  Gather  your  friends  together:  tell  them  of 
Dentatus'  murder.     Screw  the  chord  of  rage 
To  the  topmost  ititch.     (Laughs.)     Mine  own  is  not 

mine  own  ! 
That's  strange  enough.     Wliy  docs  he  not  di.sputc 
My  right  to  my  own  flesh,  and  tell  my  heart 
Its  blood  is  not  its  own  ?     He  might  as  well. 
But  I  want  my  child. 

Enter  Lrcius. 

Lucius.  Justice  will  be  defeated  ! 

J'irg.  Who  says  that  ? 

He  lies  in  the  face  of  the  gods!     She  is  ininintable, 
Imnuxculate,  and  immortal.     And,  thougli  all 
Tin;  guilty  globe  should  blaze,  she  will  spring  up 
Through  the  fire,  and  soar  above  the  crackling  jiile. 
With  not  a  downy  feather  rutiied  by 
Its  fierceness ! 

Num.  He  is  not  himself.     What  new 

Oppression  conies  to  tell  ns  to  our  teeth 
We  only  mocked  ourselves  to  think  the  days 
Of  thraldoni  past  ? 

Ltic.  The  friends  of  Appius 

Beset  the  people  with  solicitations. 
Tlie  fickle  crowd,  that  change  with  every  change, 
Begin  to  doubt  and  soften.     Every  moment 
That's  lost,  a  friend  is  lost.     Appear  among 
Your  friends,  or  lose  them. 

Num.  Lucius,  you 

Remain  and  watch  Virginius. 

\_Exit,foUou-cd  by  all  hut  Lrcirs  and  Skrvia. 

Virg.  You  remember, — 

Don't  you,  nurse  ? 

Scrvia.  What,  Virginius  ? 

I7/Y/.  That  she  nursed 

The  child  herself.     Inquire  among  j'our  gossips 
Which  of  them  saw  it;   and,  with  such  of  them 
As  can  avouch  the  fact,  without  delay 
Repair  to  the  Forum.     Will  she  come  or  not  ? 
I'll  call  myself!     She  will  not  dare— 
Oh,  when  did  my  Virginia  dare  f     Virginia! — 
Is  it  a  voice,  or  nothing,  answers  nu»,  ? 
I  hear  a  voice  so  fine  there's  nothing  lives 
'Twixt  it  and  silence.     Such  a  slender  one 
I've  heard  when  I  have  talked  with  her  in  fancy! 
A  phantom  sound!     Aha!   she  is  not  here. 
They  tolil  me  she  was  here — they  have  deceived  me — 
And  Appius  was  not  made  to  give  her  ui>. 
But  keeps  her,  and  eflects  his  wicked  purpose, 
Wliile  I  stand  talking  here,  and  ask  you  if 
My  daughter  is  my  daughter!     Though  a  legiou 


JAMES  SHEEIDJX  KNOWLES. 


457 


Sentiieil  tliat  brotbol,  wbicli  he  calls  his  palace, 
I'd  tear  hor  from  him  ! 

Luc.  Hold,  Yirgiuius!     Stay! 

Appius  is  now  iu  prison  ! 

^"u•(J.  With  my  daughter? 

He  has  secured  her  there  ?     Ha !   has  ho  so  ? 
Gay  office  for  a  dungeon !     Hold  me  not, 
Or  I  ■will  dash  you  down,  and  spoil  you  for 
My  keeper.     My  Virginia,  struggle  with  him! 
Appal  him  with  thy  shrieks.   Ne'er  faint,  ne'er  faint — 
I  am  comiMg  to  thee!     I  am  coming  to  thee! 

\_Rmhiii  outjfoUonrd  hy  Lucirs  and  Servia. 


TELL  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I'kom  "  William  Tell." 

Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again! 

I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld. 

To  show  they  still  are  free !     Methiuks  I  hear 

A  spirit  iu  your  echoes  answer  me, 

And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 

Again  !     O  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look  ! 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  skj- ! 

How  huge  you  are  !   how  mighty  and  how  free ! 

How  do  you  look,  for  all  your  bared  brows, 

More  gorgeously  majestical  than  kings 

Whose  loaded  coronets  exhaust  the  mine ! 

Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine,  whose  smile 

Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible  ;  whose  forms. 

Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 

Of  awe  divine  ;   whose  subject  never  kneels 

In  mockery,  because  it  is  your  boast 

To  keep  him  free !     Ye  guards  of  liberty, 

I'm  with  you  once  again  ! — I  call  to  you 

With  all  my  voice !     I  hold  my  hands  to  you, 

To  show  they  still  are  free !     I  rush  to  you 

As  though  I  could  embrace  you ! 


THE  ACTOR'S  CRAFT. 

LINES  OX  A  MINISTER  (NOT  AN  AMERICAN)  WHO  PREACH- 
ED IN  rHILAUELPIIIA,  ON  FEBRUARY  8, 1835,  A  SERMON 
UNCHARITABLY  CONDEMNATORY  OF  THE  STAGE. 

Unmerciful!   whose  office  teacheth  mercy! 
Why  damnest  thou  the  Actor's  craft  ?     Is  he 
To  starve  because  thou  think'st  thjself  elected 
To  i^reach  the  meek  and  lowly  Saviour's  peace  ? 
" Xo,  lit  him  seek  a  fairer  enllhig  .'"     Heaven 
Appointed  him  to  his,  as  thee  to  thine ! 
He  hath  his  usefulness.     The  tongue  wherewith 
Thou  didst  revile  him,  had  been  barbarous 
Except  for  him !     He  tixed  the  staudard  of  it 


That  gave  it  uniformity  and  power, 

And  euphony  and  grace  ;  and — more  than  that — 

To   thoughts   that  glow  ami  sliiue   with  Heaven's 

own  fire, 
,He  gave  revealment  unto  millions 
That  else  had  lived  in  darkness  to  Heaven's  gift! 
Would  by  his  art  thou  more  hadst  profited. 
Thou  ample,  comfortable  piece  of  flesh ! 
Thy  heart  is  no  ascetic.     Seat  so  soft 
As  thy  j)lump  cheek,  I  warrant,  never  yet 
Sat  self-denial  on.     "  TJiou  dost  not  phj 
The  banquet  /"     Never  mind  !     Thou  dost  not  lack 
The  feast  for  that:   the  bloating  fare  to  which 
The  Churchman's  vanity  and  lust  of  power 
Sit  seeming-meekly  dowu. — Why  didst  thou  preach? 
Hadst  thou  forgot  the  coxcomb  clerical  ? 
If  not,  why  didst  thou  play  him  to  the  life  ? 

I'll  do  thee  justice,  ay,  iu  connnendation. 
Well  as  disparagement,  for  I  am  naught — 
Not,  "  if  not  critical" — but  honest !     Thou 
Didst  read,  methought,  the  service,  like  the  tongue 
That  gave  God's  revelation  unto  man  ; — - 
Siinplj',  adoringly,  confiding  in 

Strength  greater  than  thine  own.     I  knelt  in  soul. 
Anon,  I  said  to  cue  who  sat  beside  me, 
"  We'll  hear  a  preacher  now."     What  didst  thou 

preach  ? 
Thyself!!     The  little  worm  that  God  did  make. 
And  not  the  Maker !     How  I  pitied  thee  ! 
From  first  to  last,  display^  !   as  though  the  place. 
The  cause,  the  calling,  the  assembly,  all 
Were  secondary  to  a  lump  of  clay. 
Thy  elocution,  too — Theatrical  ! ! ! 
But  foreign  to  the  Actor's  proper  art. 
Thy  gesture  measured  to  the  word,  not  fitted ; — 
Thy  modulation,  running  mountains  high, 
"  Then  ducking  low  again  as  hell's  from  heaven  !" 

Sufficient  of  the  rant !     Improve  before 
Thou  niouut'st  the  steps  of  charity  again  ; 
And  know  her  handmaids  are  humility. 
Forbearance,  and  philanthropy  to  all ! 
And  further,  know  the  Stage  a  preacher  too — 
Albeit  a  less  authenticated  one — 
Who.so  moral,  if  occasionally  wrong. 
Is  honest  in  the  main  ! — Another  word, — 
Act  not  the  damuer  of  another's  creed. 
Nor  call  the  Ariau,  Universalist, 
Sociniau,  Unitarian,  Catholic, 
An  Infidel! — "Judfje  not,  lest  ye  he  judged" 
A  text  in  point  for  thee !     My  creed  is  yours, 
But  by  that  creed  I  never  will  condemn — 
Myself  a  creatJire  weak  and  fallible — 
A  man  for  faith  some  shade  diverse  from  mine. 


458 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  BR  HIS  11  AXD  AMERICAS  POETRY. 


(Caroline  (fMlman. 


Mrs.  Gilman,  daugliter  of  Samuel  Ilownrd,  a  sliip- 
\vrij,^ht,  was  boru  iu  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1704.  Slic  married 
Dr.  Samuel  Gilman,  a  graduate  of  Harvard  CoUe.i^e,  and 
a  Unitarian  eleriryman,  who  was  born  in  Gloucester  in 
1791.  He  settled  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  in  1S1<»,  and  re- 
mained there  till  his  death  in  1858.  Mrs.  Gilman  began 
to  write  and  publish  before  her  eighteenth  year,  and  was 
the  autlior  of  several  volumes  in  prose  and  verse,  show- 
ing mueh  literary  diligence  and  versatility.  Her  "  Verses 
of  a  Lifetime"  (Boston,  1848)  is  her  principal  collection. 
She  was  residing  with  a  widowed  daughter  at  Tiverton, 
R.  I.,  as  late  as  1880.  Dr.  Gilman  was  the  jmet  of  his 
class  at  college,  and  tlie  author  of  pieces  mueh  admired 
in  their  day. 


FROM  "THE  PLANTATION." 

Farewell  awhile  tlie  city'.s  hum 

Where  busy  footsteps  full ; 
And  ■welcome  to  my  weary  eye 

The  planter's  friendlj'  hall ! 

Here  let  me  rise  at  early  dawn, 
And  list  the  mock-bird's  lay, 

That,  warbling  near  our  lowland  liome. 
Sits  oil  the  waving  spray ; — 

Then  tread  the  shading  avenue 

Beneath  the  cedar's  gloom, 
Or  gnin-treo,  with  its  llickered  shade, 

Or  chin([uapeu's  perfume. 

The  myrtle-tree,  the  orange  wild, 

The  cypress'  flexile  bough, 
The  holly,  with  its  polished  leaves, 

Are  all  before  me  now. 

There,  towering  with  imperial  pride, 

The  rich  magnolia  stands ; 
And  here,  in  softer  loveliness. 

The  white-bloomed  bay  expands. 

The  long  gray  moss  hangs  gracefully, 

Idly  I  twine  its  wreaths, 
Or  stop  to  catch  the  fragrant  air 

The  frequent  blossom  breathes. 

Life  wakes  anuind — the  red-bird  darts 
Like  flame  from  tree  to  tree ; 

The  whippoorwill  complains  alone. 
The  robin  whistles  free. 


The  frightened  hare  ecuds  by  my  path. 
And  seeks  the  thicket  nigh  ; 

The  squirrel  climbs  the  hickory  bough. 
Thence  peeps  with  careful  eye. 

The  humming-bird,  with  busy  wing, 

In  rainbow  beauty  moves, 
Above  the  trumpet-blossom  floats, 

And  sips  the  tube  he  loves. 

Triunqihant  to  yon  withered  pine 

The  soaring  eagle  flies, 
There  builds  her  eyrie  'mid  the  clouds, 

And  man  and  Heaven  dclies. 


ANNIE  IX  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

She  bounded  o'er  the  graves 

With  a  buoyant  step  of  mirth : 
She  bounded  o'er  the  graves. 
Where  the  Aveeping-willow  waves, — 
Like  a  creature  not  of  earth. 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside. 

And  her  eyes  were  glittering  bright ; 
Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 
And  her  little  hands  spread  wide 

^^'illl  an  iaiioeent  delight. 

She  spelled  the  lettered  word 

That  registers  the  dead  ; 
She  spelled  the  lettered  word, 
And  her  busy  thoughts  were  stirred 

With  pleasure  as  she  read. 

She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf 

Left  fluttering  on  a  rose  ; 
She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf. 
Sweet  monument  of  grief, 

That  iu  our  eliur<li-yar(l  growa. 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile  — 
'Twas  near  her  sister's  mound  ; 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile, 

And  idayed  with  it  a  while, 
Then  scattered  it  aronnd. 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart. 
Nor  turn  its  gush  to  tears : 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart — 

Oil.  bitter  drops  will  start 
Full  soon  in  coming  years! 


EEXRY  WARE.—EDWAED  EVERETT. 


459 


(icnnj   ill  a  re. 


Ware  (1794-1S43),  the  liftli  cliild  and  eldest  son  of  a 
clerirynian  of  the  same  luiuic,  was  a  native  of  Ilingham, 
Mass.  He  became  jiastor  of  the  Second  Church  in  Bos- 
ton in  ISIG,  and  remained  there  thirteen  j-ears,  wiieu  the 
state  of  his  liealth  compelled  him  to  resign,  and  accept  a 
situation  as  Professor  of  Pulpit  Eloquence  in  Harvard 
College.  A  memoir  of  his  life,  in  two  volumes,  b}'  his 
brother,  John  Ware,  M.D.,  appeared  in  1846.  A  selection 
from  his  writings  (1846)  hj  the  Rev.  Chandler  Robbins, 
in  four  volumes  r2mo,  was  also  published. 


A  THANKSGIVING   SONG. 

Come,  uncles  and  cousins;  come,  nieces  and  aunts; 
Come,  nephews    and   brothers  —  no    ivon'ts   and   no 

vaults  ; 
Pnt  business,  and  shopping,  and  school-books  av^'ay  ; 
The  year  has  rolled  round — it  is  Thanksgiving-day. 

Come  home  from  the  college,  ye  ringlet-haired  youth. 
Come  home  from  yonr  factories,  Ann,  Kate,  and  Euth; 
From  the  anvil,  the  cftunter,  the  farm,  come  away ; 
Home,  home  with  you  all — it  is  Thanksgiving-day. 

The  table  is  spread,  and  the  dinner  is  dressed; 
The  cooks  and  the  mothers  have  all  done  their  best ; 
No  Caliph  of  Bagdad  e'er  saw  such  display. 
Or  dreamed  of  a  treat  like  our  Thanksgiving-day. 

Pies,  puddings,  and  custards  ;     pigs,  oysters,  and 

nuts — 
Come  forward  and  seize  them,  without  ifn  and  huts; 
Bring  none  of  yonr  slim  little  appetites  here — 
Thanksgiving-day  comes  onlj-  once  in  a  year. 

Thrice  welcome  the  day  in  its  annual  round! 
What  treasures  of  love  in  its  bosom  are  found ! 
New  England's  high  holiday,  ancient  and  dear, — 
'Twould  be  twice  as  welcome,  if  twice  in  a  year. 

Now  children  revisit  the  darling  old  place, 
And  brother  and  sister,  long  parted,  embrace  ; 
The  family  circle's  imited  once  more. 
And  the  same  voices  shout  at  the  old  cottage  door. 

The  grandfather  smiles  on  the  innocent  mirth. 
And  blesses  the  Power  that  has  guarded  his  hearth  ; 
He  remembers  no  trouble,  he  feels  no  decay. 
But  thinks  his  whole  life  has  been  Thanksgiving- 
day. 


Tlien  praise  for  the  past  and  the  present  we  sing, 
And,  trustful,  await  what  the  future  may  bring; 
Let  doubt  and  repining  be  banished  awaj', 
And  the  whole  of  our  lives  he  a  Thanksgiving-day. 


RESURRECTION  OF   CHRIST. 

Lift  your  glad  voices  in  triumph  on  high, 
For  Jesus  hath  risen,  and  man  cannot  die ; 

Vain  were  the  terrors  that  gathered  around  him. 

And  short  the  dominion  of  death  and  the  grave ; 

Ho  burst  from  the  fetters  of  darkness  that  bound 
him, 

Resplendent  in  glory  to  live  and  to  save: 
Loud  was  the  chorus  of  angels  on  high, — 
"  The  Saviour  hath  risen,  and  man  cannot  die." 

Glory  to  God,  in  full  anthems  of  joj- ! 

The  being  he  gave  us  death  cannot  destroy ! 
Sad  were  the  life  we  must  part  with  to-morrow, 
If  tears  were  our  birthright,  and  death  were  our  end ; 
But  Jesus  hath  cheered  the  dark  valley  of  sorrow, 
And  bade  us,  immortal,  to  heaven  ascend  ; 

Lift,  then,  your  voices  in  triumph  on  high. 

For  Jesus  hath  risen,  and  man  shall  not  die. 


^bumrlr  Qrccrett. 

AMERICAN. 

Everett  (1794-1S6.5)  was  a  native  of  Dorchester,  Mass. 
Entering  Harvard  College  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  was 
graduated  with  highest  honors.  He  was  appointed  tutor 
in  Greek,  and  spent  four  years  in  Europe  qualifying  him- 
self. In  all  the  various  offices  of  Governor  of  Massachu- 
setts, Member  of  Congress,  United  States  Senator,  Presi- 
dent of  Harvard  University,  Minister  to  England,  and  in 
several  other  well-known  positions,  he  served  with  emi- 
nent fidelity.  Little  known  as  a  poet,  he  was  the  author 
of  one  piece,  at  least,  that  entitles  him  to  a  place  in  the 
list. 


ALARIC   THE   VISIGOTH. 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose ; 


460 


CTCLOrJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Yo  shall  not  fawn  boforo  my  dust, 
lu  bollow  circumstance  of  woes  ; 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lyini;  luratli, 
Insult  tho  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  tho  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest ; 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  '•the  scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 

And  laj'  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there  : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  King  of  kings  ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said. 
Until  the  deep  give  up  its  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods,  that  gave  them  birth- 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth ; 

For  e'en  though  dead  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  Capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  liile 

Ye've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 
Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot : 
For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look  ; 
And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 
The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep. 

And  from  the  Northern  hills  I  burst. 

Across  tho  world  in  wrath  to  sweep. 
And  where  I  Avent  the  spot  was  cursed, 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

^Vherc  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  tho  Goth  ! 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail' 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth. 

And  low  tho  queen  of  empires  kneels, 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot-wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 


'Twas  God  alone  on  high  did  send 

Tho  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 
To  shako  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 
The  appointed  scourge  of  iiis  eonimaiid. 

"With  iron  hand  that  seouigc  I  reared 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered, 

And  Vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
Wiien,  launched  in  iiuy  on  the  flood, 
I  ])longlied  my  way  through  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  tho  stream  their  hearts  had  s[iilt 
AVashed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  tho  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers. 
And  feeble  Caesars  shrieked  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-Iiilled  towers. 
I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 
That  glittered  in  their  diadem  ; 
And  struck  a  darkei-,  deeper  dye 
In  the  purple  of  their  majesty ; 
And  bade  my  Nortiiern  banners  shine 
Ui>on  tho  conquered  Falatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done — 
I  go  to  Him  from  whom  I  came ; 

But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 
Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 

And  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 

"When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done; 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate. 
Impatient,  rouTid  tho  eternal  throne, 

And  in  the  caves  of  A'engcance,  wait ; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Attila. 


CarloG  lUilcor. 

AMERICAN. 

Wilcox  (1794-1827),  the  son  of  a  fi\rmer,  was  a  native 
of  Newport,  N.  IT.  He  entered  Midcllcbury  College,  and 
aftevwurd  studied  theology  at  Andover.  lie  coniniencod 
jireacliing  in  1S18;  his  discourses  were  eloquent  and 
tlioiiiilitf'ul ;  but  lie  had  to  abandon  the  ministry  on  ac- 
count of  ill-liealtli.  His  princiiml  poem  is  "Tlie  Age  of 
]?eiicvolcnce,"  which  he  did  not  live  to  complete,  and 
portions  of  which  only  have  been  published.  Another 
inconqilete  poem,  included  in  liis  "Remains,"  is  "The 
Keligion  of  Taste,"  republished  in  Loudon  in  18.50.  In 
his  minute  and  accurate  descriptions  of  natural  seencrj' 
he  shows  some  of  the  highest  qualities  of  tho  poet,    lie 


CARLOS   WILCOX. 


461 


may  luck  the  passionate  fervor  bj-  which  the  most  im- 
pressive effects  are  reached  in  concentrated  expression 
and  startling  metaphor,  but  he  deserved  a  higher  fame 
than  he  ever  reached  among  the  literary  men  of  his  day. 
A  volume  of  his  "Remains"  was  published  iu  Hartford, 
Conn.,  iu  1828,  by  Edward  Hopkins. 


A  LATE   SPRING  IX  NEW  ENGLAND. 

From  "The  Age  of  Benevolence." 

Long  swollen  iu  drenching  raiu,  seeds,  germs,  and 

biuls 
Start  at  tlie  toucli  of  vivifying  beams. 
Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 
Difi'usive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  lield 
A  flood  of  verdnre.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week, 
Is  naked  nature  iu  her  full  attire. 
Ou  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 
Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 
Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 
With  strong  reflection  :   ou  the  last,  'tis  dark 
With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 
Iu  cue  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms ; 
Aud  now,  when  steeped  in  dew  or  gentle  showers. 
It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze. 
Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 
E'en  from  the  jnicy  leaves,  of  sudden  growth, 
And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air. 
Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 
A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 

Each  day  are  heard,  aud  almost  every  hour. 
New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 
And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feathered  train 
At  evening  twilight  come  ; — the  lonely  snipe, 
O'er  marshy  fields,  high  iu  the  dusky  air. 
Invisible,  but  with  faint,  tremulous  tones. 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head  ; 
Aud,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  awhile  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  witli  a  shake 
Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but  when  upturned 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky. 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving  with  loud  hollow  sound ; — 
And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood. 
The  whippoorwill,  her  name  her  only  song ! 

She,  soou  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  hooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones. 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted,  and  held  mute. 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove ; 
Aud  when  the  twilight,  deepened  into  night. 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 


And  ou  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen, 
Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 
The  closing  sometimes  quickened  as  in  sport. 


A    VISION    OF    HEAVEN. 

Fro5I  "  The  Heligion  of  Taste." 

Myself  I  found  borne  to  a  heavenly  clime, — 
I  knew  not  how,  but  felt  a  stranger  there, — 

Still  the  same  being  that  I  was  in  time. 
Even  to  my  raiment !     Ou  the  borders  fair 
Of  that  blessed  land  I  stood  in  lone  despair ; 

Not  its  pure  beauty  and  immortal  bloom. 
Its  firmament  serene,  and  balmy  air, 

Nor  all  its  glorious  beings,  broke  the  gloom 

Of  my  foreboding  thoughts,  fixed  ou  some  dreadful 
doom. 

There  walked  the  ransomed  ones  of  earth,  in  white 
As  beautifully  pure  as  new-fallen  snow 

On  the  smooth  summit  of  some  eastern  height 
In  the  first  rays  of  morn  that  o'er  it  flow, — - 
Nor  less  resplendent  than  the  richest  glow 

Of  snow-white  clouds,  with  all  their  stores  of  rain 
And  thuuder  spent,  rolled  up  in  volumes  slow 

O'er  the  blue  sky  just  cleared  from  every  stain, 

Till  all  the  blaze  of  noon  they  drink  aud  long  retain. 

Safe  lauded  on  these  shores,  together  hence 

That  bright  throng  took  their  way  to  where  in- 
sphered 

In  a  transparent  cloud  of  light  intense. 
With  starry  pinnacles  above  it  reared, 
A  city  vast  the  inland  all  appeared! 

With  walls  of  azure,  green,  and  purple  stone, 
All  to  one  glassy  surface  smoothed  and  cleared, 

Keflecting  forms  of  angel  guards  that  shone 

Above   the   approaching  host,  as  each  were   on   a 
throne. 

And  while  that  host  moved  onward  o'er  a  plain 

Of  living  verdnre,  oft  they  turned  to  greet 
Friends  that  on  earth  had  taught  them  heaven  to 
gain  ; 

Then  hand-in-liand  they  went  with  quickened 
feet  : — 

Aud  bright  with  inunortality,  and  sweet 
With  love  ethereal,  were  the  smiles  they  cast ; 

I  only  wandered  on  with  none  to  meet 
And  call  me  dear,  while  pointing  to  the  past, 
Aud  forward  to  the  joys  that  never  reach  their  last. 


462 


CYCLOrj:i)lA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I  li;i(l  not  bomul  myself  by  iuiy  tios 

To    tliiil    hlcssed  land;    none,   saw   iiu;   and   none 
soiiijlit  ; 
Nor  any  slinnnctl,  nor  from  ui<^  (nrn('<l  tlicir  oycs ; 

And  yet  sntli  sense  of  guilt  niy  conscience  wrought, 

It  seemed  that  every  bosom's  inmost  thought 
Was  fixed  on  me; — when  buck  as  from  their  view 

I  shrunk,  ami  would  have  lied  or  shrunk  to  naught, 
As  some  I  loved  and  many  that  I  knew 
Passed  on  unmindful  why  or  \\hith(T  1  withdrew. 

Whereat  of  sad  remembrances  a  flood 

Kushed  o'er  my  spirit,  and  my  heart  beat  low 

As  with  the  heavj'  gush  of  curdling  blood  : — 
Soon  left  behind,  awhile  I  followed  slow, 
Then  stopped  and  round  me  looked,  my  fate  to 
know, 

But  looked  in  vain ; — no  voice  my  doom  to  tell ; — 
No  arm  to  hurl  mo  down  the  depths  of  woe  ; — ■ 

It  seemed  that  I  was  brought  to  heaven  to  dwell, 

That  conscience  might  alone  do  all  the  work  of  hell. 

Now  came  the  thought,  the  bitter  thought  of  years 
Wasted  in  musings  sad  and  fancies  wild. 

And  in  the  visionary  hopes  and  fears 
Of  the  false  feeling  of  a  heart  beguiled 
By  nature's  strange  enchantment,  strong  and  wild ; 

Now,  with  celestial  beauty  blooming  round, 
I  stood  as  on  some  naked  waste  exiled : 

From  gathering  hosts  came  music's  swelling  sound, 

But  deeper  in  despair  my  sinking  spii'its  drowned. 

At  length  methonght  a  darkness  as  of  death 
Came  slowly  o'er  mc,  and  with  that  I  woke  ; 

Yet  knew  not,  in  the  first  suspended  breath, 
Where  I  could  be,  so  real  seemed  the  stroke 
That  in  my  dream  all  earthly  ties  had  broke; 

A  moment  more,  and  melting  in  a  tide 
Of  grateful  fervor,  how  di<l  I  invoke 

Power  from  the  Highest  to  leave  all  beside, 

And  live  but  to  secure  the  bliss  my  dream  denied! 


SEPTEMBER. 

The  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes, 
Soft  twilight  of  the  slow-declining  year ; — 
All  mildness,  soothing  loveliness,  and  peace  : 
The  fading  season,  ere  the  falling  eoine, 
More  sober  than  the  buxom  blooming  May, 
And  therefore  less  (lie  fiiNoritc  nf  tlit^  worlil, 
But  dearest  month  of  all  to  pensive  minds  I 
'Tis  now  far  spent;  and  the  meridian  sun, 


Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attempered  beams, 
Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth. — 

Beneath  its  yellow  lustre,  groves  and  woods, 
Checkered  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  Lues, 
Wiiile  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 
Shine  doubly  rieh.     It  were  a  sad  delight 
Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 
Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 
The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees, 
Tiiat,  singly,  or  iu  tufts,  or  forests  thick, 
Adorn  the  shores ;   to  see,  perhaps,  the  side 
t)f  sojne  high  mouut  reflected  far  below 
With  its  bright  colors,  intermixed  with  spots 
Of  darker  green.     Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 
To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear 
E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noonday  hardly  past, 
The  lulling  iusects  of  the  summer's  night ; 
To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 
A  lonely  bee,  long  roving  here  and  there 
To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
Then  rising  quick,  and  with  a  louder  hum, 
In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head. 
Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 
As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu:  — 
To  hear,  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side. 
Late  full  of  music,  nothing,  save,  perhaps. 
The  sound  of  nutshells,  by  the  s(|uirrel  dropped 
From  some  tall  beech,  fast  falling  through  the  leaves. 


llVilliam  (Cullcn  Bniant. 


IJryant  (171)4-1X78),  the  first  Amciican  poet  of  celebrity, 
was  born  atCunimington,  Mass.,  November  3d.  lie  began 
to  write  verse  at  the  age  of  ten  ;  and  at  thirteen  wrote 
and  published  "The  Embargo,"  a  political  satire,  and  a 
very  remarkable  one,  under  the  circumstances.  Educated 
at  Williams  College,  he  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  in  181.5, 
married  young,  and  began  the  practice  of  the  law  at  Great 
Barringlon.  His  celebrated  poem  of  "  Thanatopsis"  was 
written  before  he  was  twenty. 

In  1S:2.")  Bryant  removed  to  New  York,  and  in  182G  con- 
nected himself  with  the  New  York  Urenin;/  7W,  his  pro- 
prietary interest  iu  which  eventually  became  the  source 
of  an  ample  fortune.  In  1834  he  travelled  iu  Europe, 
and  in  184.5  and  184'.)  repeated  his  visit.  A  collection 
of  his  poems  was  jMiblislied  in  New  York  in  1833,  and  re- 
pul)lislu'd  in  London.  Repeated  editions  of  his  collected 
works  have  appeared.  In  1870  a  line  edition  of  his  mas- 
terly translation  of  Ilomcr,  in  wliieli  he  surpasses  all 
predecessors,  was  published  in  Bost(ni. 

"Bryant's  writings,"  says  Washington  Irving,  "  traus- 
l>ort  us  into  the  depths  of  the  solemn  primeval  forest,  to 
the  shores  of  tlie  lonely  lake,  the  banks  of  the  wild,  name- 
less stream,  or  the  brow  of  the  rocky  upland,  rising  like 


IVILLIAM  CULLEN  BliYAXT. 


463 


a  promontory  fioni  amidst  a  wide  ocean  oFfoliage  ;  while 
tliey  shed  around  us  tlie  glories  of  a  climate  fierce  in  its 
extremes,  but  splendid  in  all  its  vicissitudes." 

But  it  is  not  only  in  bis  descriptions  of  nature  that 
Bryant  excels.  In  his  "Antiquity  of  Freedom,"  "Tha 
Future  Life," "The  Battlc-tield,"  etc.,  he  reaches  a  high 
ethical  strain,  and  is,  at  the  same  time,  the  genuine  poet 
in  thought  and  diction.  Few  men  of  letters  have,  in  the 
latter  half  of  their  lives,  had  so  prosperous,  so  honored, 
and  so  eminently  successful  a  career,  extending  beyond 
fourscore  years  of  physical  activity  and  intellectual  ro- 
bustness. In  his  domestic  relations  singularly  fortunate, 
he  was  equally  so  in  all  his  public  experiences. 

"  Bryant,"  says  a  German  critic,"  is  thoroughly  Amer- 
ican in  his  poetrj'.  A  truly  national  method  of  thinking 
and  judging  pervades  even  those  from  among  his  produc- 
tions which  treat  of  non-American  subjects."  The  re- 
mark is  just,  and  is  a  sufficient  reply  to  the  superficial 
sarcasm,  heedlesslj'^  thrown  out  b}'  Lord  Jeffrey,  that 
Bryant  is  "but  a  dilution  of  Mrs.  Henians."  We  can 
recall  no  one  verse  of  Bryant's  to  which  this  rash  com- 
ment could  apply.  He  and  Mrs.  Hemans  were  born  the 
same  year,  and  some  of  his  best  poems  were  written 
before  siie  was  known  in  America.  "  It  is  in  the  beauti- 
ful," says  John  Wilson  of  BlacktcoocTs  Magazine.,  "  that 
the  genius  of  Brj-ant  finds  its  prime  delight.  He  ensouls 
all  dead,  insensate  things;  *  *  *  and  thus  there  is  ani- 
mation in  the  heart  of  the  solitude." 

Bryant's  morality  was  not  onl}'  psychical  but  physio- 
logical. He  reverenced  and  fulfilled  the  laws  of  physical 
health.  He  took  scrupulous  care  of  himself.  His  senses 
were  perfect  at  fourscore;  his  eyes  needed  no  glasses; 
his  hearing  was  exquisitely  tine;  he  outwalked  most  men 
of  middle  age.  Milk  and  cereals  and  fruit  were  his  pre- 
ferred diet.  Regular  in  his  habits,  he  retained  his  youth 
almost  to  the  last,  and  his  final  illness  was  contracted  in 
a  too  fearless  out-of-door  exposure.  "His  power  of 
work,"  says  Dr.  Bellows,"  never  abated  ;  and  the  Hercu- 
lean translation  of  Homer,  which  was  the  amusement  of 
the  last  lustre  of  his  life,  showed  not  only  no  senility,  but 
no  decrease  of  intellectual  or  physical  endurance." 


NOVEMBER. 

Yet  one  smile  more,  deiiarting,  distant  sun ! 
One  mellow  smile  tlirougli  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 
Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  browu  hills  aud  naked  trees, 
And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian  flower  that  in  the  breeze 
Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  .sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 
Shall  murmur  by  the  liedge  that  skirts  the  way. 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 
And  man  delight  to  linger  in  the  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  aud  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  pierciug  winter  frost,  aud  winds,  aud  darkened 
air. 


THE   ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM. 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  ami  guarldd  pines. 

That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;  here  the  ground 

Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 

Unsown,  and  die  uugathered.     It  is  sweet 

To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 

Aud  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 

That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter  as  they  pass 

A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 

W^itb  pale  blueberries.     lu  these  peaceful  shades — 

Peaceful,  unpruued,  immeasurably  old — 

My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years. 

Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

O  Freedom!   thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 

A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs. 

And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 

W^ith  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  8lav(! 

When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 

Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  :  one  mailed  hand 

Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword  ;   thy 

brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with   struggling.      Power  at  thee  has 

launched 
His  bolts,  aud  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee  ; 
They   conld  not   quench  the   life   thou  hast   from 

Heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  \>y  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;   yet  while  he  deems  thee 

bound. 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward :  terribly  thou  spriugest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile. 
And  shontest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birtliright  was  not  given  Tiy  human  hands  : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  Avas  few,  thou  safest  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars. 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  aud  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  D(?luge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  aud  as  he  meets 


464 


CYCLOrJiDlA   OF  BRITIHII  AND  AMERICAN  roETRY. 


The  grave  (kfianco  of  tliino  elder  ej-e, 
The  usurper  trembles  iu  Lis  fastucsses. 

'I'lioii  shall  wax  stronger  with  U'>'  lapse  of  years, 
lUit  ho  .shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler:  he  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  tlieni  on  tliy  careless  steps,  an<l  clap 
Ilis  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  ui>oii  thee.     lie  shall  send 
Quaint  uuiskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant  forms. 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth. 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel',  light  thread  on 

thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters;   or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chaius  concealed  iu  chaplets.     Oh!   not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  uor  lay  by 
Thy  sword ;  uor  yet,  O  Freedom !  close  thy  lids 
Iu  slumber;   for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat,  till  the  day 
Of  the  uew  earth  aud  heaven.    But  wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  aud  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  yoiuig  upou  the  unviolated  earth. 
And  yet  the  moss-staius  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  tliy  glorious  chihlhood,  and  rejoiced. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 

Conuuuniou  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language :   for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  aiul  a  smile 

Aud  eloquence  of  beauty ;   and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

Aud  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness  ere  ho  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  aud  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  aud  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  lieart — 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice: — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  iu  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 

Nor  iu  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 


Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elejuents; 
To  be  a  brotiier  to  the  in.sensible  rock. 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  wiiich  the  rude  swain 
Tiiins  witli  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, — nor  couldst  thou  wi.sh 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Tiiou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings. 
The  ])owerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  pa.st. 
All  in  one  mighty  .sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  aud  ancieut  as  the  sun  ;   the  vales. 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods ;   rivers,  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks. 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  aud,  poured  round 

all. 
Old  ocean's  gray  aud  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  inflnite  host  of  heayeu, 
Are  shining  ou  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Tiirough  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  iu  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness. 
Or  lose  thyself  iu  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashiugs — yet  the  dead  are  there! 
Aud  millions  in  tho.se  solitudes,  since  tirst 
Tlio  llight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone! — 
So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destinj'.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone ;  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
riod  on  ;  aud  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  the.se  shall  leave 
Tlieir  mirth  and  their  employments,  aud  .shall  come 
And  make  tiieir  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sous  of  men, 
Tlie  youth,  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  aud  maid, 
Tlie  spceciiless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Sliall,  one  by  one,  bo  gathered  to  thy  side. 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 


WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT. 


465 


To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  iu  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  uot  like  the  quarry-slavo  at  night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  ajiproach  thy  grave. 
Like  one  -who  -wraps  the  drapery  of  his  coucli 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams! 


SUJIMER  WIND. 

It  is  a  sultry  day;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
lustantlj'  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors :   the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 

But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds. 
Motionless  i)illars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains,  their  white  tops 
Shining  iu  the  far  ether, — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  iu  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Whj-  so  slow. 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 

Oh  come,  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life!     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now. 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  conies! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves ! 

The  deep,  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come. 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;   and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  water-falls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath ;   a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  roadside  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
30 


Nod  gayly  to  each  other;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  tliem  yet;   and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


THE   FUTURE  LIFE. 
LINES   ADDRESSED  TO   HIS   WIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  iu  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither,  sleeps, 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain, 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given  f 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  iu  thy  prayer; 

Sliall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind 
In  the  resjjlendence  of  that  glorious  sphere. 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind. 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last. 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light. 

Await  thee  there ;   for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  iu  which  I  dwell. 

Shrink  and  consume  the  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  .soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  woarest  the  glory  of  the  sky. 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  tlie  same  beloved  name? 

The  same  fiiir,  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle;  eye. 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home. 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love, — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss? 


466 


cycloi'j:i)ia  or  jinirisir  and  American  poetry. 


MEETING  OF  HECTOR  AND  ACHILLES. 

The  fi)llowiiig  is  a  specimen  of  Bryant's  translation  of  tiie 
"  Iliad."  Tlic  reader  of  Homer  will  rcMiietiiber  lliat  Hector  first 
retreatH  befiire  Acliilles,  but  at  lLMi<;tli  turns  upon  liis  pursuer, 
dclermiued  to  meet  liis  fate,  wiiatever  it  may  be. 

Ho  spake,  ami  drew  the  kecii-edgcd  sword  that 

limine, 
Massive  and  liiiely  tempeivd,  at  liis  side, 
And  sprang, — as  when  an  eagle  high  in  heaven, 
Throngh  the  thick   cloud,  darts   downward  to  the 

plain, 
To  clutch  some  tender  lamb  or  timid  hare. 
So  Hector,  brandishing  that  keen-edged  sword, 
Sprang  forward,  while  Achilles  opposite 
Leaped  toward  him,  all  on  fire  Avitb  savage  hate, 
And  holding  Lis  bright  buckler,  nobly  wrought. 
Before  him.     As  in  the  still  hours  of  night 
Hesper  goes  forth  among  the  host  of  stars, 
Tlie  fairest  light  of  heaven,  so  brightly  shone, 
Brandished  in  the  right  hand  of  Peleus'  son. 
The  spear's  keen  blade,  as,  confident  to  slay 
The  noble  Hector,  o'er  his  glorious  form 
His  quick  eye  ran,  exploring  Avhcre  to  plant 
The  surest  wound.     The  glittering  mail  of  brass 
Won  from  the  slain  Patroclus  guarded  well 
Each  part,  save  only  where  the  collar-bones 
Divide  the  shoulder  from  the  neck,  and  there 
Appeared  the  throat,  the  spot  where  life  is  most 
In  peril.     Through  that  part  the  noble  son 
Of  Peleus  drave  his  .spear;   it  went  quite  through 
The  tender  neck,  and  yet  the  brazen  blade 
Cleft  not  the  windpipe,  and  the  iiower  to  speak 
Remained.  *  *  * 

And  then  the  crested  Hector  faintly  said, 
*'  I  pray  thee  by  thy  life,  and  by  thj^  knees. 
And  by  thy  parents,  snftor  not  the  dogs 
To  tear  me  at  the  galleys  of  the  Greeks. 
Accept  abundant  store  of  brass  and  gold. 
Which  gladly  will  my  father  and  the  queen, 
My  mother,  give  in  ransom.     Send  to  them 
My  body,  that  the  warriors  and  the  dames 
Of  Troy  may  light  for  me  the  funeral  pile." 

The  swift  Achilles  answered  with  a  frown, — 
"Nay,  by  my  knees  entreat  me  not,  thou  cur. 
Nor  bj'  my  parents.     I  could  even  wish 
My  fury  prompted  me  to  cut  thy  flesh 
In  fragments,  and  devouv  it,  such  the  wrong 
That  I  have  had  from  thee.     There  will  be  none 
To  drive  away  the  dogs  about  thy  head, 
Not  though  thy  Trojan  friends  should  bring  to  me 
Tenfold  and  twenty-fold  the  offered  gifts. 
And  i)romise  others, — not  though  Priam,  sprung 
From  Dardanus,  should  send  thy  weight  in  gold. 


Thy  mother  shall  not  lay  thee  on  thy  bier, 
To  sorrow  over  thee  whom  she  brought  fortli ; 
But  dogs  anil  binls  of  prey  shall  mangle  thee." 

And  then  the  crested  Hector,  dying,  said, — 
"  I  know  thee,  and  too  clearlj'  I  foresaw 
I  should  not  move  thee,  for  thou  hast  a  heart 
Of  iron.     Yet  reflect  that  for  my  sake 
The  anger  of  the  gods  may  fall  on  thee, 
When  Paris  and  Apollo  strike  tlicc  down. 
Strong  as  thou  art,  before  the  Sca-au  gates." 

Thus   Hector  spake,  and  straightway  o'er  him 
closed 
The  light  of  death  ;   the  soul  forsook  his  limbs. 
And  flew  to  Hades,  grieving  for  its  fate, — 
So  soon  divorced  from  youth  and  youthful  might. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands. 
Were  trampled  bj-  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armdd  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

Ah !   never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still. 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird. 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill. 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain  ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry. 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;   but  thou 
Who  miuglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Tiiy  warlare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  I   lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year, 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 

Ilang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  tlie  pronf, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot  : 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


4(i7 


Nor  heed  the  sbaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  au(l  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  Avith  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  eudurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again  ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain. 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thoxi  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust. 
Like  those  ayIio  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


FROM  '-AN  EVENING  REVERIE." 

Oh  thou  great  Movement  of  the  Universe, 

Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time — for  ye  are  one ! — 

That  bearest  silently  this  visible  scene 

Into  night's  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 

Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 

I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 

Yet  know  not  whither.     Man  foretells  afar 

The  courses  of  the  stars ;   the  very  hour 

He  knows,  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright : 

Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 

Come  unforewarned.     "Who  next  of  those  I  love 

Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 

From  virtue  ?     Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 

With  friends,  or  shame  and  general  scorn  of  men — 

Which  who  can  bear? — or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain — 

Lie  they  within  my  path?     Or  shall  the  years 

Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 

luto  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 

Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 

Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength. 

Impend  around  me?     Oh!   beyond  that  bourne. 

In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  Avhich  begins 

At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 

Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 

Its  workings?    Gently — so  have  good  men  taught — 

Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 

Into  the  new ;   the  eternal  flow  of  things. 

Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven. 

Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


TO  THE   FRINGED   GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  covered  Avith  the  heaven's  own  blue. 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night, — 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest: 

Thou  waitcst  late  and  com'st  alone. 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown. 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  Heaven  as  I  depart. 


SONG. 


Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft; 

To  the  careless  wooer ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft — 

Would  that  men's  were  truer ! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing ; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground. 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brook-side,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love, — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking ; 


468 


CrCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


When,  flirougli  l)ou;;hs  that  knit  the  Ijowcr, 
Moonliglit  gk'iuns  arc  stt-aliiig ; 

Woo  Ler,  till  the  gentle  Lour 
Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her.  •when  antumn:il  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain  ; 
When  the  droi)i)ing  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain  ; 
Let  the  scene  that  tells  liow  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ero  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly ; 
When  within  the  cheerful  hall 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary. 
Sweeter  in  her  ears  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH. 

My  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime. 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  tlight ; 
Thou  musest,  with  wet  eyes,  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful   hopes   that    filled    the    world   Avith 
light,— 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was  strong, 

And  quick  the  thought  that  moved  thy  tongue 
to  speak, 
And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  .scorn  of  wrong 

Summoned  the  sudden  crimson  to  tliy  check. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep; 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep ; 
And  they  who  walked  with  thee  in  life's  first  stag*', 

Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near. 
Thou  sccst  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone. 
Nor  deem  that  glorious  .season  e'er  could  die. 

Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn. 
Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky ; 

Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wings  and  hides, 
Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour; 


Waits,  like   the   vanished  spring,  that  slumbering 
bides 
Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  llower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright   morning   hills,  with   smiles  more 
sweet 
Thau  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand. 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet ; 
He  .shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again. 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  ]cai)ing  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  Avhere  immortal  morn  prevails  ? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thiue  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales ; 
A  nnuiuur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore. 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  forever  fair, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air? 


TO  THE   REV.  JOHN   PIERPONT, 
OK    HIS    KIOIiTIETII    BIRTHDAY,  APRIL    C,  I860. 

The  mightiest  of  the  Hebrew  seers, 
Ciear-eyed  and  hale  at  eighty  years. 
From  I'isgah  saw  the  hills  and  plains 
Of  Canaan,  green  with  brooks  and  rains. 

Our  poet,  strong  in  frame  and  mind. 
Leaves  eighty  well-spent  years  behind  ; 
And  forward  looks  to  fields  more  bright 
Tiiau  Moses  saw  from  I'lsgah's  height. 

Yet  be  our  Pierpont's  A-oice  and  pen 
Long  potent  Avith  the  sous  of  men; 
And  late  his  sunnnons  to  the  shore 
Where  he  shall  meet  his  Aoutli  once  more. 


lllilliam  5ii)ncij  lUalkcr. 

Walker  (170.>-1S4())  was  one  of  a  group  of  young  poet- 
ical asiiirants  who  nuidc  Eton,  Oxforil,  and  Cambridge 
vocal  Avitli  their  songs  early  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
In  his  verses  there  is  a  tenderness  and  grace  imparting 
a  peculiar  charm.  He  was  one  of  the  contributors  to 
The  KlouitDi,  with  Praed,  Moultrie,  and  others.  An  edi- 
tion of  his  poetical  Avorks,  edited  by  Moultrie,  appeared 
soon  after  his  death. 


WILLIAM  SIDNEY  WALKER.— JEBEMIAH  JOSEPII  CALLAXAX. 


469 


THE   VOICE   OF   OTHER   YEARS. 

O  Stella !   goldcu  star  of  youth  and  love ! 

Ill  thy  soft  uaiue  the  voice  of  other  years 
Seems  souuding ;  each  green  court  and  arched  grove 

Where,  haud-iu-haud,  we  walked,  agaiu  appears. 

Called  by  the  spell :   the  very  clouds  and  tears, 
O'er  which  thj'  dawning  lamp  its  splendor  darted, 

Gleam  bright ;   and  they  are  there,  my  youthful 
peers. 
The  lofty-minded  and  the  gentle-hearted; 
Tiio  beauty  of  the  earth — the  light  of  days  de- 
parted— - 
All,  all  return  ;   and  with  them  comes  a  throng 

Of  withered  hopes,  and  loves  made  desolate, 
And  high  resolves  cherished  in  silence  long, 

Yea,   struggliug    still    beneath    the    incumbent 
weight 

Of  spirit-quelling  Time  and  adverse  fate. 
These  only  live  ;   all  else  have  passed  away 

To  Memory's  spectre-laud ;   and  she,  who  sate 
"Mid  that  bright  choir  so  bright,  is  now  as  they — 
A  morning  dream  of  life,  dissolving  with  the  day. 


TO   A   GIRL   IX  HER  THIRTEENTH  YEAR. 

Thy  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays, 

So  beautiful  approve  thee. 
So  winning  light  are  all  thy  ways, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee. 
Thy  balmy  breath  upon  my  brow 

Is  like  the  summer  air, 
As  o'er  my  cheek  thou  leanest  now, 

To  plaut  a  soft  kiss  there. 

Thy  steps  are  dancing  toward  the  bound 

Between  the  child  and  woman  ; 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  more  profound. 

And  other  years,  are  coming : 
And  thou  shalt  be  more  deeply  fair, 

More  iirecious  to  the  heart ; 
But  never  canst  thou  be  again 

That  lovely  thing  thou  art ! 

And  youth  shall  pass,  with  all  the  brood 

Of  fancy-fed  affection  ; 
And  grief  shall  come  with  womanhood. 

And  waken  cold  reflection  ; 
Thou'lt  learn  to  toil  and  watch,  and  weep 

O'er  pleasures  unreturniug, 
Like  one  who  wakes  from  pleasant  sleep 

Uuto  the  cares  of  morning. 


Nay,  say  not  so !   nor  cloud  the  sun 

Of  joyous  expectation. 
Ordained  to  bless  the  little  one, 

Tlie  frcshliug  of  creation  ! 
Nor  doubt  that  He  who  thus  doth  feed 

Her  early  lamp  with  gladness. 
Will  be  her  present  help  in  need, 

Her  comforter  in  sadness. 

Smile  on,  then,  little  winsome  thing, 

All  rich  in  Nature's  treasure ! 
Thou  hast  within  thy  heart  a  spring 

Of  self-renewing  pleasure. 
Smile  on,  fair  child,  and  take  thy  fill 

Of  mirth,  till  time  shall  end  it : 
'Tis  Nature's  wise  and  gentle  Avill, 

And  who  shall  reprehend  it? 


iJcrcmialj  iFoscplj  (Hallanau. 

Callanan  (1795-1829)  was  bom  in  Cork,  Ireland,  and 
educated  for  the  priesthood  at  MaynootL.  But  he  gave 
up  his  clerical  prospects,  and  in  1825  was  an  assistant  in 
the  school  of  Dr.  ^Maginn,  by  whose  introduction  he  be- 
came a  contributor  to  BlarkicoocVs  Magazine.  In  1829  he 
was  tutor  iu  the  family  of  an  Irish  gentleman  In  Lisbon, 
and  died  there  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  his  age,  as  he 
was  about  leaving  for  Ireland.  A  small  12mo  volume  of 
his  Poems  was  published  at  Cork  soon  after  his  deatb. 
A  new  edition  appeared  in  1847;  and  in  1848  was  issued 
a  third  edition,  edited  by  D.  F.  McCarthy,  with  an  inter- 
esting Memoir. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY'S  BANK. 

FOUNDED  ON  AN  EXISTING  POPULAR  TIIADITION  IN  THE 
COUNTY  OF  CORK. 

The  evening-star  rose  beauteous  above  the  fading 
day. 

As  to  the  lone  and  silent  beach  the  Virgiu  came 
to  pray; 

And  hill  and  wave  shone  brightly  in  the  moon- 
light's mellow  foil, 

But  the  bank  of  green  where  Mary  knelt  was  bright- 
est of  them  all. 

Slow  moving  o'er  the  waters  a  gallant  bark  ap- 
peared, 

And  her  joyous  crew  looked  from  the  deck  as  to 
the  land  she  neared  ; 

To  the  calm  and  sheltered  haven  she  floated  like 
a  swan. 

And  her  wings  of  snow  o'er  the  waves  below  iu 
pride  aud  beauty  shone. 


470 


CYVLOl'JWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tho  master  saw  "Our  Lady"  as  he  stoocl  uiiou  the 

])I()\V, 

Aiitl  niarkcil  the  Avliitencss  of  licr  robe,  (lie  radiance 

of  lier  brow ; 
Her  arms  were  fohb'd  gracefull.N   iiiioii  licr  staiiile.ss 

breast, 
Ami  her  eyes  looked   up  ainoinx  the  stars  to  Wv.n 

her  soul  loved  best. 


He  showed   her  to   his   sailors,  and  he  liailed  her 

with  a  cheer ; 
And  on  the  kueeling  Vir<;in  then  they  gazed  with 

laugh  and  jeer, 
Aud  madly  sworo  a  form  so  fair  they  never  saw 

before, 
And  they  cursed  the  faint  and  lagging  breeze  that 

kept  them  from  the  shoi'e. 

The  ocean  from  its  bosom  shook  ofit'  the  moonlight 

sheen, 
And  up  its  wrathful  billows  rose  to  vindicate  their 

Queen  ; 
And  a  cloud  came  o'er  the  heavens,  and  a  darkness 

o'er  the  land, 
And  the  scoffing  crew  beheld  no  more  that  Lady 

on  the  strand. 

Out  burst  the  pealing  thunder,  and  the  lightning 

leaped  about ; 
And,  rushing  with  its  watery  war,  the  tempest  gave 

a  shout ; 
And  that  vessel  fiom  a  mountain-wave  came  down 

■with  thundering  shock. 
And  her  timbers  flew  like  scattered  spray  on  Inchi- 

dony's  rock. 

Then  loud  from  all  that  guilty  crew  one  shriek  rose 
wild  and  high  ; 

But  the  angry  surge  swept  over  them,  and  hushed 
their  gurgling  cry  ; 

And  with  a  hoarse  exulting  tone  the  tempest 
passed  away, 

Aud  down,  still  ch.'ifing  from  tlieii-  strife,  the  in- 
dignant waters  lay. 

When  the  calm   and  ])nrple  morning  shone  out  on 

high  Dunmorc, 
Full   many  a  mangled  eorjise   was   seen    on   Inchi- 

dony's  shore  ; 
Aud  to  this  day  the  tisherman    shows  where  the 

scoflers  sank, 
And   still  he   calls   that   hillock   grccu   the  Virgin 

Mary's  Bank. 


iiljonias   ^'ooii  ^alfouri).  . 

Talfourd  (17%-18.'>1)  was  a  native  of  Doxcy,  a  suburb 
of  ^itallbrd,  England.  His  father  was  a  brewer  In  Read- 
ing. Having  studied  the  law,  Thomas  was  called  to  the 
IJar  iu  IS^Jl,  and  in  \>>i''i  got  liis  &ilk  gown.  As  Sergeant 
Talfourd,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  popular  elo(iucnce 
aud  liberal  principles.  He  was  returned  to  Parliament 
for  tlie  borougli  of  Reading.  In  1S;>5  he  published  his 
tragedy  of  "Ion,"  which  was  the  next  year  produced  at 
Covent  (larden  Theatre  with  success.  It  Is  the  liighest 
literary  effort  of  its  author ;  and  Miss  Ellen  Tree,  who 
played  the  part  of  the  hero  in  the  United  States,  helped 
to  make  it  famous.  Talfourd  also  produced  "  The  Athe- 
nian Captive,"  a  tragedy;  "The  Massacre  of  Glencoe;" 
and  "The  Castilian,"  a  tragedy.  He  also  wrote  a  "Life 
t)f  Charles  Lamb,"  and  an  "Essay  on  the  Greek  Drama." 
In  1849  he  was  elevated  to  the  Bencli  ;  and  in  18.54  he 
died  of  apoplexy,  while  delivering  his  charge  to  tlie  grand- 
jury  at  Stafford. 


TO  THE  SOUTH  AMERICAN  PATRIOTS. 

ON   'line   DISPEU.SION   OF  THE   EXPEDITION  FROM   SPAIN, 
APIUL,  1819. 

Rejoice,  ye  heroes !   Freedom's  old  ally. 
Unchanging  Nature,  who  hath  seen  the  powers 
Of  thousand  tyrannies  decline  like  flowers, 
Your  triumph  aids  with  eldest  sympathy:  — 
The  breeze  hath  swept  again  the  stormy  sky 
That  wooed  Athenian  waves  with  tenderest  kiss, 
Aud  breathed,  in  glorious  rage,  o'er  Salamis  ! 
Leaguing  with  deathless  chiefs,  whose  spirits  high 
Shared  in  its  freedom — now  from  long  repose 
It  wakes  to  dash  nnmastered  Ocean's  foam 
O'er  the  proud  navies  of  your  tyrant  foes  ; 
Nor  shall  it  cease  in  ancient  might  to  roam 
Till  it  hath  borne  your  contest's  glorious  close 
To  every  breast  where  freedom  linds  a  home. 


LOVE   IMMORTAL. 
From  "  Ion." 

Chmanlhc.  And  .shall  we  never  see  each  other  ? 

Ion  {rifter  a  pause).  Yes ! 
I  have  asked  that  dreadful  question  of  the  hills, 
That  look  eternal ;   of  the  flowing  streams, 
Tliat  lucid  flow  forever;   of  the  stars, 
Amid  whoso  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 
Hath  trod  in  glory:   all  were  dumb;   but  now, 
While  I  thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 
I  feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 
Can  never  wholly  perish  :   wo  shall  meet 
Again,  Clemanthe  ! 


THOMAS  XOON  TALFOUIW. 


471 


VERSES  TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  A   CHILD 
JSAMED  AFTER  CHARLES  LAMB. 

Our  gentle  Cbarles  lias  passed  away, 
From  earth's  short  bondage  free, 

And  left  to  us  its  leaden  day 
And  iiiist-eushrouded  sea. 

Here,  by  the  restless  ocean's  side, 
Sweet  hours  of  hope  have  tiowu, 

When  first  the  triumph  of  its  tide 
Seemed  omeu  of  our  own. 

Tbat  eager  joy  the  sea-breeze  gave, 

When  first  it  raised  his  hair. 
Sank  Avith  each  day's  retiring  wave 

Beyond  the  reach  of  prayer. 

The  sun-blink  that  through  dazzling  mist, 

To  flickering  hope  akin, 
Far  waves  "with  feeble  fondness  kissed, 

Ko  smile  as  faint  can  Avin  ; 

Yet  not  in  vain  with  radiance  weak 
The  heavenly  stranger  gleams — 

Xot  of  the  world  it  lights  to  speak, 
But  that  from  whence  it  streams. 

That  world  our  patient  sufferer  sought. 

Serene,  with  pitying  eyes. 
As  if  his  mounting  spirit  caught 

The  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

With  boundless  love  it  looked  abroad, 
For  one  bright  moment  given, 

Shone  with  a  loveliness  that  awed. 
And  quivered  into  heaven. 

A  year,  made  slow  by  care  and  toil. 

Has  paced  its  weary  round. 
Since  death  enriched  with  kindred  spoil 

The  snow-clad,  frost-ribbed  ground. 

Then  Lamb,  with  whose  endearing  name 

Our  boy  we  proudly  graced. 
Shrank  from  the  warmth  of  sweeter  fame 

Thau  ever  bard  embraced. 

Still,  'twas  a  mournful  joy  to  think 

Our  darling  might  supply 
For  years  on  earth  a  living  link 

To  name  that  cannot  die. 


And  though  such  fancy  gleam  no  more 

On  earthl3'  sorrow's  night. 
Truth's  nobler  torch  unveils  the  shore 

Which  lends  to  both  its  light. 

The  nursling  there  that  hand  may  take 

None  ever  grasped  in  vain. 
And  smiles  of  well-known  sweetness  wake. 

Without  their  tinge  of  pain. 

Though  'twixt  the  child  and  childlike  bard 

Late  seemed  distinction  wide. 
They  now  may  trace,  in  Heaven's  regard, 

How  near  they  were  allied. 

Within  the  infant's  ample  brow 

Blithe  fancies  lay  unfurled. 
Which,  all  uncruslied,  may  open  now 

To  charm  a  sinless  world. 

Though  the  soft  spirit  of  those  eyes 
Might  ne'er  with  Lamb's  compete — 

Ne'er  sparkle  with  a  wit  as  wise, 
Or  melt  in  tears  as  sweet, — 

That  calm  and  unforgotten  look 

A  kindred  love  reveals 
With  his  who  never  friend  forsook. 

Or  hurt  a  thing  that  feels. 

In  thought  profound,  in  wildest  glee, 
In  sorrow's  lengthening  range, 

His  guileless  soul  of  infancy 
Endured  no  spot  or  change. 

From  traits  of  each  our  love  receives 

For  comfort  nobler  scope  ; 
While  light  which  childlike  genius  leaves 

Confirms  the  infant's  hope  : 

And  in  that  hope,  with  sweetness  fraught,- 

Be  aching  hearts  beguiled, 
To  blend  in  one  delightful  thought 

The  poet  and  tlie  child. 


AN  ACT  OF  KINDNESS. 

KnoM  "  Ion." 

The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season.     'Tis  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water;   yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drained  by  fevered  lips, 


472 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Miiy  give  a  sliock  of  pleasuro  to  tlio  fiiinio 

More  ox(iiii«ito  than  when  iiectareaii  Juice 

Keiiew.s  tlio  life  of  .joy  in  liaijpie.st  hours. 

It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  ])hrase 

Of  common  eomfoifc  which  hy  daily  nso 

Has  almost  lost  its  sense  ;   yet  on  the  ear 

Of  him  who  thought  to  die  uiimonrned  'twill  fall 

Like  choicest  music,  1111  tlio  glazing  eyo 

With  gentle  tears,  relax  the  knotted  hand 

To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again, 

And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a,  sense 

More  precious  than  the  beuison  of  friends 

About  the  honored  death-bed  of  the  rich, 

To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 

Of  the  great  family  i^  near  and  feels. 


SONNET :  ON  THE  RECEPTION  OF  THE  POET 
WORDSWORTH  AT  OXFORD. 

Oh,  never  did  a  mighty  truth  prevail 

W^ith  such  felicities  of  place  and  time 

As  in  those  shouts  sent  forth  with  joy  sublime 

From  the  full  heart  of  England's  youth,  to  hail 

Her  once  neglected  bard  within  the  pale 

Of  Learning's  fairest  citadel !     That  voice, 

In  which  the  future  thunders,  bids  rejoice 

Some  who  through  wintry  fortunes  did  not  fail 

To  bless  with  love  as  deep  as  life  the  name 

Thus  welcomed  ; — who  in  happy  silence  share 

The  triumph;   while  their  fondest  musings  claim 

Uuhoped-for  echoes  iu  the  joyous  air. 

That  to  their  long-loved  Poet's  spirit  bear 

A  nation's  promise  of  undying  fame. 


iFoGcplj  Uoiiman  Pralvc. 


Dnike  (179.5-1820),  whose  reniavkablc  promise  was 
checked  by  an  early  death,  was  a  native  of  tlie  city  of 
New  York.  He  obtained  a  good  education,  studied  med- 
icine, and  was  admitted  to  practice,  soon  after  whicli 
he  was  married.  With  his  wife  he  visited  Europe  in 
1817.  On  his  return  pulmonary  disease  developed  it- 
self; in  the  winter  of  1819  he  visited  New  Orleans  in 
the  hope  of  relief,  but  died  the  following  autumn,  at  the 
age  of  twenty -five.  Like  Bryant,  he  was  a  poet  from 
boyhood,  and  wrote  remarkable  verses  before  he  was 
fifteen.  He  was  associated  with  Ilalleck  in  writing  the 
poems  signed  "Croaker  &  Co.,"  and  his  "American 
Flag"  first  appeared  among  tliese  (1819).  "The  Cul- 
prit Fay"  (1819),  his  longest  poem,  is  said  to  have  been 
written  in  three  days.  It  shows  great  facility  in  versi- 
fying, and  an  affluent  fancy.    The  following  passage  is  a 


not  wholly  unworthy  parallel  of  Shakspearc's  descrip- 
tion of  "  Queen  Mab  :" 

"  He  put  liis  nconi  liehnet  on. 
It  was  ijlinned  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-dowu ; 
The  corselet-plate  that  {guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  tlie  wild  bee's  ^'olden  vest ; 
His  clonk  of  a  tliousand  miii^ded  dyes 
Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies; 
His  sliield  was  tlie  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 
Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 
And  the  (luivering  lance  which  he  brandished  bright 
Was  the  sting  of  a  was])  he  had  slain  iu  fight." 

When  Drake  was  on  his  death-bed,  his  brother-in-law. 
Dr.  De  Kay.  collected  and  copied  .all  the  young  poet's 
productions  in  verse  that  could  be  found,  and  took  them 
to  him,  saying,  "See,  Joe,  what  I  have  done."  "Burn 
them,"  replied  Drake;  "  tbey  are  valueless."  Clever  as 
they  are,  they  did  not  come  up  to  his  ideal  of  what  poetry 
ought  to  be.  N.  P.  Willis  remarks  of  him  :  "  His  power 
of  language  was  prompt ;  his  peculiarity  was  that  of  in- 
stantaneous creation  ;  thought,  imagination,  truth,  and 
imagery  seemed  to  combine  and  produce  their  results  in 
a  moment." 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  tho  azure  robe  of  night. 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
Tho  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down. 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  laud. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rearst  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  tho  tempest-trumpiugs  loud, 
And  see  tho  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  stride  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
Aiul  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  sun  !   to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  tho  banner  of  tho  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  tho  battle-stroke. 
Ami  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar. 
Like  rainbows  on  tho  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave !   thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  sleamiug  on, — 


JOSEPH  HOD  MAX  DRAKE. 


473 


Ere  Yct  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  diiiiineil  the  glistening  bayonet, — 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  bnrn  ; 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  caunon-mouthiugs  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  tiame  ou  midnight's  pall — 
There  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas!    ou  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave : 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  'round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dving  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe,  but  falls  before  us  ? 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streamiu";  o'er  us! 


ODE   TO   FORTUNE. 

From  "  The  Croakers." 

Fair  lady  with  the  bandaged  eye! 

I'll  pardon  all  thy  scurvy  tricks; 
So  thou  wilt  cut  me  and  deny 

Alike  thy  kisses  and  thy  kicks : 
Fm  cpiite  contented  as  I  am — 

Have  cash  to  keep  my  duns  at  bay, 
Can  choose  between  beefsteaks  and  ham, 

And  drink  Madeira  every  day. 

My  station  is  the  middle  rank. 
My  fortune  just  a  competence — 

Ten  thousand  in  the  Franklin  Bank, 
And  twenty  in  the  sis  per-cents. ; 


No  amorous  chains  my  heart  inthrall ; 

I  neither  borrow,  lend,  nor  sell ; 
Fearless  I  roam  the  City  Hall, 

And  bite  my  thumb  at  ^Nlr.  Bell.' 

The  horse  that  twice  a  year  I  ride. 

At  Mother  Dawson's  eats  his  All ; 
My  books  at  Goodrich's  abide, 

My  country-seat  is  Weehawk  hill; 
My  morning  lounge  is  Eastburn's  shop. 

At  Poppletou's  I  take  my  lunch ; 
Niblo  prepares  my  mutton-chop, 

And  Jennings  makes  my  whiskey-i)unch. 

When  merry,  I  the  hours  amuse 

By  squibbing  Bucktails,  Guards,  and  balls ; 
And  when  Vm  troubled  with  the  blues. 

Damn  Clinton^  and  abuse  canals.^ 
Then,  Fortune!  since  I  ask  no  jirize. 

At  least  preserve  me  from  thy  frown ; 
The  man  who  don't  attempt  to  rise, 

'Twere  cruelty  to  tumble  down. 


THE   GATHERING   OF  THE   FAIRIES. 

From  "The  Cclpkit  Fat." 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night — 

The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 

But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless  sky. 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A  river  of  light,  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cro'nest ; 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggj'  breast. 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw. 

In  a  silver  cone,  on  the  wave  below. 

His  sides  are  broken  bj'  spots  of  shade. 

By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made. 

And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark — 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 
And  fling,  as  its  ripi»lcs  gently  flow, 

A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 
In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below ; 

J  The  sheriff  of  New  York  City. 

-  De  Witt  Clinton,  Governor  of  the  State  of  New  York,  and 
the  advocate  of  the  great  car.al  project. 
3  Formerly  prouounced  canawU. 


474 


CYCLOI'^EDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAX  I'UETRY. 


The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

Tlie  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  naught  is  licard  on  the  h)nely  iiill 
JJiit  the  ciiikct's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  ganzc-winged  katydid, 
And  the  plaint  of  tho  wailing  wliipixiorwiil, 
"Who  mourns  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings 

Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  Avoe, 
Till  morning  spreads  lier  rosy  wings, 

And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell: 

The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 

He  has  counted  them  all  witli  click  and  stroke, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  oak, 

And  lie  lias  awakened  the  sentry  elvo 

AVho  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree. 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve. 

And  call  tho  fays  to  their  revelry ; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell — 
('Twas  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell) — 
"Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well! 
Hither,  hither  wing  your  way ! 
'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy  day." 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green. 

They  creep  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen  ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 

From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 
Where    they    swung    in    their    cobwel)    hammocks 
high. 

And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze; 
Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest — 

They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 
And  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast. 

Had  slumbered  there  till  tlie  (•harm6d  hour; 
Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 

With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid; 
And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock, 

And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 
And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 

Above — below — on  every  side, 
Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 

111  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea 

III  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree. 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup. 

And  drink  the  dew  from  tho  buttercup ; — 

A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now. 

For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow  : 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 


He  has  lain  upon  lier  lip  of  dew, 
And  suuiicd  iiim  in  her  eye  of  blue, 
Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air. 
Played  in  the  linglets  of  lier  hair. 
And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 
For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  tho  elfin  court  must  haste  away : 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there. 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  Culprit  Fay. 

The  throne  Avas  reared  upon  the  grass, 
Of  sjiice-wood  and  of  sassafras ; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-sliell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy — 
And  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  tho  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone ; 
The  ]uisoner  faj'  was  at  his  feet. 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
He  waved  his  scejilrc  in  the  air, 

He  looked  around,  and  calmly  spoke  ; 
His  brow  was  grave,  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  liis  voice  in  a  softened  accent  broke: 
"  Fairy  !   Fairy  !   list  and  mark  : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain  ; 
Thy  Hame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark. 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly  stain — 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye; 
Thou  hast  scorned  our  dread  decree. 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high. 
I5iit  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 
(ientlo  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love. 
Fairy!   had  she  spot  or  taint. 
Bitter  had  been  thy  imnishment : 
Tied  to  tlie  hornet's  shardy  wings ; 
Tossed  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings ; 
Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell 
With  the  lazy  worm  in  tho  walnut-shell; 
Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  Ideed 
Beneatli  tho  tread  of  the  centipede; 
Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim. 
Your  jailer  a  spider,  huge  and  griin. 
Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 
Of   the    Avorm,   and   the    bug,  and    the    murdered 

lly  : 
These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear. 
Had  a  stain  beeu  found  on  the  earthly  fair. 


MAL'IA    {('.OWEN)   BROOKS.— THOMAS  CARLTLE. 


475 


iUaria  ((J^oiucn)  Brooks. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Bi-ooks  (1795-1S45),  to  whom  Soutliey  gave  the. 
pen-name  of  "Maria  del  Occidente"  (.Maria  of  the 
West),  was  of  Welsh  descent,  the  daus^liter  of  Mr.  Gow- 
en,  of  Medford,  Mass.,  where  she  was  born.  Before  her 
eisiiitceutli  year  she  married  Mr.  Broolcs,  a  Boston  mer- 
chant, and  on  his  death,  in  1833,  went  to  live  with  a 
wealthy  uncle  in  Cuba,  who,  dying,  left  her  a  cotton 
plantation  and  some  other  property.  In  1830,  in  com- 
pany with  her  brother,  slie  went  to  France,  and  in  1831 
passed  the  spring  in  the  house  of  Robert  Southcy,  the 
poet,  to  whom  she  addressed,  at  parting,  these  graceful 
lines  : 

"  Soft  be  thy  sleep  as  mists  that  rest 
Ou  Skiddaw's  top  at  summer  morn  ; 
Smooth  be  thy  days  as  Derweufs  breast 

When  summer  light  is  almost  goue  ! 
And  yet,  for  thee  why  breathe  a  prayer? 

I  deem  thy  fate  is  given  in  trust 
To  seraplis  who  by  daily  care 

■Would  prove  that  Heaven  is  not  unjust. 
And  treasured  shall  thy  image  be 

In  Memory's  purest,  holiest  shrine, 
While  truth  and  honor  glow  iu  thee, 
Or  life's  warm,  quivering  pulse  is  mine.' 

Southey  calls  Mrs.  Brooks  "  the  most  impassioned  and 
most  imaginative  of  all  poetesses"  —  praise  which  was 
echoed  by  Charles  Lamb,  but  which  will  seem  a  little 
extravagant  to  the  present  generation.  Southey  read 
the  proofs  of  her  "Zophiel;  or.  The  Bride  of  Seven,"  a 
poem  in  si.K  cantos,  which,  in  its  completed  form,  was 
published  in  London  in  18.33,  and  in  Boston  in  1834. 
It  contains  lines  of  great  descriptive  beautj',  but  as  a 
whole  is  like  a  surfeit  of  sweets.  A  new  edition,  with 
a  memoir  by  Mrs.  Zadel  Barnes  Gustafson,  author  of 
"Meg:  a  Pastoral,  and  other  Poems,"  was  published  in 
Boston  iu  1879. 


SONG  OF  EGLA. 

Fnoji  "Zophiel." 

Day,  iu  melting  purple  dying  ; 

Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing  ; 

Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying ; 

Zephyr,  ^Yitll  my  ringlets  playing ; — 
Ye  but  waken  my  distress : 
I  am  sick  of  loneliness ! 

Thoii  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken. 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ! 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thon'rt  trne,  and  I'll  believe  thee  ; 

Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent ; 

Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure ; 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure  : 


Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling, — 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling : 

Gifts  and  gold  arc  naught  to  me  ; 

I  would  only  look  on  thee;  — 

Tell  to  thee  the  liigli-v^-ronght  feeling. 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing  ; 

Paint  to  thee  tlie  deep  sensation, 

Eapture  in  participation, 

Yet  but  torture,  if  compressed 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still  ?     Ah,  come  and  bless  me  ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee  ! 

Once,  iu  caution,  I  could  fly  thee  ; 

Now  I  nothing  could  deny  thee : 

In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 
Come,  and  I  ■will  gaze  ou  thee! 


i^ljomas  (Harlijlc. 

Carlyle,  famous  as  moralist,  satirist,  historian,  and  bi- 
ographer—  the  "censor  of  his  age,"  "the  prince  of 
scolds"  —  has  also  been,  in  a  small  way,  a  poet.  He 
lacked  the  lyrical  foculty,  however,  and  was,  perhaps, 
aware  of  his  failure ;  for  in  a  letter  from  his  pen,  dated 
1870,  we  find  him  giving  it  as  his  mature  opinion  that 
"  the  writing  of  verse— in  this  age,  at  least — is  an  un- 
worthy occupation  for  a  man  of  ability."  Not  being 
able  to  reach  the  grapes,  he  decries  them  as  sour.  The 
penetrating  thinker  will  jirobably  find  as  much  fresh 
wisdom  in  Wordsworth's  verse  as  in  Carlyle's  rugged 
prose,  where  we  often  have  the  obscurity  without  the 
melody  of  the  profound  poet.  Carlyle  was  born  Decem- 
ber 4th,  1795,  in  the  village  of  Ecclesfechan,  Scotland.  His 
father  Mas  a  man  of  great  moral  worth  and  sagacity, 
while  his  mother  was  affectionate  and  more  than  ordi- 
narily intelligent.  It  is  not  with  his  remarkable  prose 
writings  that  we  have  here  to  deal.  There  is  little  that 
is  worthy  of  preservation  in  his  verse.  In  1834:  he  took 
up  his  residence  in  Chelsea,  near  London,  where  he  was 
living  in  1880,  honored  and  respected  for  his  brilliant  tal- 
ents and  his  much-prized  contributions  to  the  literature 
of  the  age. 


CUI  BONO? 

What  is  hope  ?  A  smiling  rainbow 
C'liildren  follow  through  the  wet: 

"Tis  not  here — still  yonder,  yonder ; 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  life  ?  A  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  ^vith  sunny  shore : 

Gay  Ave  sail ;  it  melts  beneath  ns ; 
We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 


476 


CYCLOrJ^DIA    OF  nUlTlSII  AM)  J2ILJ!IL\L\  rOETllY. 


What  is  man?     A  foolish  baby; 

Vainly  strives,  and  lights,  anil  frets 
Demanding  all,  deserving  nothing, 

One  small  grave  is  what  he  gets! 


TO-DAY. 


So  here  hath  been  dawning  another  bine  day! 
Tliink,  wilt  then  let  it  slip  nseless  away? 

Out  of  Eternity  this  new  day  was  born  ; 
Into  Eternity  at  night  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime  no  eye  ever  did  ; 
So  soon  it  forever  from  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Hero  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day  : 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless  away  ? 


Jit^-CPrccnc  tjallcck. 


Ilalleck  (1795-1SG7)  was  a  native  of  Gvnlford,  Conn. 
While  a  boy  of  fourteen  he  began  to  versify.  In  1813  he 
entered  the  banking-house  of  Jacob  Barker  in  New  York, 
and  subseciuently  became  the  confidential  clerk  of  New 
York's  foremost  millionnaire,  John  Jacob  Astor.  In 
1849  he  retired  to  his  native  town  on  a  competence.  lie 
made  frequent  visits  to  New  York,  however,  where  he 
had  troops  of  friends.  He  remained  a  bachelor,  and  wrote 
little  after  giving  up  his  clerkship.  In  1819  he  had  been 
associated  with  Drake  in  the  composition  of  some  satiri- 
cal poems  called  "  The  Croaker  Papers."  In  1832,  '23  he 
visited  Europe,  and  as  the  fruits  of  his  travels  we  have 
two  fine  poems,  "Alnwick  Castle"  and  the  lines  on 
Burns,  which  last  show  the  influence  of  Campbell,  of 
whom  Ilalleck  was  a  great  admirer. 

The  first  collection  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1S27;  the 
second  in  183G;  a  third,  with  illustrations,  in  1847;  and 
a  fourth  in  1852.  His  flights  were  limited;  his  poetry  is 
that  of  the  emotions  rather  than  of  the  meditative  fac- 
ulty; and  a  small  volume  will  hold  all  that  he  wrote. 
But  in  his  day  Ilalleck  was  a  conspicuous  figure,  and 
regarded  with  some  local  pride  in  the  city  of  his  adop- 
tion, lie  was  an  agreeable  companion,  scrupulously 
honorable  in  all  his  dealings ;  and  his  beaming  counte- 
nance, the  smile  on  which  seemed  to  come  from  an  af- 
fectionate nature,  made  him  a  welcome  guest  at  all  social 
gatherings.  He  liad  little  ambition  as  an  author,  regaid- 
ing  himself  only  as  an  amateur,  and  having  a  keener  con- 
sciousness than  any  of  his  critics  of  his  own  literary  lim- 
itations. His  "  Life  and  Letters,"  edited  by  James  Grant 
Wilson  of  New  York,  was  published  in  18G9.  Bryant,  in 
vindicating  Hallcek  from  the  charge  of  occasional  rougli- 
ness  in  his  versification,  says  :  "  He  knows  that  the  rivu- 
let is  made  musical  by  the  obstructions  in  its  channel." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

"The  good  die  first, 
And  they  whose  hearts  lue  dry  as  summer  dust 
Bmu  to  the  socket." — Woudswoutu. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 
None  knew^  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep ; 
And  long  where  thou  art  lying 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts  wliose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  bo  woven, 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth  ; 

And  I,  who  Avokc  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine. 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woo  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow ; 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  mo  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free ; 

The  grief  is  iixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


aiARCO  BOZZARIS. 

M.arco  Bozzaris  fell  iu  a  night  attack  ou  the  Turkish  camp 
at  Lasj)i,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Platrea,  Aiig-nst  20th,  1823.  His 
last  words  were:  "To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  aud  not  a 
paia." 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
Wium  Crceee,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Siionld  trcniljle  at  his  power; 
In  dreams,  tlirongh  camp  aud  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumpb  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring ; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing,. 

As  Edeu's  garden  bird. 


FITZ-GREEXE  RALLECK. 


477 


At  raidiiigbt,  in  the  forest  sLades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Snlioto  baud, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
Tiiere  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plattea's  day; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  cou(inered  there. 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  iiasscd  on — the  Turk  awoke  : 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
'•  To  arms  ! — they  come  !   the  Greek  !   the  Greek  !" 
He  woke — to  die  'mid  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  baud : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — ^for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land  I" 

Tliey  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground,  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell. 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  jirond  liurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly  as  to  a  night's  repose. 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber.  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-boru's  breath  ; — 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  tlie  pestilence  are  broke. 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastlj"  foruj. 
The  earthquake's  shock,  the  ocean-storm  ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine  ; 
And.  thou  art  terrible  ! — tlie  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 


But  to  the  hero,  wlien  his  sword 

Has  won  thfe  battle  for  the  free. 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word. 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thauks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought ; 
Come  witli  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought ; 

Come  in  her  crowning  hoiu", — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sk}'  and  stars  to  prisoned  men  ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris !   with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Eest  thee ;  there  is  no  prouder  grave. 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee. 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  i)ageantry. 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed. 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the'  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lispiug  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed. 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe. 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow  ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak. 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, — 
Will  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names. 

That  were  not  born  to  die ! 


478 


CTCLOPJEDIA   OF  JIKITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


BURNS. 

TO   A   noSF,    BROTT.IIT    FROM   NF.AU    ALI.OWAY    KIRK,   IN 
AVKSllUU;,   IN   TlIK    ALILMN    OF   182V!. 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway!   my  tliaiiks: 

Tliou  iiiiud'st  me  of  that  .antuiiui  iioou 

■When  lirst  wo  met  upon  ''the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like  thine  beneath  tlie  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief; 

We've  crossed  the  Avinter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — fiowcr  and  leaf. 

And  •^vill  not  thy  death-doom  bo  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay  ? 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway? 

Not  so  his  memory  for  whose  sake 
My  l)osom  bore  thee  far  and  long — 

His  who  a  humbler  llower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  Avhen  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind  ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  maj'  of  humankind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasaut  .tirst  dre\v  breath, 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given  ! 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrcl,  in  thy  dreaming  hour; 

And  know,  however  low  bis  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  jiower. 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 


Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
Tlie  ricii,  the  brave,  the  strong  : 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Tiiy  spirit's  llutteriug  pinions  then, 

Despair: — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls  and  louder  lyres. 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  tires : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death  ; 

Few  nol)ler  ones  than  Burns  are  there  ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Tiian  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak — 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start. 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 

And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee. 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  Poet's  mastery? 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm  ; 

O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers; 
O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm  ; 

O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours  ; 

On  lields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do ;" 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo. 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth ! 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue. 

When  "Scots  wha  hao  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above. 

Come  with  the  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise ; 

And  dreams  of  youtii,  .and  truth,  and  love 
With  "Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 


FITZ-GREENE  UALLECK. 


47U 


And  when  he  hreathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Allowaj-'s  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  throngiu';  at  his  call. 


Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


rlec- 


And  Bums,  though  brief  the  race  he  ran. 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe. 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal,— 

Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel, — 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen. 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward,  and  of  slave, — 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

AVere  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard !     His  words  are  driven. 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown. 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven. 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !     A  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is. 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 


Who  lives  upon  all  memories. 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shrines, 
Sliriues  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vah's,  the  Palestines, 
The  Mcccas  of  the  mind. 

Sag6s  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed. 

Crowned  kiugs,  and  mitred  priests  of  power. 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed. 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star. 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come 

From  countries  near  and  far; 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  ti'od  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth. 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Doon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries ! 
The  Poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art. 
His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urus  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 


ALXWICK   CASTLE. 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place. 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle-gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  '•  flout  the  sky  " 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


480 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEItlCAN  POETRY. 


A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  ill  Enoliind's  fjulclcss  groen, 
To  meet  the  (luiet  stream  Avhich  wincls 

Through  this  romantic  scene, 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side. 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gazo  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile: 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glorj^, 
Tlie  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day. 

The  Percy's  proudest  border-story. 

That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  ])ictured  dome. 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march. 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  soug, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long. 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbej^  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom: 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral-llowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  his  sword  in  his  mailed  hand. 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Bless6d  land, 

Where   the   Cross  Avas  damped   with   his   dying 
breath. 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine. 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries. 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell. 
Of  beings  l)orn  and  l»uried  here  I 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer. 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  tlie  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell. 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 
.    The  Norman's  curfew-bell ! 


I  wandered  throngb  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  nifon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name. 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons; 
To  him  who,  wheu  a  younger  son, 
Fought  fiir  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  nnijor  of  dragoons.' 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeani  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  mj'  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market-town, 
And  this,  alas!  its  market-day. 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  laud, 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 
From  Woollcr,  IMorpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  iu  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fiict,  not  fable ; 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  round-table; 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy  : 
'Tis  what  "  our  President,"  Slonroe, 

Has  called  "  the  era  of  good  feeling  :" 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow. 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pautaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  oft'  cattle-stealing  : 

'  Hugh,  Earl  Percy,  here  i-eferred  to,  rose  to  be  something 
moio  than  !i  niMJor.  Roni  in  1T42,  and  crtncatcd  at  Kton  Col- 
lege, lie  nianicd,  unliappily  (1TG4),  a  daughter  of  tlie  Earl  of 
Uute;  and  in  1774  was  sent  to  the  American  colony.  In  letters 
to  liis  fatlu'i-,  the  Duke  of  Northnmberland,  he  writes  of  the 
conntry  aboub  15oKt(Ui :  "Natiu'e  has  hcr-self  done  the  work  of 
the  landscape  gardener;  but  the  climate  is  more  trying  than 
that  of  England.  I  have  been  (July)  iu  both  the  torrid  and 
frigid  zone  in  the  space  of  twenty-four  hoiu-s.  Sonietiincs  my 
shirt  is  a  burden  ;  again  1  need  a  blanket."  The  earl,  while  in 
ISoston,  occupied  a  line  house  at  the  corner  of  Winter  and  Tre- 
mont  streets.  In  the  skirmish  at  Lexington  he  covered  the  re- 
treat of  I'itcairn's  column,  and  showed  both  courage  and  gener- 
alship. He  was  the  father  of  Thomas  Smithson,  wlm  was  born 
out  of  wedlock,  and  who  founded  the  Smithsouian  Institute  at 
Washington,  U.  C. 


FITZ-GREENE  JIALLECE.— JAMES  GATES  FERCIVAL. 


481 


Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Donglas  in  red  herrings ; 
And  noblo  uame  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal-hand, 
Ave  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  ago  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-daj"^  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone. 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on. 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 
And  not  a  sabre-blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  rei^resentatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate" 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penu ; 

A  chamber-maid,  whose  lip  and  eye. 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  Nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal. 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret-wall. 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


3amt5  0atc5  JPtrcioal. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Berlin,  Conn.,  son  of  a  country  physician, 
Percival  (1795-1857)  entered  Yale  College  at  sixteen,  and, 
on  graduating,  began  the  study  of  medicine.  He  tried  to 
establish  himself  in  his  profession  at  Charleston,  S.  C, 
but  foiled,  and  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  In 
1827  he  revised  the  translation  of  Malte  Bran's  "  Geog- 
raphy," and  assisted  Noah  Webster  in  his  "Dictionary." 
In  botli  instances  he  quarrelled  with  his  employers.  He 
became  a  skilful  geologist,  and  was  employed  in  surveys 
by  the  States  of  Connecticut  and  Wisconsin.  His  poetry 
was  not  a  source  of  profit  to  him,  and  he  was  always 
poor.  An  earnest  student,  he  became  quite  an  accom- 
plished linguist.  Constitutionally  melancholy,  he  was 
shy  of  social  distinction,  and  made  few  personal  friends. 
His  scholarship  was  remarkable,  but  unfruitful.  He 
31 


must  be  ranked  am.ong  the  true,  natural  poets,  though 
there  has  been  a  disposition  to  underrate  him  among  the 
admirers  of  the  most  modern  fashion  in  verse.  But  had 
Percival  been  favored  iu  his  pecuniary  circumstances,  he 
might  have  left  a  far  more  imposing  poetical  record  than 
he  has ;  for  there  are  evidences  of  high  art,  as  well  as 
flashes  of  genius,  in  some  of  his  latest  productions.  An 
edition  of  his  poems  iu  two  volumes  was  published  in 
1870  in  Boston. 


ELEGIAC. 

From  "  Classic  JIelodies." 

Oh,  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where  ranks 
are  contending ! 
Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ;  Glory  awaits 
us  for  aye, — 
Glory  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  with  a  light 
never  ending, — 
Glory  that  never  shall  fade,  never,  oh  never  away ! 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die!    How  softly 
reposes 
Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the  tears  of 
his  love. 
Wet  by  a  motlier's  ■warm  tears.     They  crown  him 
with  garlands  of  roses. 
Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright  where  he 
triumphs  above. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend,  who  for 
country  hath  perished : 
Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes  him  there 
with  her  smile ; 
There,  at  the  banf[uet  divine,  the  patriot  spirit  is 
cherished ; 
Gods  love  the  young,  who  ascend  pure  from  the 
funeral  jiile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious  river; 
Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blessed,  over  the  blue-roll- 
ing sea ; 
But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the  devoted 
forever ; 
There  shall  assemble  the   good,  there  the  wise, 
valiant,  and  free. 

Oh,  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die,  in  the 
front  rank  to  perish. 
Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  victory's  .shout 
iu  our  ear! 
Long  they  our  statnes  shall  crown,  in  songs  our 
memory  cherish  ; 
We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven,  pleased  the 
sweet  music  to  he.ar. 


482 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAX  POETRY. 


TO   SENECA  LAKE. 

On  tliy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake ! 

Tlic  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
Aud  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 

As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

Oil  thy  fair  bosom,  -wavcless  stream! 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  Hashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore. 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  bine 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  i)urest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake ! 

Oh,  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar. 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

Aud  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

Deep  in  llie  wave  is  a  coral  grove. 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fisli  rove, 

Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue. 

That  never  are  wet  Avith  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine. 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

The  floor  is  of  sand  like  the  mountain  drift. 

And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow  ; 

From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  Avhere  the  tides  and  billows  flow  : 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below. 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 

And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air: 

There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 


There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion. 

The  fau-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Arc  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea: 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own  : 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies. 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar. 

When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies. 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  ; 

Then  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea. 

The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 

Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly. 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


SONNET. 

ACUOSTIC   TRIBUTE    (1825)  TO   A    BOSTON   LADY,  WIDELY 
CELEBRATED   FOR   HER   BEAUTY. 

Earth  holds  no  fairer,  lovelier  one  than  thou, 
JIaid  of  the  laughing  lip  and  frolic  eye  ! 
Innocence  sits  upon  thy  open  brow 
Ijike  a  pure  spirit  in  its  native  sky. 
If  ever  beauty  stole  the  heart  away, 
Enchantress,  it  would  fly  to  meet  thy  smile  ; 
Moments  would  seem  bj'  thee  a  sunnuer  day. 
And  all  around  thee  an  Elysiau  isle. 
Roses  are  nothing  to  the  maiden  blush 
Sent  o'er  thy  cheeks'  soft  ivory,  and  night 
Has  naught  so  dazzling  in  its  world  of  light. 
As  the  dark  rays  that  from  thy  lashes  gush. 
Love  lurks  amid  thy  silken  curls,  and  lies 
Like  a  keen  archer  in  thy  kindling  eyes. 


MAY. 


I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail. 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 
Of  hours  that  glide  nnfelt  away 
Ikneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south  wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
Tlie  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers  and  awake. 


JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL.  — WILLIAM  HOWITT. 


483 


The  waving  vcrcluro  rolls  along  the  plain, 

Anil  the  Avide  forest  Aveaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves : 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May  ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
"With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west  wind  play. 

And  the  fnll-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  retnrnin<r  sun. 


A  VISION. 

""Whence  dost  thou  come  to  me, 

Sweetest  of  visions, 
Filling  my  slumbers  with  lioliest  joy  ?"' 

'•  Kindly  I  bring  to  thee 

Feelings  of  childhood. 
That  in  thy  dreams  thou  be  happy  awhile." 

"  Why  dost  thou  steal  from  me 

Ever  as  slumber 
Flies,  and  reality  chills  me  again  ?" 

"  Life  thou  must  struggle  through  : 

Strive, — and  iu  slumber 
Sweetly  again  I  will  steal  to  thy  soul."' 


lllilliam  C)Ottiitt. 


Howitt  (179.5-1879),  husband  of  Mary  Ilowitt,  was  a 
native  of  Heanor,  in  Derb}-shire,  England.  Of  Quaker  de- 
scent, he  was  educated  at  a  public  seminary  of  Friends. 
He  was  a  great  student  of  lauguagcs,  and  wrote  verses 
almost  from  boyhood.  He  and  bis  wife,  after  the  year 
1837,  made  literature  their  chief  means  of  support.  He 
was  the  author  of  "  The  Rural  Life  of  England,"  "  Visits 
to  Remarkable  Places,"  and  other  successful  prose  works, 
including  translations.  He  also  published  a  "History  of 
the  Supernatural."  He  went,  with  his  two  sons,  to  Aus- 
tralia in  18.53,  and  gave  the  results  of  his  experiences  iu 
several  volumes.  With  his  wife  and  family  he  resided 
at  times  in  Germany  and  Italy.  His  jjoetry  is  scattered 
mostly  through  "Annuals"  and  magazines;  in  1871  he 
published  "  The  Mad  War  Planet,  and  other  Poems." 
About  the  year  18.50  he  became  an  active  Spiritualist,  and 
wrote  copiously  in  defence  of  the  modern  phenomena, 
which  he  reconciled  with  a  broad  Christianity.  He  died 
in  Rome,  in  the  eighty-fourth  year  of  his  age.  He  had 
a  brother,  Richard,  who  also  wrote  poetry. 


H0AK-FK08T:    A   SONNET. 

What  dream  of  beauty  ever  equalled  this ! 
What  bands  from  Fairy-land  have  sallied  forth, 
With  snowy  foliage  from  the  abundant  North, 
With  inmgery  from  the  realms  of  bliss ! 
AVhat  A'isions  of  my  boyhood  do  I  miss 
That  here  are  not  restored!    All  splendors  pure, 
All  loveliness,  all  graces  that  allure  ; 
Shapes  that  amaze;  a  paradise  that  is, — 
Yet  was  not, — will  not  iu  few  moments  be  : 
Glory  from  nakedness,  that  playfully 
Mimics  with  passing  life  each  summer  boon  ; 
Clothing  the  ground — repleuishing  the  tree ; 
Weaving  arch,  bower,  and  delicate  festoon  ; 
Still  as  a  dream, — and  like  a  dream  to  flee ! 


THE   WIND   IN  A   FROLIC. 

The  Wind  one  morning  sprang  up  from  sleep. 

Saying,  "Now  for  a  frolic!   now  for  a  leap! 

Now  for  a  mad-cap  galloping  chase ! 

I'll  make  a  commotion  iu  every  place!" 

So  it  swept  with  a  bustle  right  through   a  great 

town, 
Creaking  the  signs,  and  scattering  down 
Shutters ;   and  whisking,  with  merciless  .squalls. 
Old  women's  bonnets  and  gingerbread  stalls : 
There  never  Avas  heard  a  much  lustier  shout, 
As  the  apples  and  oranges  tumbled  about ; 
And  the  urchins,  that  stand  with  their  thievish  eyes 
ForeA'er  on  Avatch,  ran  otf  each  with  a  prize. 

Then  away  to  the  field  it  went  blustering  and 
humming. 
And  the  cattle  all  wondered  whatcAer  was  coming; 
It  plucked  by  the  tails  the  graA^e  matronly  coavs. 
And  tossed  the  colts'  manes  all  over  their  brows, 
'Till,  offended  at  such  a  familiar  salute. 
They  all  turned  their  backs  aud  stood  sulkily  mute. 

So  on  it  went,  capering,  and  playing  its  pranks. 
Whistling  with  reeds  on  the  broad  river's  banks. 
Puffing  the  birds  as  they  sat  on  the  spray, 
Or  the  traveller  grave  on  the  king's  highway. 

It  was  not  too  nice  to  hustle  the  bags 
Of  the  beggar,  and  flutter  his  dirty  rags: 
'Tvvas  so  bold,  that  it  feared  not  to  play  its  .joke 
With  the  doctor's  wig,  or  the  gentleman's  cloak. 
Through  the  forest  it  roared,  and  cried,  gayly,"Now, 
You  sturdy  old  oaks,  I'll  make  you  bow !" 
And  it  made  them  bow  without  more  ado, 
Or    cracked    their    great    branches    through    and 
through. 


484 


CYCLOI'JiDIA    OF  BJilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlicn  it  rnsbcd,  like  a  moustcr,  on  cottage  and 

lanii, 
Striking  their  dwellers  with  snddon  alarm, 
So  they   ran  out  like  bees  wlien  tlireatened  with 

hunu. 
There  were  dames  with  their  kerchiefs  tied  over 

their  caps, 
To  see  if  their  poultry  were  free  from  mishaps; 
The  turkeys  they  gobbled,  the  geese  screamed  aloud, 
And  the  bens  crept  to  roost  in  a  terrified  crowd; 
There  was  rearing  of  ladders,  and  logs  laying  on. 
Where  the  thatch  from  the  roof  threatened  soon 

to  bo  gone. 
Bnt  the  wind  had  swept  on,  and  met  in  a  lane 
"With  a  school-boy,  who  iianted   and  struggled  in 

vain  : 
For  it   tossed  him,  and  twirled  him,  then   passed, 

and  he  stood 
With  his  hat  in  a  pool,  and  his  shoe  in  the  mud. 
Then  away  went  the  Wind  in  its  holiday  glee! 
And  now  it  was  far  on  the  billowy  sea ; 
And  the  lordly  ships  felt  its  staggering  blow, 
And  the  little  boats  darted  to  and  fro: — 
Unt,  lo !   night  came,  and  it  sank  to  rest 
On  the  sea-bird's  rock  in  the  gleaming  west, 
Laughing  to  think,  in  its  fearful  fun, 
IIow  little  of  mischief  it  had  done! 


iJoljii  (Sarbincr  CaullxiuG  Brainarb. 

AMERICAN, 

Brainard  (1795-1828)  was  a  native  of  New  London, 
Conn.,  son  of  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court.  He  was 
educated  at  Yale  College,  and  in  1823  went  to  Hartford 
to  take  editorial  charge  of  the  Connecticut  Mirror.  Sam- 
uel G.  Goodrich,  author  of  the  "  Peter  Parley  Tales,"  was 
liis  intimate  friend,  and  persuaded  him  to  publit-li  his  first 
volume  of  poems.  This  appeared  in  New  York,  in  182G, 
from  the  press  of  Bliss  &  White.  A  second  edition,  with 
a  memoir  by  J.  G.  Whittier,  appeared  in  1832;  and  this 
was  followed  by  a  third,  in  1842,  from  the  i)rcss  of  Hop- 
kins, Hartford.  "At  the  age  of  eiglit-aud-twenty,"  says 
Goodrich,  "  Brainard  was  admonished  that  his  end  was 
near.  With  a  submissive  spirit,  in  pious,  gentle,  cheer- 
ful faith,  he  resigned  himself  to  Jiis  doom.  In  person  he 
was  short;  his  general  appearance  that  of  a  clumsj'  boy. 
Atone  moment  he  looked  stupid,  and  then  inspired.  He 
was  true  in  friendship,  chivalrous  in  all  that  belongs  to 
personal  honor."  An  instance  of  his  read}'  wit  is  given 
in  a  retort  lie  addressed  to  a  eiitie,  who  had  ol)jected  to 
the  use  of  the  word  "6;t»e,"as  a  word  which  "had  no 
more  business  in  sentimental  poetry  than  a  jiig  in  a  par- 
lor;"  to  which  the  poet  replied  that  his  critic,  "living 
inland,  must  have  got  his  ideas  of  the  salt-water  from  his 
father's  pork-barrel." 


THE   SEA-BIRD'S  SONG. 

On  the  deep  is  tlie  mariner's  <langcr. 

On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death ; 
WIm  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  bis  breath  f 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

Lone  looker  on  despair; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course  who  so  mildly 
Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  f 

Wlio  lists  to  their  shrieks  who  so  wildlj' 
Are  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  seas? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  etc. 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover, 
And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  ? 

Wliose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover 
Witli  its  shadow  the  foundering  wreck? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird.  etc. 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow. 
My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave, 

I  shall  take  to  my  breast  for  a  pillow 
The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 
I'm  the  sea-bird,  etc. 

My  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted. 

When  hoarse  the  Avild  winds  veer  about ; 
My  eye,  w^hen  the  bark  is  benighted, 

Sees  the  lamp  of  the  light-house  go  out. 
I'm  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

Lone  looker  on  despair; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 
The  only  witness  there. 


STANZAS. 

Tlic  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  withered  are  the  pale  wild  llowcrs  ; 
The  frost  hangs  black'uing  ou  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  Spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  Summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  Autumn,  with  lier  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  sliines. 

I  learned  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note. 

That  rose  and  swelled  from  yonder  tree — 


JOHN  GARDINER   CAULKINS  BRAINARD.—JOHN  KEATS. 


485 


A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perched,  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 
The  wiuter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ? 

Away,  where  summer  wings  will  rove, 
Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 

Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  Southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  llower  that  blushes  there, 
The  Northern  breeze  that  rushes  by 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair; 

No  forest-tree  stands  stripped  and  bare. 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead. 

No  mountain-top,  with  sleety  hair, 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there  with  all  the  birds — and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek. 

And  leave  me  lonelj'  with  the  night. 

I'll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light. 
And  walk  where  all  its  glories  shone — 

See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright. 
Feel — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


TO  THE   DAUGHTER  OF  A  FEIEND. 

I  praj^  thee  by  thy  mother's  face. 

And  by  her  look,  and  by  her  eye, 
By  every  decent  mati"on  grace 
That  hovered  round  the  resting-place 

Where  thy  young  head  did  lie, — 
And  by  the  voice  that  soothed  thine  ear, 
The  hymn,  the  smile,  the  sigh,  the  tear, 

That  matched  thy  changeful  mood  ;  — 
By  every  prayer  thy  mother  taught. 
By  every  blessing  that  she  sought, — 

I  iiray  thee  to  be  good. 


THE   FALLS   OF  NIAGARA. 

Ill  his  "  Recollections  of  a  Lifetime,"  S.  G.  Goodi-ich  (1703-1SC3) 
tells  us  that  he  was  present  when  I5iain:u(l  dashed  oft'  the  fol- 
lowing Hues  iu  the  printing-office  wliile  the  compositor  was 
waiting  for  copy. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  hand  ; 
Had  hung  his  bow  upon  thy  awful  front ; 
Had  spoke  iu  that  lond  voice  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
The  sound  of  manj'  waters ;   and  had  bade 


Thy  Hood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  his  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  wo. 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
Oh  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rang 
From  w  ar's  vain  trumpet  by  thy  thundering  side  ? 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make, 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar? 
And  yet,  bold  babbler!   what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — A  light  wave 
That  breaks  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might! 


lolju  Keats. 


John  Keats  (1796-1821)  was  born  in  Loudon,  October 
29th,  1796,  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  who  kept  a 
livery-stable  at  Moorfields.  Educated  at  Enfield,  at  fif- 
teen years  of  ago  John  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon. 
In  181S  he  published  "Eudymion,"  a  poem  of  great 
promise,  and  showing  rare  imaginative  powers.  It  was 
criticised  severely  by  Crokcr  and  Gifibrd  iu  the  Quarter- 
hj  Review ;  for  Keats,  having  been  lauded  and  befriended 
by  Leigh  Hunt,  was  treated  by  his  Tory  critics  as  be- 
longing to  a  distasteful  school  of  politics.  Keats  did 
not  write  politics,  but  he  had  a  friend  who  did.  It  is 
not  probable  that  the  Quarterb/s  abuse  hastened  the 
young  poet's  death,  as  is  generally  supposed.  He  suf- 
fered less  than  Shelley  imagined  from  censure  that  he 
knew  to  be  unjust.  To  him  and  others  Keats  modestly 
admitted  the  shortcomings  of  his  early  work.  "I  have 
w-ritten,"  he  said,  "independently,  without  judgment ;  I 
may  write  independently,  and  with  judgment,  hereafter. 
The  genius  of  poetry  must  work  out  its  own  salvation 
iu  a  man."  That  Keats  was  largely  influenced  in  his 
style  by  his  familiarity  with  the  poems  of  Leigh  Hunt  is 
quite  apparent;  but  he  soon  surpassed  his  model.  " En- 
dymion  "  seems  to  have  worked  its  way  gradually  to 
recognition  as  the  production  of  a  true  poet ;  and  the 
praises  bestowed  on  it  awakened  the  jealousy  of  Byron, 
wiio  wrote :  "  No  more  Keats,  I  entreat !  flay  him  alive ; 
if  some  of  you  don't,  I  must  skin  him  myself.  There  is 
no  bearing  the  drivelling  idiotism  of  the  manikiu."  But 
Byron  lived  to  lament  his  rough  words  ;  and  (Novem- 
ber, 1821)  attributes  his  indignation  to  Keats's  deprecia- 
tion of  Pope,  which,  he  says,  "hardly  permitted  me  to 
do  justice  to  his  own  genius,  which,  malgre  all  the  fan- 
tastic fopi^erics  of  his  style,  was  undoubtedly  of  great 
promise.  His  fragment  of  'Hyperion'  seems  actually 
inspired  by  the  Titans,  and  is  as  sublime  as  ^schylus." 

In  1820  appeared  Keats's  "Lamia,"  "Isabella,"  "The 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  and  other  poems.  Of  a  delicate  and 
sensitive  constitution,  he  had  seriously  impaired  his 
health  by  the  care  he  had  lavished  on  his  dying  brother, 
Tom  ;  and  he  made  a  trip  to  Italy  with  the  hope  of  re- 
covering strength  :  but  the  seeds  of  consumption  were 
lodged  in  his  constitution.  Speaking  of  his  brother's 
death,  he  writes:  "I  have  a  firm  belief  in  immortality, 


486 


CYCLOl'JiDlA    OF  BIUTISH  AND  AMLlllCAN  POETRY. 


and  so  had  Tom."  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  "  was  praised 
warmly  by  Jeffrey  and  other  leading  eritics.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  cliarming  and  perfect  of  tlie  poet's  works, 
and  written,  it  would  seem,  iinder  Spens-erian  inlliience. 

At  Konie  Keats  became  seriously  worse,  and  died  on 
the  2;>d  of  February,  1821.  A  few  days  before  his  death 
he  had  expressed  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Severn,  the  wisli  that 
on  his  gravestone  should  be  the  inscription  :  "Here  lies 
one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water."  Shelley  was  moved 
by  Kcats's  death  to  produce  the  fiery  elegy  of  "  Ado- 
nais,"  worthy  to  be  classed  with  the  "Lyeidas"  of  Mil- 
ton, and  the  "In  Memoriam"  of  Tennyson.  Kcats's 
rank  is  at  the  head  of  all  tlie  poets  who  have  died  young. 
The  affluence  of  his  imagination  is  such  that  he  often 
seems  to  have  given  himself  no  time  to  select  and  prop- 
erly dispose  of  his  images.  His  "Hymn  to  Pan,"  in 
"Endymion,"  was  referred  to  by  Wordsworth  as  "a 
pretty  piece  of  Paganism" — a  just  criticism,  but  one 
that  somewhat  nettled  Keats.  He  would  have  been  a 
more  popular,  if  not  a  greater,  poet,  if  lie  had  been  less 
in  love  with  the  classic  mythology.  He  has  had  a  brood 
of  imitators,  American  as  well  as  English. 

Coleridge,  in  his  "Table-Talk,"  gives  an  interesting 
reminiscence,  as  follows:  "A  loose,  slack,  not  well- 
dressed  youth  met  Mr. and  myself  in  a  lane  near 

Highgate.     knew  liim,  and  spoke.     It  was  Keats. 

He  was  introduced  to  me,  and  stayed  a  minute  or  so. 
After  he  had  left  us  a  little  way,  he  came  back,  and  said, 
'  Let  me  carry  away  the  memory,  Coleridge,  of  having 
pressed  your  hand!'  'There  is  death  in  that  hand,'  I 
said  to  ,  when  Keats  was  gone;  yet  this  was,  I  be- 
lieve, before  the  consumption  showed  itself  distinctly." 

The  fame  of  Keats  has  not  diminished  since  his  death. 
The  fact  that  what  he  wrote  was  written  before  his 
twenty-sixth  year  will  long  give  to  his  productions  a 
peculiar  interest. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


St.  Agues'  Eve, — all,  liittcr  cliill  it  was! 

The  owl.  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 

The  hare  limped  trembling  throngli   tlio  frozen 

grass, 
And  silent  ■was  the  Hock  in  woolly  fold  ; 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
Jlis  ro.sary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  Nvhilc   his   prayer 

lie  saith. 

II. 

His  praj'Pr  he  saitli,  this  jjafieiit,  lioly  man; 
Then  takes  his  lani]),  and  riseth  from  his  knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Iniprisoued  iu  black,  imrgatori.al  rails : 


Knights,  ladie.s,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
Ho  passeth  by;   and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  (liiiik  liDw  llicy  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


Northward  he  turncth  through  a  little  door. 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  ag<5d  man  and  poor : 
J5nt  no — already  had  his  death-bell  ning ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung. 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  he  went ;    and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinner's  sake  to  grieve. 


That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gau  to  cliidc  ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests ; 
The  carvdd  angels,  ever  eager-e^'ed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise  oa 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  iu  the  argent  revelry, 
AVith  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  hauntiug  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuftVd,in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  manv  times  declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night. 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperle.ss  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties  lily-white; 
Nor  look  behind  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  npw.ud  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  ;   her  maiden  eyes  divine, 


JOHN  KEATS. 


487 


Fixed*  on  tlie  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — slie  heeded  not  at  all :   in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired — not  cooled  by  bigU  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :   her  heart  was  otherwhere ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes ; 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand ;  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  faery  fancy ;   all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  imjilores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth,  such 


He  ventures  in  :   let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  mnfiied,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel : 
For  him.  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  iu  body  and  in  soul. 


Ah,  happy  chance!   the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuflling  along  with  Ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "Mercy,  Porphyro!    hie   thee  from   this 

place  ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty 

race  ! 


"  Get  hence !   get  hence !   there's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land; 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs —     Alas  me!   flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We're  safe  enough;   here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  " —      "  Good  Saints  !   not  here, 

not  here  ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a — well-a-day  I" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he ; 
"  Oh  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


"St.  Agnes!     Ah!   it  is  St.  Agnes' Eve, — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  bo  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :   it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night :   good  angels  her  deceive ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  Avheu  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;   and  he  scarce  conld  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  iu  lap  of  legends  old. 


Sudden  a  thought  canio  like  a  full-blown  rose. 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :   then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art: 


488 


CTCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Sweet  lady,  lot  her  iiray,  and  sk'C]»,  and  divaiii, 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go !   I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 
"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro:  "Oh  maj'  I  ne'er  lind  grace 
Wheu    my   Aveak    voice    shall   whisper  its   last 

prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  rutfian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  witli  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  thougli  they  be  more  fanged  than 

Avolves  and  bears." 


"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  "weak,  palsy -stricken,  church-yard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never   missed."     Tluis   plaining,  doth   she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  Avill  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


Which  -was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  jirivacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win,  perhaps,  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 


"  It  .shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  8tor<5d  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast -night:    by  the   tambour 

frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to  spare; 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scaice  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait    hero,   my   child,  -with   patience   kneel    in 

prayer 
The  while :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed  ; 
The  damo  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;   with  ag«5d  eyes  aghast 
From  friglit  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Tlirongli  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and  chaste  ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back,  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmdd  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ringdove  frayed 
and  flod. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  : 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died: 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akiu 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  Avoe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining  -with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
ller  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 

As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 

Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  pressed, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 

And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint; 

She  seemed  a  sidendid  angel,  newly  dressed, 


JOHN  KEATS. 


489 


Save  wiugs,  for  beiivcu  : — Porpliyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  tiling,  so  free  from  mortal  taiut. 


Anon  his  heart  revives:   her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  \vreatht>tl  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels,  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;   by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rnstling  to  her  knees ; 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
Bnt  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  sonl  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  : 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minnte  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  ste^iped. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo ! — how 
fast  she  slept. 


Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  din),  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — • 
Oh  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  crone. 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  j)lum,  and  gourd; 


With  jellies  soother  tlian  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  sirups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez:   and  spic6d  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 


Tliese  delicates  ho  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathM  silver ;   sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retir6d  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite ; 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnervdd  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Siiaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  ic6d  stream  ; 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonliglit  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and  in  chords  that  tenderest  be. 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  called  "  La  belle  dame  sans  merci :" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; — 
AVherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan ; 
He  ceased — she  i>anted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  aftray^d  eyes  wide  open  shone ; 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  ; 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  exjielled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
Wliile  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep, 
Wlio  knelt,  with  join(^d  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 


"Ah,  Porphyro !"  said  she;  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 


490 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRF. 


Made  tniiablo  with  cverj"^  swoctcst  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
How   changed    thou    art!    how    pallid,  ehill,  and 

drear! 
Give  nic  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  innnortal,  those  complainings  dear! 
Oh  leave  mo  not  in  tiiis  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

xxxvi. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  ho  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost-wind  Idows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattoing  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes :  St.  Agues'  moon  hath  set. 


'Tis  dark  ;  quick  pattcreth  the  flaw-blown  sleet ; 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!" 
'Tis  dark;    the  ic6d  gusts  still  rave  and  beat; 
"No  dream,  alas!   alas!   and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel!   what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  nnpruncd  wing." 


"  My  Madeline  !   sweet  dreamer !   lovely  bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blessed  ? 
Thy    beauty's   shield,  heart-shaped,  and  vermeil- 
dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest. 
After  so  mau5'  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  iiest. 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;   if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  inlidel. 

XXXIX. 

"Hark!  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  fairy-land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed; 
Arise — arise!   the  morning  is  at  hand; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  Avill  never  heed: — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drowned  all  in  Ehenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
Awake !   arise !   my  love,  and  fcailcss  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 


She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  fouml; 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
Achaiu-dropi)ed  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horscnnm,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wichr  hall! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  iu  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side; 
The  wakeful  blood-hound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns ; 
By  one  and  one  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone:   ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  J5aron  dreamed  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  av<5s  told. 
For  ayo  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


ODE. 


Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  f 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 
With  tho  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous ; 
With  tho  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  bluebells  tented. 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  tho  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 


JOHN  KEATS. 


491 


Where  the  nightiugalc  doth  sing 
Not  a  seusclcs.s,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  luelodions  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  aud  goldeu  histories 
Of  heaven  aud  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  yon, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumbered,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week  ; 
Of  their  sorrows  aud  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  aud  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  aud  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  aud  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day. 
Wisdom,  though  Hed  far  away. 

Bai'ds  of  Passion  aud  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  ou  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 


BEAUTY. 
From  "  Esdtmion." 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 

Its  loveliness  increases;   it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;   but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a-  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  aud  health,  aud  quiet  breatliing. 

Therefore,  ou  everj-  morrow  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  Juhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'erdarkeued  ways 

Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 

Trees  old  aud  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep;    and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  Avorld  they  live  in  ;   and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season  :   the  mid-forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms; 

And  such,  too,  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  migiity  dead; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 


An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink. 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  wo  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour;   no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  uioon. 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast. 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymiou. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  aud  eacb  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys :   so  I  will  begin 
Now,  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ; 
Now,  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests  ;   while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber ;   and  the  dairy-pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil-rimmed  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage  ;    and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet-peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
Oh !   may  no  wintry  season,  bare  aud  hoary, 
See  it  half  finished ;   but  let  autumn  bold. 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  ou  through  flowers  aud  weed. 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI. 

A    BALLAD. 

Oh  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
Tlie  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 
Oh  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 


492 


CYCLOl'JiDlA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


TIio  Kcniirrcr.s  granary  is  full, 

Ami  llio  liarvc'st's  done. 
I  st'c  ii  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew  ; 
And  on  tliy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  Avithereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  mead — 

Fnll  beautiful,  a  fairy's  child; 
Her  liair  \vas  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 
I  made  a  garland  for  her  head 

And  Ijracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 
She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 

And  made  sweet  moan. 
I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothiug  else  saw  all  day  long  ; 
For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 

A  fairy  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet. 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew ; 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 

"  I  love  thee  true." 
She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  fnll  sore; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 
And  there  she  lulldd  me  asleep ; 

And  there  I  dreamed — Ah  !   woe  betide  ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too — 

I'ale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 
They  cried :  "  La  belle  damo  sans  merci 

Hath  thee  in  thrall!'' 
I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 

With  horrid  warning  gapM  wide; 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  hero 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 
And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  hero 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedgo  is  withered  from  the  lake. 

And  no  birds  sing. 


SONNET. 

There  was  a  season  when  tlie  fabled  name 
Of  high  Parnassus  and  .Apollo's  lyre 
Seemed  terms  of  excellence  to  my  desire  ; 
Therefore  a  youthful  bard  I  may  not  blame. 


]5ut  when  the  page  of  everlasting  Truth 

lias  on  the  attentive  mind  its  force  impressed, 

Then  vanish  all  the  alfections  dear  in  youth, 

And  Love  inunortal  tills  the  grateful  breast. 

The  wonders  of  all-ruling  Providence, 

The  joys  that  from  celestial  Mercy  flow, 

Essential  beauty,  perfect  excellence. 

Ennoble  and  refine  the  native  glow 

The  i)()ct  feels  ;   and  thence  his  best  resource 

To  paint  his  feelings  with  subliniest  force. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  WHO  SENT  ME  A  LAUREL 
CROWN. 

Fresh  morning  gusts  have  blown  away  all  fear 

From  my  glad  bosom — now  from  gloominess 

I  mount  forever — not  an  atom  less 

Than  the  proud  laurel  shall  content  my  bier. 

No !   by  the  eternal  stars !   or  why  sit  here 

In  the  Sun's  eye,  and  'gainst  my  temples  press 

Apollo's  very  leaves,  woven  to  bless 

By  thy  white  fingers  and  thy  spirit  clear  ? 

Lo !  who  dares  say,  "Do  this?"   Who  dares  call  down 

My  will  from  its  high  purpose?    Who  say,  "  Stand," 

Or  "Go?"     This  mighty  moment  I  would  frown 

On  abject  Cajsars — uot  the  stoutest  band 

Of  maildd  heroes  should  tear  off  luy  crown  : 

Yet  would  I  kneel  and  kiss  thy  gentle  hand ! 


SONNET. 

In  n  letter  to  his  brother  and  sister  in  America  (May,  1810), 
Keats  introduces  this  sonnet  tluis:  '•  I  have  been  cndeavor- 
ini;  to  discover  a  better  Sonnet  stanza  than  we  have.  The 
legitimate  does  not  suit  the  language  well,  from  the  pouncing 
rhymes ;  the  other  appears  too  elegiac,  and  the  couplet  at  the 
end  of  it  has  seldom  a  pleasing  effect.  I  do  uot  pretend  to 
have  succeeded.    It  Mill  explain  itself." 

If  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chained. 

And,  like  Audromeda,  the  Sonnet  sweet 

Fettered,  in  spite  of  pain^id  loveliness, 

Let  US  find  out,  if  wo  must  be  constrained, 

Sandals  more  interwoven  and  complete 

To  fit  the  naked  foot  of  Poesy; 

Let  us  inspect  the  lyre,  and  weigh  the  stress 

Of  every  chord,  and  see  what  may  be  gained 

By  ear  industrious  and  attention  meet; 

Misers  of  sound  aiul  syllable,  no  less 

Than  Midas  of  his  coinage,  let  us  be 

Jealous  of  dead  leaves  in  the  bay-wreath  crown  ; 

So,  if  we  may  not  let  the  Muse  be  free. 

She  will  be  bound  with  j;arlauds  of  her  own. 


JOHN  KEATS. 


493 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  uever  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  snn,     . 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead : 

That  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 

AVith  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out. with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 

The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 


KEATS'S  LAST  SONNET. 

I5riglit  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art- 

Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the  night. 

And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 

Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  eremite. 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, — 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fiillen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 

No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  nnchangeable, 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 

To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 

Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest. 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breatli. 

And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 


FAIRY  SONG. 

Shed  no  tear  !     Oh,  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  !     Oh,  weep  no  more ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes  !     Oh,  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  !   look  overhead  ! 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 
Look  up,  look  up.     I  llutter  now 
On  this  Hush  pomegranate  bough. 


See  me !   'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear  !     Oh,  shed  no  tear ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu — I  fly,  adieu, 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue — 
Adieu,  adieu ! 


FANCY. 


Ever  let  the  fancy  roam. 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth. 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door. 

She'll  dart  forth  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy !   let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoiled  by  use. 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 

Autumn's  red-lipped  fruitage  too. 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting :   What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  fagot  blazes  bright. 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 

When  the  soundless  eartli  is  muffled. 

And  the  cak^d  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky, 

— Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad. 

With  a  mind  self-overawed. 

Fancy,  high-commissioned  : — send  her ! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 

She  Avill  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth. 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it : — thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reap<5d  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 


494 


CYCLOrjiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


Aiitl,  ill  the  ennie  moment — liarlc ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 
Or  tlie  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
TIjou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Iledgo-growu  i)riinrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 
And  everj'  leaf  and  every  llowcr 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celldd  sleep  ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering. 
While  the  autumn  breezes  slug. 

O  sweet  Fancy !  let  her  loose  ; 

Everything  is  spoiled  by  use : 

Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at  ?  where's  the  maid 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

Where's  the  eye,  however  blue. 

Doth  not  weary  ?   where's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter. 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipped  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet. 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string. 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring: — 

— Let  the  wing(5d  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk. 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had  sunk  : 
'Tia  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thon,  light-wingod  Dryad  of  the  trees. 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Siugest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 
Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  Inim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
W^here  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 
dies  ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  desi)airs ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !   away !   for  I  will  Uy  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  ou  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee!   tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  Avhat  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 

But.  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 


JOHN  KEATS. 


495 


Wliito  liawthorn,  ami  the  iiastoral  eglantine  ; 

Fast-fading  violets  covered  np  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  mnsk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  mnrniurous  haunt  of  Hies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;   and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! — 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Euth,  when,  sick  for 
home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Clnrmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  iu  fairy-lauds  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !   the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu !   the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adier  .'   adieu !   thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;   and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE   TO  AUTUJIX. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfuluess! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves 
run  ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;   to  set  budding  more, 


And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 

For  sunmier  has  o'erbrimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twiudd  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider-pi'ess,  with  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ?  Ay,  where  are  thej'  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barr6d  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourii 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing :   and  now  with  ti-eble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  iu  the  skies. 


ODE   ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness? 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens 
loath  ? 
What  mad  iwrsuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;   therefore,  je  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 

Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 

Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  giieve  ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilfc  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair.' 


496 


CYCLOPJUDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !   that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  niek)dist,  unwearidd, 

Forever  piping  songs  f(»rever  new  ; 
More  happy  love !   more  liappy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  bo  enjoyed. 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

Tiiat  haves  a  heart  high-sorrowfnl  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  i)riest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  scA-shore, 

Or  mountaiu-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be  ;   and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !   Fair  attitude !   with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form !  dost  tease  ns  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :   Cold  pastoral ! 

When  old  ago  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Thau  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


Cjavtlcji  (!Iolcrii)c\c. 


The  eldest  son  of  tlic  poet  Coleridge,  Hartley  (1796- 
1849),  born  at  Clevedon,  inherited  much  of  liis  father's 
genius,  but  also  some  of  his  defects  of  organization  and 
temperament.  At  six  years  of  affc  he  attracted,  by  his 
superior  gifts,  the  attention  of  Wordsworth,  who  wrote 
of  him : — 

"O  tlion,  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brongbt, 

Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a  mock  apparel, 

And  llttcst  to  unutterable  thought 

Tlie  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born  carol ; 

Thou  fairy  voyjiger !  that  dost  float 

In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 

May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream : —  •  •  • 

I  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  iu  future  years." 

What  would  have  become  of  the  elder  Coleridge  but  for 
the  friends  in  whose  home  liis  later  years  found  a  refuge, 
no  one  can  sa}'.  With  no  such  friends  or  liome,  poor 
Hartley  became  a  castaway.  In  181.5  he  was  a  student  at 
Oxford,  and  obtained  a  fellow.ship-clcct  at  Oriel ;  but  he 


was  dismissed,  on  the  ground  of  intemperance,  before  his 
l)robationary  year  had  passed.  After  some  ineffectual  lit- 
erary eflbrts  iu  Loudon,  he  went  to  Ambleside,  and  sought 
for  pupils  ;  but  his  tutorial  life,  owing  to  his  unfortunate 
habits,  was  a  failiu-e.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  ver^^  sad, 
and  its  melancholy,  tone  is  iu  his  veree.  It  was  passed 
witlujut  any  settled  employment.  He  read  diligently, 
thought  deeply,  and  wrote  charmingly  ;  but  his  occa- 
sional lits  of  inebriety  disqualified  him  fur  any  responsi- 
ble work,  and  at  times  overshadowed  his  mind  with  a 
depression  which  was  pitiable. 

Few  men  have  lived  more  beloved  (especially  by  the 
poor  who  surrounded  him)  than  Hartley.  At  Grasmerc 
and  Rydal  all  knew  his  one  intirmity  ;  but  they  also  knew 
and  loved  his  many  virtues,  while  they  admired  his  great 
talents.  His  name  long  continued  a  household  word 
among  the  cottagers,  whom  he  seems  to  have  inspired 
with  the  affection  they  might  have  felt  for  a  very  dear 
though  erring  child.  With  hair  white  as  snow,  he  had, 
as  a  friend  remarked,  "a  heart  green  as  May."  As  a 
poet,  Hartley  is  esteemed  chiefly  for  his  sonnets,  some 
of  which  possess  a  charm  almost  peculiar  to  themselves, 
even  in  an  age  which  has  abounded  in  that  form  of  com- 
position. 

STILL  I  AM  A   CHILD. 

Long  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child,  when  years 

Had  painted  manhood  on  my  cheek,  was  I, — 

For  yet  I  lived  like  one  not  born  to  die ; 

A  thriftless  i)rodigal  of  smiles  and  teans, 

No  hope  I  needed,  and  I  knew  no  fears. 

But  sleep,  though  sweet,  is  only  sleep ;  and  waking, 

I  waked  to  sleep  no  more,  at  once  o'ertaking 

The  vanguard  of  my  age,  with  all  arrears 

Of  duty  on  my  back.     Nor  child,  nor  man. 

Nor  youth,  nor  sage,  I  find  my  head  is  gray, 

For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran  : 

A  rathe  December  blights  my  lagging  May  ; 

And  still  I  am  a  child,  though  I  be  old, 

Time  is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold. 


SONG. 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be. 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
Oh!   then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

i?ut  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply ; 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  lovelight  in  her  eye : 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


497 


NO  COURSE  I  CARED   TO  KEEP. 

How  long  I  sailed,  and  never  took  a  tbouglit 

To  Avliat  port  I  was  bouud !     Secure  as  sleep, 

I  dwelt  upon  the  bosom  of  the  .deep 

And  perilous  sea.    And  tbougli  my  ship  was  fraught 

With  rare  aud  precious  fancies,  jewels  brought 

From  fairy-land,  uo  course  I  cared  to  keep, 

Xor  changeful  wind  nor  tide  I  heeded  augiit, 

But  joyed  to  feel  the  merry  billows  leap. 

And  watch  the  sunbeams  dallying  with  the  waves  ; 

Or  haply  dream  what  realms  beneath  may  lie 

Where  the  clear  ocean  is  an  emerald  sky. 

And  mermaids  warble  in  their  coral  caves, 

Yet  vaiuly  woo  me  to  their  secret  home  : — 

And  sweet  it  "were  forever  so  to  roam ! 


TO   WORDSWORTH. 

There  have  been  poets  that  in  verse  display 
The  elemental  forms  of  human  passions  : 
Poets  have  been,  to  whom  the  tickle  fashions 
Aud  all  the  ■«ilful  humors  of  the  day 
Have  furnished  matter  for  a  polislied  lay  : 
And  many  are  the  smooth,  elaborate  tribe 
Who,  emulous  of  thee,  the  shape  describe. 
And  faiu  would  every  shiftiug  hue  portray 
Of  restless  Nature.     But  thou,  mighty  Seer ! 
"Tis  thine  to  celebrate  the  thoughts  that  make 
The  life  of  souls,  the  truths  for  whose  sweet  sake 
We  to  ourselves  and  to  our  God  are  dear. 
Of  Nature's  inner  shrine  thou  art  the  priest, 
Where  most  she  works  when  we  perceive  her  least. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   YOUTH. 

Youth,  thou  art  fled, — but  where  are  all  the  charms 
Which,  though  with  thee    they  came,  aud  passed 

with  thee. 
Should  leave  a  perfume  and  sweet  memory 
Of  what  they  have  been  ? — All  thy  boons  and  harms 
Have  perished  quite. — Thy  oft  renewed  alarms 
Forsake  the  fluttering  echo. — Smiles  and  tears 
Die  on  my  cheek,  or,  petrified  with  years, 
Show  the  dull  woe  which  uo  compassion  warms. 
The  mirth  none  shares.    Yet  could  a  wish,  a  thought, 
Unravel  all  the  complex  web  of  age, — 
Could  all  the  characters  that  Time  hath  wrought 
Be  clean  effaced  from  my  memorial  page 
By  one  short  word,  the  word  I  would  not  say:  — 
I  thank  my  God,  because  my  hairs  are  gray. 
32 


NOVEMBER. 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close ; 
The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last. 
Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast — 
That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows  ;  — 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose, 
Oft  with  the  Moru's  hoar  crystal  quaintly  glassed, 
Haugs,  a  pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past, 
Aud  makes  a  little  summer  where  it  grows: — 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 
The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  tliey  shine  ; 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  straggling  way 
Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define, 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged,  scant  array, 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivj'-twiue. 


WISDOM  THE  GRAY  HAIRS  TO  A  MAN. 

"I  thank  my  God  because  my  hairs  are  gray!" 
But  have  gray  hairs  brought  wisdom  ?     Doth  the 

flight 
Of  summer  birds,  departed  while  the  light 
Of  life  is  lingering  on  the  middle  way. 
Predict  the  harvest  nearer  by  a  day  ? 
Will  the  rank  weeds  of  hopeless  appetite 
Droop  at  the  glance  aud  venom  of  the  blight 
That  made  the  vermeil  bloom,  the  flush  so  gay, 
Dim  and  unlovely,  as  a  dead  worm's  shroud  ? 
Or  is  my  heart,  that,  wanting  hope,  has  lost 
The  strength  aud  rudder  of  resolve,  at  peace  ? 
Is  it  no  longer  wrathful,  vain,  and  proud? 
Is  it  a  Sabbath,  or  untimely  frost, 
That  makes  the  labor  of  the  soul  to  cease  ? 


TO  SHAKSPEARE. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky ; 

Deeper  than  ocean,  or  the  abjsmal  dark 

Of  the  uufathomed  centre.     Like  that  Ark, 

Which  in  its  sacred  liold  uplifted  liigh, 

O'er  the  drowned  lulls,  the  human  family, 

Aud  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 

So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind. 

The  seeds  aud  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie. 

That  make  all  worlds.     Great  Poet,  'twas  thy  art 

To  know  thyself,  aud  in  thyself  to  be 

Whate'er  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny. 

Or  the  firm,  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart, 

Can  make  of  Man.     Yet  thou  wert  still  the  same, 

Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 


498 


(YVLOPJIDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAX  I'OETRT. 


LIHKRTY. 

Say,  Wliat  is  Froodom  ?   Wliat  tlio  rij^lit  of  souls 

Which  all  Avho  know  arc  Itoiuid  to  koop  or  die, 

Ami  who  knows  not,  is  dead  ?     In  vain  we  pry 

In  the  dark  archives,  and  tenacious  scrolls 

Of  written  law,  thonj;h  Time  embrace  the  rolls 

lu  his  lank  arms,  and  shed  his  yellow  light 

On  every  barbarous  wonl.     Eternal  Right 

Works  its  own  way,  and  evermore  controls 

Its  own  free  essence.     Liberty  is  Dnt\', 

Not  License.     Every  pulse  that  beats 

At  the  glad  summons  of  imperious  beauty 

Obeys  a  law.     The  very  cloud  that  fleets 

Along  the  dead  green  surface  of  the  hill 

Is  ruled  and  scattered  by  a  godlike  will. 


NO  LIFE  VAIN. 

Let  me  not  deem  that  I  was  made  in  vain, 
Or  that  my  Being  was  an  accident, 
Which  Fate,  in  working  its  sublime  intent, 
Not  wished  to  be,  to  hinder  would  not  deign. 
Each  drop  uncounted  in  a  storm  of  rain 
Hath  its  own  mission,  and  is  duly  sent 
To  its  own  leaf  or  blade,  not  idly  spent 
'Mid  myriad  dimples  on  the  shipless  main. 
The  very  shadow  of  an  insect's  wing, 
For  which  the  violet  cared  not  while  it  stayed, 
Yet  felt  the  lighter  for  its  vanishing, 
Proved  that  the  sun  was  shining  by  its  shade  : 
Then  can  a  drop  of  the  eternal  spring. 
Shadow  of  living  lights,  in  vain  be  made  ? 


THE   WAIF   OF   NATURE. 

A  lonely  wanderer  upon  earth  am  I, 
The  waif  of  nature — like  uprooted  weed 
Borne  by  the  stream,  or  like  a  shaken  reed, 
A  frail  dependent  of  the  tickle  sky  ; 
Far,  far  away,  are  all  my  natural  kin  : 
The  mother  that  erewhile  hath  hushed  my  cry. 
Almost  hath  grown  a  mere  fond  memory. 
Where  is  my  sister's  smile?   my  brother's  boister- 
ous din  f 
Ah  !    nowhere  now.     A  matron  grave  and  sage, 
A  holy  mother  is  that  sister  sweet. 
And  that  bold  brother  is  a  pastor,  meet 
To  guide,  instruct,  reprove  a  sinful  age, 
Almost  I  fear,  and  yet  I  fain  would  greet ; 
So  far  astray  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 


TO   A   NEWLY-MARRIED   FRIEND. 

How  shall  a  man  foredoomed  to  lone  estate, 

Untimely  old,  irreverently  gray, 

Much  like  a  patch  of  dusky  snow  in  May, 

Dead  sleeping  in  a  hollow — all  too  late — 

How  shall  so  poor  a  thing  congratulate 

The  blest  comphition  of  a  patient  wooing, 

Or  how  commend  a  younger  man  for  doing 

W^hat  ne'er  to  do  hath  been  his  fault  or  fate? 

There  is  a  fable,  that  I  once  did  read, 

Of  a  bad  angel,  that  was  someway  good. 

And  therefore  on  the  brink  of  heaven  he  stood. 

Looking  each  way,  and  no  way  could  proceed  ; 

Till  at  the  last  he  purged  away  his  sin 

By  loving  all  the  joy  he  saw  within. 


THE  SAME,  AND  NOT  ANOTHER. 

Think  upon  Death,  'tis  good  to  think  of  Death, 

But  better  far  to  think  upon  the  Dead. 

Death  is  a  spectre  with  a  bony  head. 

Or  the  mere  mortal  body  Avithout  breath. 

The  state  foredoomed  of  every  son  of  Seth, 

Decomposition — dust,  or  dreamless  sleep. 

But  the  dear  Dead  are  they  for  whom  we  weep. 

For  whom  I  credit  all  the  Bible  saith. 

Dead  is  my  father,  dead  is  my  good  mother. 

And  what  on  earth  have  I  to  do  but  die  ? 

But  if  by  grace  I  reach  the  blessed  sky, 

I  fain  would  see  the  same,  and  not  another ; 

The  very  father  that  I  used  to  see. 

The  mother  that  has  nursed  me  on  her  knee. 


ON  RECEIVING  ALMS. 

What  can  a  poor  man  do  but  love  and  pray  ? 

But  if  his  love  be  selfish,  then  his  prayer. 

Like  noisome  vapor,  melts  in  vacant  air. 

I  am  a  debtor,  and  I  cannot  pay. 

The  alms  which  drop  upon  the  public  way, — 

The  casual  tribute  of  the  good  and  fair. 

With  the  keen,  thriftless  avarice  of  despair 

I  seize,  and  live  thereon  from  day  to  day, 

Ingrate  and  purposeless. — And  yet  not  so  : 

The  mere  mendicity  of  self-contempt 

Has  not  so  far  debased  me,  but  I  know 

The  faith,  the  hope,  the  piety,  exempt 

From  worldly  doubt,  to  which  my  all  I  owe. 

Since  I  have  nothing,  yet  I  bless  the  thought : — 

Best  are  they  paid  whose  earthlj'  wage  is  naught. 


THOMAS  DALE.  — WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


499 


ii^ljomas  Pale. 


Dale  (1797-1870)  was  a  native  of  London.  He  was 
Canon  of  St.  Paul's,  and  iiltiraately  Dean  of  Rochester, 
and  was  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  sermons  (18o:i- 
1836).  A  collection  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1843. 
Thej'  are  noteworthy  for  beaut)'  and  delicacy  of  diction, 
and  for  smoothness  of  versification.  He  was  for  some 
time  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  the  London  Uni- 
versity, and  subsequently  at  King's  College.  He  was  the 
author  of  "  The  Widow  of  Nain,"  a  poem;  also  of  two 
volumes  of  sermons,  published  in  1830  and  1830. 


STANZAS  FOR  ilUSIC. 

Again  the  flowers  we  loved  to  twine 

Wreathe  wild  round  every  tree  ; 
Again  the  summer  sunbeams  shine, 

That  cannot  shine  on  thee. 
Verdure  returns  with  fresher  bloom 

To  vale  and  mountain  brow ; 
All  nature  breaks  as  from  the  tomb ; 

But— "  "WTiere  art  thou?" 

At  eve,  to  sail  upon  the  tide, 

To  roam  along  the  shore, 
So  sweet  while  thou  wert  at  my  side. 

Can  now  delight  no  more : — 
There  is  in  heaven,  and  o'er  the  flood, 

The  same  deep  azure  now  ; 
The  same  notes  warble  through  the  wood  ; 

But—"  Where  art  thou  ?" 

Men  say  there  is  a  voice  of  mirth 

In  every  grove  aud  glen  ; 
But  sounds  of  gladness  on  the  earth 

I  cannot  know  again. 
The  rippling  of  the  summer  sea, 

The  bird  upon  the  bough, 
All  speak  with  one  sad  voice  to  me; 

'Tis — '"Where  art  thon  ?" 


DIRGE. 

From  "  The  Widow  of  Nain." 

Dear  as  thou  wert,  and  justly  dear, 

We  will  not  weep  for  thee ; 
One  thought  shall  check  the  starting  tear. 

It  is — that  thou  art  free. 
And  thus  shall  Faith's  consoling  power 

The  tears  of  love  restrain  ; 
Oh!  who  that  saw  thy  parting  hour. 

Could  wish  thee  here  again! 


Triumphant  in  thy  closiug  eye 

The  hope  of  glory  shone, 
Joy  breathed  in  thine  expiring  sigh, 

To  think  the  fight  was  won. 
Gently  the  passing  s^iirit  fled, 

Sustained  by  grace  divine: 
Oh!  may  such  grace  on  me  be  shed, 

Aud  make  my  end  like  thine! 


llUlliam  iHotljcrtoell. 

Motherwell  (1797-1835)  was  a  native  of  Glasgow.  Af- 
ter studying  Latin  and  Greek  at  the  University,  he  was 
educated  for  the  law.  In  1838  he  became  editor  of  the 
FaMetj  Advertiser,  and  began  to  devote  himself  to  lit- 
erary pursuits.  In  1830  he  took  charge  of  the  Glasgow 
Courier,  editing  it  with  courage  and  ability.  In  politics 
he  was  a  Tory,  but  a  very  sincere  one.  He  early  showed 
a  taste  for  poetry;  and  in  his  fourteenth  year  had  pro- 
duced the  first  draft  of  his  "  Jeanie  Morrison;"  of  which 
Miss  Mitford  says  :  "Let  young  writers  observe  that  this 
finish  was  the  result,  not  of  a  curious  felicity,  but  of  the 
nicest  elaboration.  By  toucliing  and  retouching,  during 
many  years,  did  '  Jeanie  Morrison '  attain  her  perfection, 
and  yet  how  completely  has  art  concealed  art !  How  en- 
tirely does  that  charming  song  appear  like  an  irrepressi- 
ble gush  of  feeling  !" 

A  volume  of  Motherwell's  poems  appeared  in  1832,  and 
at  once  gave  him  rank  as  a  vigorous  aud  genuine  writer. 
It  was  republished  in  Boston  in  1846.  In  his  "  Minstrel- 
sy, Ancient  and  Modern,"  he  earned  celebrity  as  a  liter- 
ary antiquarian.  At  one  period  of  bis  life  he  overstep- 
ped some  social  conventions,  aud  incurred  much  unhap- 
piness  thereby,  to  which  reference  is  occasionally  made 
in  the  more  personal  of  his  poems.  His  taste,  enthu- 
siasm, and  social  qualities  rendered  him  very  popular 
among  his  townsmen  and  friends.  He  was  suddenly 
struck  down  by  apoplexy  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his 
age. 


THE   CAVALIER'S  SONG. 

A  steed,  a  steed  of  matchless  speed! 

A  sword  of  metal  keene ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  ou  earthe  is  meane. 
The  neigliyinge  of  the  war-liorso  prowde, 

The  rowliuge  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  oh!  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes 

Whenas  their  war-cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte !  then  mouute !   brave  gallauts  all, 
Aud  dou  your  helmes  amaiue : 


500 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  JililTISlI  AS1>  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


Deatlic's  couriers,  fame  autl  honor,  call 

Us  to  tbo  tielde  aptaino. 
No  sbrcwisli  teares  shall  iill  our  eye 

Whcu  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand. — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land  ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye. 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  light, 

And  hero-like  to  die! 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

The  heroine  of  this  pathetic  sonj^,  'Miss  Jane  Morrison,  after- 
ward Mrs.  Murdoch,  was  in  her  seventh  year,  in  1S07,  in  the  same 
class-room  at  school  with  young  Motherwell.  She  never  met 
the  poet  in  after-life. 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west. 

Through  mouj'  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luvo  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  tire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  Aveel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  hive  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  by-gane  y?ars 

Still  lling  their  shadows  ower  nij*  path, 

And  Ijliiid  my  een  Avi'  tears: 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  memory  idly  simnnons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  lang.sync. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time!   twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  lai^h  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Rcmenibeied  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  toiichiu'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 
AVhat  our  weo  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee. 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 


Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Wliene'er  the  scnle-wcana,  laugh  in',  said 

We  decked  thegither  haine  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  seiilo  then  ecail't  at  noon). 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about — 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  anc  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-tiine  and  o'  thee. 

0  moruin'  life !   O  mornin'  luve ! 
O  lichtsome  days  and  lang. 

When  liinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

Oh,  mind  ye,  luve,  bow  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  lieads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamiu'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whus.^lit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees — 
And  Ave,  with  Nature's  heart  iu  tune. 

Concerted  harmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  sjieak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  bless<^tl  time, 

When  hearts  AA'cre  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 

As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Oh,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine! 
Oh,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  laugsvnet 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.— THOMAS   HAYXES  BAYLY. 


501 


I've  Avaiuleretl  cast,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  boiue  a  weary  lot ; 
15nt  ill  luy  wauderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
Tlie  foimt  that  first  burst  frao  this  heart, 

Still  travels  ou  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  liug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  conld  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  by-gane  days  and  nie  ! 


LINES   GIVEN  TO   A  FRIEND. 

A  DAY  OR  TWO  BEFORE  THE    DECEASE  OF  THE  WRITER. 

Wlien  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore  "? 

When  the  great  winds  through  leafless  forests  rush- 
Sad  music  make, 


Like  full  hearts  break, — 
Will  there  then  one,  whose  heart  despair  is  crushing, 
Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  briglit  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining. 

With  purest  ray, 
And   the   small  flowers,  their   buds    and   blossoms 
twining, 

Burst  through  that  claj-, — 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory. 

On  that  low  mound, 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary. 

Its  loueness  crowned, — 
Will  there  be  then  one,  versed  in  misery's  story, 

Pacing  it  round  ? — • 


It  may  be  so, — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed, — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness  to  borrow 

From  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling, 

Thou  gentle  heart ; 
And  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be  swelling. 

Let  no  tear  start ; 
It  were  in  vain, — for  Time  hath  long  been  knelling, — 

"  Sad  one,  depart !" 


iaijomas  Cjaiincs  I3aijli). 

Bayly  (1797-1839),  a  popular  song-wiiter,  was  a  native 
of  Bath,  England.  He  wrote  thirty-six  dramas  and  farces, 
among M'hicli  "Perfection  "  and  "Tom  Noddy's  Secret" 
still  keep  possession  of  the  American  stage.  "Perfec- 
tion" was  refused  by  the  managers,  but  Madame  Vcstris 
saw  its  merits,  and  brought  it  out  with  great  applause. 
Bayly  married  young  and  happily,  but  his  latter  days  were 
saddened  by  peeunjar3'  reverses.  He  bore  all,  however, 
in  the  spirit  and  with  the  hope  of  a  sincere  Christian. 
In  the  epitaph,  written  by  Theodore  Hook,  it  is  said  of 
him  :  "  He  was  a  kind  parent,  an  affectionate  husband,  a 
popular  author,  and  an  accomplished  gentleman."  His 
poetical  works,  in  two  volumes,  Avith  a  memoir  by  his 
widow,  appeared  in  1848.  Archdeacon  Wrangham  ren- 
dered some  of  Bayly's  songs  into  Latin.  Here  are  four 
lines  of  his  "I'd  be  a  Butterfly:" 

"Ah!  Sim  Papilio  natus  iu  flosculo, 
Rosa  ubi  liliaque  et  violae  halent ; 
Fioribus  advolaus,  avolaiis,  osciilo, 
Genimulas  taugeus,  qnas  suave  oleut!'' 


THE   SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 

Upon  the  hill  he  turned. 

To  take  a  last  fond  look 
Of  the  valley  and  the  village  church, 

And  the  cottage  by  the  brook. 
He  listened  to  the  sounds 

So  familiar  to  his  ear, 
And  the  soldier  leaned  upon  his  sword, 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

Beside  that  cottage  porch 

A  girl  was  ou  her  kuees ; 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf 

Which  lluttered  in  the  breeze. 
She  breathed  a  prayer  for  him — 

A  prayer  he  could  not  hear ; 


502 


<Y(L<u'j:i)Ia  of  i!i:irisii  axd  amijiucax  poethy. 


But  lie  paused  to  bless  her  as  she  knelt, 
And  lio  wiju'd  away  a  tear. 

Ho  lniiK'd  and  left  llio  spot, 

Oil,  do  not  deem  liiiii  weak! 
For  dauntless  ^vas  the  soldier's  heart, 

Tliouj^b  tears  were  on  his  cheek. 
Go  watch  the  foremost  ranks 

111  danger's  dark  career : 
Be  sure  the  hand  most  daring  there 

Has  wiped  away  a  tear. 


I'D   BE   A  BUTTERFLY. 

I'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

AVhere  roses,  and  lilies,  and  violets  meet ; 
Roving  forever  from  flower  to  flower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth  or  for  power, 

I'd  never  sigh  to  sec  slaves  at  my  feet ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  tliat  are  prtitty  and  sweet. 

Oh !   could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings. 
Their  summer-day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 

They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 
Those  who  have  wealth  must  bo  watchful  and  wary, 

Power,  alas !  naught  but  misery  brings  ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rocked  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autunui  day; 
Surely  'tis  better,  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die,  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  i)rocuriiig  a  weary  delay  : 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  living  a  rover, 

Dying  Avlieii  fair  things  are  fading  away. 


SHE   WORE   A  WREATH   OF   ROSES. 

She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses 
The  night  that  first  we  met; 

Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 
Beneath  her  curls  of  jet. 

Her  footstep  liad  tlio  lightness. 
Her  voice  the  joyous  tone, — 


The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart, 
W^hero  sorrow  is  nnlinown. 

I  saw  her  but  a  moment. 

Yet  nu'tiiinks  I  see  her  now, 

With  the  wreath  of  summer  flowers 
U[»on  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange  blossoms, 

When  next  we  met,  she  wore ; 
The  expression  of  her  features 

W^as  more  thoughtful  than  before  ; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one 

Wiio  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 
To  soothe  her,  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  Avreath  of  orange  blossoms 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow. 

No  bridal-wreath  is  there  ; 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair. 
She  weeps  in  sileut  solitude. 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  teai\ 
I  see  her  l)rokon-hearted  ; 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
In  the  jiride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 


THE   PREMATURE   WHITE    HAT. 

I  met  a  man  in  Regent  Street, 

A  daring  man  was  he ; 
He  had  a  hat  upon  his  head 

As  white  as  white  could  be  ! 
'Twas  but  the  first  of  March  ! — away 

Three  hundred  yards  I  ran, 
Tlicn  cast  a  retrospective  glance 

At  that  misguided  man. 

I  thought  it  might  be  possible 

To  do  so  foul  a  deed. 
Yet  not  commit  the  murderous  acts 

Of  which  too  oft  we  read  : 
I  tliought  he  might  have  felt  distress, 

Have  loved — anil  loved  in  vain — 
And  wore  that  pallid  thing  to  cool 

The  fever  of  his  brain! 


THOMAS  HAYNES   BATLY.—JOHN  FIN  LEY. 


503 


PLTcliauce  be  had  uo  relative, 

No  confidential  friend, 
To  say  when  summer  months  begin 

And  those  of  winter  end. 
Perchance  he  had  a  wife,  who  was 

I'nto  his  side  a  thorn, 
And  who  had  basely  thrust  him  fortli 

To  bravo  decorum's  scorn. 

But  no ! — a  smile  was  on  his  cheek ; 

He  thought  himself  the  th'oifj ! 
And  all  nublushingly  he  wore 

The  garniture  of  spring ! 
'Twas  evident  the  man  could  not 

Distinguish  wrong  from  right ; 
And  cheerfully  he  walked  alon^, 

Unseasonably  white ! 

Then,  uuperceived,  I  followed  him  ; 

Clandestinely  I  tried 
To  ascertain  in  what  strange  spot 

So  queer  a  man  could  hide : 
Where  he  could  pass  his  days  and  uiglits. 

And  breakfast,  dine,  and  sup  ; 
And  wliere  the  peg  could  be  on  which 

He  hung  that  "white  hat  np  I 

He  paused  at  White's — the  white  capote 

Made  all  the  members  stai'e ; 
He  passed  the  Athenaeum  Club, 

He  had  no  footing  there ! 
He  stood  a  ballot  once  (alas! 

There  sure  was  pique  iu  that) — 
Though  they  admit  light-headed  men, 

They  blackballed  the  white  hat! 

And  ou  he  went,  self-satisfied, 

And  now  and  then  did  stop, 
And  look  into  the  looking-glass 

Tluit  lines  some  trinket-shop. 
And  smilingly  adjusted  it! 

'Twas  that  which  made  me  vexed — 
"If  this  is  borne,"  said  I,  "he'll  wear 

His  nankeen  trousers  next !" 

The  Avretched  being  I  at  length 

Compassionately  stopped, 
And  used  the  most  persuasive  words 

Entreaty  could  adopt. 
I  said  his  hat  was  premature  ; 

I  never  left  bis  side. 
Until  he  swore  most  solemnly 

The  white  hat  should  be  dvcd. 


3ol)u  i-inlcn. 


Finley  (1797-1  SOtt)  was  a  native  of  Brownsburg,  Rock- 
bridge County,  Va.  lie  went  to  a  country  school,  and 
learned  "  to  read,  write,  and  cipher  as  far  as  the  rule  of 
three."  After  serving  an  apprenticeship  as  a  tanner  and 
currier,  he  went  West,  and  settled  at  Richmond,  Wayne 
County,  Ind.,  where  he  was  mayor  some  dozen  years. 
He  published  many  short  poems  which  had  a  wide  circu- 
lation, and  gave  evidence  of  talents,  which  might  have 
led  to  higher  Uterary  distinction  if  his  early  advantages 
of  education  had  been  greater.  He  belongs  to  the  real- 
istic school  in  verse,  and  his  poems  will  hardly  please 
those  who  deny  to  Pope  the  name  of  poet.  His  "  Bache- 
lor's Hall  "  has  been  widely  circulated,  and  was  long  at- 
tributed to  Moore,  the  Irish  poet. 


BACHELOR'S   HALL. 

Bachelor's  Hall!    what  a  quare-lookin'  place  it  is! 

Kape  me  from  sich  all  the  days  of  my  life ! 
Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  burniu'  disgrace  it  is 

Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin'  a  wife. 

See  the  old  bachelor,  gloomy  and  sad  enough. 

Placing  his  taykettle  over  the  fire; 
Soon  it  tips  over — St.  Patrick !   he's  mad  enough 

(If  he  were  preseut)  to  fight  wid  the  squire. 

Then,  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing, 
Awkward  enough,  see  him  knadiug  his  dough  ; 

Troth!  if  the  bread  he  could  ate  widout  swallowing, 
How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  yon  know! 

His  dishcloth  is  missing ;  the  pigs  are  devouring  it ; 

Iu  the  imrsuit  he  has  battered  his  shin ; 
A  plate  wanted  washing — Grimalkin  is  scouring  it; 

Thunder  and  turf!   what  a  pickle  he's  in! 

His  meal  being  over,  the  table's  left  setting  so ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves,  if  you  can ! 
But  hunger  returns, — then  he's  fuming  and  fretting 
so, 

Och!   let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man! 

Pots,  dishes,  pans,  and  such  grasy  commodities. 
Ashes,  and  prata-skius,  kiver  the  floor; 

His  cupboard's  a  storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 
Sich  as  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Late  iu  the  night,  then,  he  goes  to  bed  shiverin', 
Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ! 

He  crapes,  like  a  tarrapin,  under  the  kiveriu' — 
Bad  luck  to  the  picter  of  Bachelor's  Hall! 


504 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BUITISll   AM)   AMEIUCIX  I'OETHV. 


fjcrbcrt  Knowlcs. 

Knowlos  (17'.ivS-1817),  a  native  ol'  L'aiiloibuiy,  Enirland, 
and  of  the  liuniblest  parciitnije,  was  left  an  orphan  when 
a  mere  hid.  lie  excited  attention  bj'  his  abilities, 
iiowever,  and  was  helped  in  his  education  b}'  Southcy, 
Roijers,  and  otliers.  The  followinc:  lines,  written  when 
Knowles  was  eighteen,  have  been  justly  celebrated.  Ho 
did  not  live  lonj^  to  avail  himself  of  the  generous  aid  of 
literary  friends. 


LINES  WKITTEX  IN  THE  CHURCH-YAKD   OF 
KICHMOND,  YORKSHIRE. 

"  Lord,  it  is  good  for  ns  to  be  here :  if  ilion  wilt,  let  iis  make 
liere  three  taberiindes :  one  for  thee,  aud  one  for  Moses,  and  cue 
lor  Elias." — Matthew  xvii.  4. 

Mcthinks  it  is  good  to  be  here; 

If  thoii  wilt,  let  n.s  build, — but  for  ^vhom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  rippoar ; 

But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  the  gloom, 
The  abode  of  the  dead,  aud  the  i)lace  of  the  tomb. 

Sliall  we  build  to  Auil)itioii?     Ah!   uo : 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away  ; 

I'or  see,  they  would  pin  hiui  below 

In  a  small  narrow  cave  ;  and, begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  i)ccr  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?     Ah  !   no  :   she  forgets 
The  charms  that  slie  wielded  before; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 

The  skin  which  but  yest(>rday  fools  coukl  adore. 
For  tlie  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it 
wore. 

Shall  w(>  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 
The  trappings  w  liich  dizcn  the  proud? 

Alas!   they  are  all  laid  aside; 

And  here's  neitiicr  dress  nor  adornnn-nt  allowed, 
But  the  long  winding-sheet,  and  the  fringe  of  the 
shroud. 

To  Riches?     Alas!  'tis  in  vain: 

AVho  hid,  in  their  turns  have  been  hid  : 

The  treasures  are  stiuandered  again  : 

And  her(%  in  tlie  grave,  are  all  metals  forbid, 
But  the  tinsel  that  shone  on  the  dark  coffin-lid. 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Ah  !   here  is  a  ])lontiful  board, 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
Aud  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 


Shall  we  build  to  AfFection  and  Lovo  ? 
All!   no:    they  have  withered  and  died. 

Or  fled  with  the  sjiirit  above: 

Friends, brothers, and  sisters  aie  laid  side  by  side. 
Yet  nont!  liave  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow  ?     The  dead  cannot  grieve  ; 

Xor  a  sob,  nor  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 
Whicli  compa.ssion  itself  could  relieve  : 

Ah  !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love,  or  fear  ; 

Peace,  peace,  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  wiiom  moiiarchs  must  bow? 
All !    ii(} :    for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  troidiies  enow  ; 

Beneath,  the  cold  dead,  and  around,  the  dark  stone. 
Arc  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  taberuacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
Aud  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fulfilled  ; 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  Great  Sacrifice, 
^Vho  be(iueathed  us  them  both  when  he  rose  to 
the  skies. 


jJolju  I3auim. 


Baniin  (1~9S-1842)  was  a  native  of  Kilkenny,  Ireland, 
and  received  his  education  in  its  college.  He  wrote 
"  Tales  of  the  O'Hara  Family  "  (1825-6),  in  which  he  Avas 
assisted  by  his  brother  Michael  (born  17%).  As  a  novelist, 
John  Banini's  rank  is  among  the  best ;  and  some  of  his 
poems  are  full  of  pathos  and  vigor.  He  was  the  author 
of  the  five-act  play  of  "  Damon  and  Pythias,"  brought 
out  May,  1821,  at  the  Coveut  Garden  Theatre,  London, 
and  of  which  Leigh  Hunt  says  he  "  never  saw  a  more 
successful  reception.  The  interest  is  strongly  excited 
from  the  first,  aud  increases  to  the  last."  Banim  ex- 
presses his  acknowledgments  to  Shell,  the  gifted  orator, 
for  revising  the  play.  Tlie  part  of  "  Damon  "  was  a  favo- 
rite one  both  with  Macrcady  aud  Forrest.  The  extract 
we  quote  has  been  slightly  abridged  from  the  original. 


SOGGARTH  AROOX. 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon  ?' 
Since  yon  did  show  th<5  Avay, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
■\Vliilc  llicy  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery. 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

>  Priest  dear. 


JOHN  BAXIM. 


505 


Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  coniniands  to  fnltil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 
Side  by  side  with  yon  still, 

Soggarth  aroou  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  yon, 

Soggarth  aroon, — 
Nor,  ont  of  fear  to  yon, 
Stand  np  so  near  to  you, — 
Ocli !   ont  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin-door. 
And,  on  my  earthen-tlnre. 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroou  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  aroou, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon, — 
And  did  both  langh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring. 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroou. 
Never  did  liont  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
And,  when  my  hearth  was  dim. 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Oeh !   you,  and  onlj-  yon, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake, 
Wheu,  for  ould  Ireland's  sake, 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroou ! 


FROM  "  DAMON   AND  PYTHIAS,"  Act  V. 

riiihiaa.  Calantho  here!     My  poor,  fond  girl! 
Thou  art  the  iirst  to  meet  me  at  the  block  ; 
Tliou'It  be  the  last  to  leave  me  at  the  grave ! 

Cahoithe.  O  my  Pythias,  he  yet  may  come ! 
Into  the  sinews  of  the  horse  that  bears  him 
Put  swiftness,  gods ! — let  him  outrace  and  shau)0 
The  galloping  of  clouds  upon  the  storm  ! 
Blow,  breezes,  Avith  him  ;   lend  every  feeble  aid 
Unto  his  motion! — and  thou,  thrice  solid  earth, 
Forget  thy  immutable  fixedness — become 
Under  his  feet  like  llowing  water,  and 
Hither  flow  with  him! 

ryth.  I  have  taken  in 
All  the  horizon's  vast  circumference 
That,  in  the  glory  of  the  settiug  sun. 
Opens  its  wide  expanse,  yet  do  I  see 
No  signal  of  his  coming. — Nay,  'tis  likely — 
Oh  no  !   he  could  not !     It  is  impossible  ! 

Cal.  I  say  he  is  false !   he  is  a  murderer ! 
He  will  not  come !   the  traitor  doth  prefer 
Life,  ignominious,  dastard  life  ! — Thou  minister 
Of  light,  aud  measurer  of  eternity 
In  this  great  purpose,  stay  thy  going  down. 
Great  snu,  behind  the  confines  of  this  world! 
Ou  yonder  purple  mountains  make  thy  stand  ; 
For  while  thine  eye  is  opened  ou  mankind, 
Hope  will  abide  Avithiu  thy  bless(^d  beams : 
They  dare  not  do  the  murder  in  thy  presence ! 
Alas!   all  heedless  of  my  frantic  cry. 
He  plunges  down  the  precipice  of  heaven  ! 

Pvodcs.  Take  a  last  farewell  of  your  mistress,  sir. 
And  look  your  last  upon  the  settiug  sun  ; 
And  do  both  quickly,  for  your  hour  comes  on. 

I'ljih.  Come  here,  Calanthe — closer  to  me  yet! 
Ah !   what  a  cold  transition  it  will  be 
From  this  warm  touch,  all  full  of  life  and  beauty  !  — 

Cal.  Hush  !     Stand  back  there  ! 
There  is  a  minute  left :    look  there  !   look  there  ! 
But  'tis  so  far  off,  aud  the  evening  shades 
Thicken  so  fast,  there  are  no  other  eyes 
But  mine  can  catch  it!     Yet, 'tis  there!   I  see  it! 
A  shape  as  yet  so  A\igue  aud  questionable, 
'Tis  nothing,  just  about  to  change  and  take 
The  form  of  something  ! 

Pifih.  Damon,  I  do  forgive  thee! — I  but  ask 
Some  tears  unto  my  ashes.  ■'****  By  the  gods, 
A  horse  aud  horseman  ! — Far  upon  the  hill. 
They  Avave  their  hats,  and  he  returns  it — yet 
I  know  him  uot — his  horse  is  at  the  stretch  ! 
W^hy  should  they  shout  as  he  comes  on  ?     It  is — 
No ! — that  was  too  unlike — but  there,  now — there ! 


506 


CYCLOrJSDlA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


0  Life !  I  scarcely  dare  to  wish  for  thee  ; 

Aud  yet — that  jutting  rock  has  hid  him  from  me. 
No!  let  it  uot  be  Damon! — he  has  a  wife 
Aud  child  !     Gods,  keep  him  back  ! 

Damon  (irithoiit).  Wliere  is  he?     (Hitxhes  in.) 
Ila!   he's  alive,  untouched  ! 

I'l/th.  Daniou,  dear  friend — 

Dum.  I  can  but  laugh— I  cannot  speak  to  tliee  ! 

1  can  but  play  the  maniac,  aud  laugh. 
Even  in  the  very  crisis  to  have  come, — 

To  have  hit  the  very  forehead  of  old  Time ! 

Hy  heavens!   had  I  arrived  an  hour  before, 

I  should  not  feel  this  agony  of  joy — 

This  triumph  over  Dionj'sius! 

Ila,  ha  !      I'nt   thou   didst   doubt  me  ;    come,  thou 

didst  — 
Own  it,  aud  I'll  forgive  thee. 

ri/th.  For  a  raomeut. 

Dam.  O  that  false  slave !      Pythias,  he  slew  mj' 
horse, 
In  the  base  thought  to  save  me.     I'd  have  killed  him, 
Aud  to  a  j>recipice  was  dragging  him. 
When,  from  the  very  brink  of  the  abyss, 
I  did  behold  a  traveller  afar, 
Bestriding  a  good  steed.     I  rushed  upon  him  : 
Choking  with  desperation,  aud  yet  loud, 
In  shrieking  anguish,  I  commanded  him 
Down  from  his  saddle  :   he  denied  me — but 
Would  I  Iheu  be  denied?     As  hungry  tigers 
Clutch  their  jioor  prey,  I  spraug  upou  his  throat — 
Thus,  thus,  I  had  him,  Pythias  !     Come,  your  horse. 
Your  horse!   I  cried.     Ha,  ha! 


Dat)ib  iUacbctI)  iUoir. 

Under  the  signature  of  "Delta,"  Moir  (1798-1851)  was 
a  frequent  contributor  to  JUackwooiV n  Maf/azine.  A  na- 
tive of  Musselburgh,  Scotland,  he  pnictised  there  as  a 
surgeon,  much  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him.  His  po- 
etical works,  edited  by  Tliomas  Aird,  were  published  in 
18.52.  Aloir  was  a  successful  prose  writer,  and  his  "Au- 
tobiography of  Mansie  Wauch  "  (1828)  is  quite  an  amus- 
ing production.  lie  published  volumes  of  verse  in  1818, 
18:M,  and  184:!.  His  "  Sketches  of  the  Poetical  Literature 
of  the  last  Half  Century  "  appeared  in  1851. 


LANGSYNE. 

Langsyne ! — how  doth  the  word  C(mie  back 

With  magic  meaning  to  the  heart 
As  memory  mams  the  sunny  track, 

From  which  hopi-'s  dreams  were  loath  to  part! 


No  joy  like  by-past  joy  appears  ; 

For  what  is  goue  we  fret  aiul  pine  : 
Were  life  spun  out  a  thou.sand  years, 

It  could  not  match  Laug.sync  ! 

Langsyne! — the  days  of  chihUioDd  warm, 

Wiien,  tottering  by  a  mother's  knee, 
Each  sight  and  sound  had  power  to  charm, 

Aud  hope  was  high,  and  thought  was  free ! 
Langsyne  ! — the  merry  school-boy  days — 

IIow  sweetly  then  life's  sun  did  shine! 
Oh!   for  the  glorious  pranks  and  plays. 

The  raptures  of  Langsyne  ! 

Langsyne  ! — yes,  iu  the  souud  I  hear 

The  rustling  of  the  summer  grove ; 
And  view  those  angel  features  near 

Which  first  awoke  th(i  heart  to  love. 
How  sweet  it  is  iu  pensive  mood 

At  windless  midnight  to  recline, 
Aud  fdl  the  meutal  solitude 

With  spectres  from  Langsyne! 

Langsyne! — ah,  where  are  they  who  shared 

With  us  its  pleasures  bright  and  blithe? 
Kindly  with  some  hath  fortune  fixred. 

And  some  have  bowed  beneath  the  scythe 
Of  death, — while  others  scattered  far 

O'er  foreign  lands  at  fate  repine. 
Oft  wandering  forth,  'neath  twilight's  star, 

To  muse  on  dear  Laugsyue ! 

Lang.syne ! — the  heart  can  never  be 

Again  so  full  of  guileless  truth  ; 
Langsyne  ! — the  eyes  no  more  shall  sec, 

Ah  no!   the  rainbow  hopes  of  youth. 
Langsyne ! — with  thee  resides  a  spell 

To  raise  the  spirit  aud  refiue  : — 
Farewell ! — there  can  be  no  farewell 

To  thee,  loved,  lost  Langsyne  ! 


Samuel  £oDcr. 

Lover  (1708-18G8)  was  a  native  of  Dublin.  His  first 
occupation  was  that  of  a  miniature  painter.  In  18.38  his 
best  known  novel,  "  Handy  Andy,"  was  commenced  in 
Uentlci/s  MLsceUani/.  As  a  song-writer  he  won  a  high  de- 
gree of  popularity.  He  also  produced  several  pieces  for 
the  stage,  among  which  arc  "The  Beau  Ideal,"  "The 
White  Horse  of  the  Peppers,"  and  "II  Paddy  Whack  iu 
Italy."  With  his  short  Irish  sketches  aud  his  songs  he 
made  up  a  public  entertainment,  which  he  gave  "with 
mueli  success  in  Ireland,  but  with  less  in  the  United 
Stales.    His  "  Life,"  by  Bayle  Bernard,  appeared  in  1874. 


SAMUEL  LOVER.— THOMAS  HOOD. 


borr 


RORY  O'MORE ;    OR,  GOOD  OMENS. 

Young  Rory  O'Morc  courted  Katblocu  Bawu  ; 

He  Avas  bold  as  the  hawk,  aud  she  soft  as  the  dawn  ;. 

lie  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 

Aud  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to 
tease. 

"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry. 

Reproof  ou  her  lip,  but  a  smile  iu  her  eye ; 

"With  your  tricks,  I  dou't  know,  in  throth,  what 
I'm  about ; 

Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  in- 
side out." 

"  Och !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  is  the  way 

You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day  ; 

Aud  'tis  i)lazed  that  I  am,  aud  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 

For  'tis  all  for  good-luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleeu,  "  dou't  thiuk  of  the 

like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike  ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  ou  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound" — 
"  Faith  !"  says  Rory,  "  I'd  rather  love  you  than  the 

ground." 
"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  dou't  let  me  go : 
Sure  I  dream  every  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!" 
'•  Och !''  says  Rory, "  that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear. 
For  dhramcs  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 
Och !  jewel,  keep  dhramiug  that  same  till  you  die, 
Aud  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black 

lie! 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good-luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Arrah,  Kathleen,  my    darliut,  you've    teased    me 

euough  ; 
Sure  I've  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Diuuy  Grimes  aud 

Jim  Diitf ; 
Aud  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite 

a  baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  praste." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck. 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck  ; 
Aud  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with 

light, 
Aud  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips — Dou't  you  think  he 

was  right  ? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave     off,  sir,  —  you'll    hug    me    no 

more, — 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me  be- 
fore." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure. 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Kory  O'More. 


THE   ANGEL'S  WHISPER. 

Ill  Ireland  they  have  a  supeistition  that  when  a  child  smiles 
iu  its  sleep  it  is  talking  with  angels. 

A  baby  was  sleeping. 

Its  mother  was  Avecping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  ou  the  Avild  raging  sea; 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling 

Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling ; 
And  she  cried,  "  Dermot,  darling,  oli  come  back  to 
me !" 

Her  beads  while  she  u umbered. 

The  baby  still  slumbered. 
And  smiled  iu  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee: 

"  Oh,  blessed  be  that  waruing. 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adoruiug. 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

"  Aud  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 

Oh,  pray  to  them  softlj-,  my  baby,  with  nie ! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father! 

For  I  kuow  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And  the  wife  Avept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see  ; 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child  with  a  blessing, 
Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  Avere  whispering  with 
thee." 


(Tljomas  fjoob. 


Hood  (1798-1845)  was  a  native  of  London,  the  son  of 
a  bookseller.  At  school  he  picked  up  some  Latin  and 
more  French.  On  leaving,  he  was  planted  on  a  counting- 
house  stool,  where  he  remained  long  enough  to  get  ma- 
terials for  the  following  sonnet : 

"Time  was,  I  sat  upon  a  lofty  stool, 
At  lofty  desk,  and  with  a  cleikly  pen 
Began  each  morning,  at  the  stroke  of  ten. 
To  wiitc  in  Bell  &  Co.'s  commercial  school  ; 
In  Warnfoid  Coiu't,  a  shady  nook  aud  cool, 
The  favorite  retreat  of  merchant  men  ; 
Yet  would  my  pen  turn  vagrant  even  then, 
Aud  take  stray  dips  iu  the  Castalian  pool. 
Now  double  entry— now  a  flowery  trope — 
Mingling  poetic  honey  with  trade  wax — 
Blogg  Brothers — Milton — Grote  aud  Prescott — Pope — 
Bristles — and  Hogg — Glynn  Mills  and  Halifax — 
Rogers  and  Towgood— Ilemp— the  Bard  of  Hope- 
Barilla — Byron — Tallow — Burns — and  Flax!" 

After  passing  two  years  with  his  father's  relatives  in 
Dundee,  Hood  returned  to  London,  aud  was  apprenticed 


j08 


CYVIAJI'.F.DIA    OF  liUlTlSlI  AM)   AMlllUCAS   roKTUY. 


to  his  uncle,  Robert  Sands,  as  an  cnu:ravcr.  lie  made  his 
first  mark  as  a  writer  by  joininj;  witli  his  brotiier-in-Iaw, 
.1.  n.  Heynolds,  in  a  playful  volume  of  "Odes  to  Great 
People" — such  as  (Jraham,  the  aeronaut;  Macadam,  the 
imiirover  of  roads;  and  Kiteliener,  author  of  "  Tlie 
Cook's  Oracle."  In  1S20  Hood  imblislicd  his  first  scries 
of  "  Whims  and  Oddities  ;"  a  second  series  in  18:27 ;  and 
Mien  a  volume,  "  Tlic  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies, 
with  other  Poems."  In  I'S'Z'd  he  conunenced  "The  Comic 
Annual,"  which  was  continued  for  nine  years.  In  1834 
he  published  "  Tylncy  Hall,"  a  novel.  It  was  a  failure. 
Ill  health  compelled  him  to  travel  on  the  Continent  to 
lecruit;  and  on  his  return  home  he  became  editor  of  the 
Xcw  Montlilij  Mtif/nziiie.  From  this  he  retired  in  1843,  and 
in  1844  started  Hood's  Mat/azine,  and  contributed  to  its 
pai^es  until  within  a  montli  before  his  death.  His  cele- 
brated "Song  of  the  Shirt"  first  appeared  in  Punch  in 
11*44. 

Hood  died  a  poor  man,  leavini;-  a  widow  and  two  cliil- 
dren.  His  life  Avas  one  of  incessant  braiu-work,  aggra- 
vated by  ill  health  and  the  uncertainties  and  disquiets 
of  autiiorship.  After  his  death  his  literary  friends  con- 
tributed liberally  to  the  support  of  his  widow  and  fam- 
ily; Government  had  already  granted  to  Mrs.  Hood  a 
[lension  of  £100.  There  is  a  healtliy  moral  tone  in  nearly 
all  Hood's  poetry,  and  in  some  of  it  he  shows  high  im- 
aginative power.  If  he  had  not  been  compelled  to  coin 
his  brain  into  money  for  immediate  use,  he  would  doubt- 
less have  tried  many  nobler  flights.  He  left  a  son  of 
the  same  name,  who  died  in  1874,  not  without  giving 
tokens  that  he  had  inherited  some  of  the  paternal  genius. 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

One  more  unfortunate, 

Weary  of  brcatli, 
Ka.slily  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  lier  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  Avitii  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  Hh^ndcrly, 

Young,  and  .so  lair ! 

Look  at  lier  garments, 
Clinging  like  cercmcuts; 

Whilst  tlie  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully. 
Think  of  her  nionrni'nlly, 

Gently  an<l  humanly  ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her: 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Kow  is  pure  womanly. 


Make  no  dee]i  scrutiny 
Into  hci-  mutiny 

liash  and  nndntifnl ; 
Past  all  disiionor, 
Death  Inis  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's  family  ; 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  np  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Wiiilst  woudermeni  gue.sses 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  ouo 
Still,  anil  a  nearer  one 

Yet  than  all  other? 

Alas!   for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  snn  ! 
Oh,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full. — 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly. 

Feelings  were  changed  ; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Tin-own  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  tlie  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement. 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  JIareh 

Made  her  tremble  ami  shiver ; 

But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  llowing  river; 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


509 


Mail  from  life's  history, 
Glatl  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world ! 

Ill  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran  ; 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  I 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair ! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stitfen  so  rigidly. 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smoothe  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  bliudly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on  futuritj*. 

Perishing  gloomily. 

Spurred  by  contun^ely, 
Cold  inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest ! 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 
Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving  with  meekness 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   SHIRT. 

With  lingers  weary  and  worn, 
"With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 
Stitch— stitch— stitch  ! 


In  ]>()vcrty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof!   . 
It's  O !   to  be  a  slave. 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

"  Work — work — work. 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work — work — work. 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  baud. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 

"O  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives. 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  ont! 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch— stitch— stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shii't. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death  ? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ; 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own. 
It  seems  so  like  my  own. 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep, 
O  God !   that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  Hags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread,  and  rags. 

That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor- 

A  table — a  broken  chair  ; 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work — work — work. 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 


510 


CYCLOP A:DI A    OF  lilllTISU  AM)   AMERICAS  POETRY. 


IJaiul,  ami  gusset,  and  scam, 
Seam,  aud  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  aud  the  brain  benumbed. 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

•'  Work — work — work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light. 
And  work — work — work, 

Wiicu  the  weather  is  warm  ami  bright — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

Aud  twit  nie  with  the  spring. 

"  Oh,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

Aud  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal  I 

"  Oh,  but  for  one  short  honr ! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  case  my  heart. 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  aud  thread!" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch— stitch— stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  I — 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 


I  REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born. 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  nioru  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses  red  and  white. 

The  violets  and  the  lily-cnps — 

Tliose  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 

The  laburnum  on  my  birthday — 

The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

Aud  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing: 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  fiirther  off"  from  Heaven 

Thau  when  I  was  a  boy. 


FAIR   INES. 

Oh  saw  you  not  fair  lues? 

She's  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down. 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest. 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her. 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  check. 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Oh,  turn  again,  fair  lues! 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone. 

And  stars  unrivalled  bright. 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be, 

Tiiat  walks  beneath  their  light, 

Aud  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 
TJiat  gallant  c.ivalier, 
Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side 
Ami  whispered  thee  so  near! — 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


511 


Wore  there  uo  loving  duiucs  at  liume, 
Or  uo  trne  lovers  here, 
That  he  shouW  cross  the  seas  to  win 
The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Inos, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  a  band  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youths  and  maideus  gay, — 

And  snowy  plumes. they  wore  ; 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines! 

She  went  away  with  fiong, 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng. 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang.  Farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  A'essel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck. 

Nor  danced  so  light  before  : — 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blessed  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 


FAREWELL,  LIFE. 

WRITTEN  A   FEW   WEEKS   BEFORE   HOOD'S    DEATH. 

Farewell,  Life  !   my  senses  swim. 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light. 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose. 

Welcome,  Life !  the  spirit  strives  : 
Strength  returns,  and  hope  revives; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn  — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould. 


THE   MONKEY-MAKTYR :    A   FABLE. 

'Tis  strange  what  awkward  figures  and  odd  capers 
Folks  cut  who  seek  their  doctrine  from  the  papers; 
But  there  are  many  shallow  politicians 
Who  take  their  bias  from  bewildered  journals — 

Turn  State  physicians. 
And  make  themselves  fool's-cap  of  the  diurnals. 

One  of  this  kind,  not  human,  but  a  monkey. 
Had  read  himself  at  last  to  this  sour  creed — 
That  he  was  nothing  but  oppression's  flunkey. 
And  man  a  tyrant  over  all  his  breed. 

He  could  not  read 
Of  niggers  whipped,  or  over-tramided  weavers. 
But  he  applied  their  wrongs  to  his  own  seed. 
And  nourished  thoughts  that  threw  him  into  fevers. 
His  very  dreams  were  full  of  martial  beavers. 
And  drilling  pugs,  for  liberty  pugnacious, 

To  sever  chains  vexatious  : 
In  fiict,  he  thought  that  all  his  injured  line 
Should  take  up  pikes  in  hand,  and  never  drop  'em 
Till  they  had  cleared  a  road  to  Freedom's  shrine — 
Unless,  perchance,  the  turnpike  men  should  stoji  'em. 

Full  of  this  rancor. 
Pacing  one  day  St.  Clement  Danes, 

It  came  into  his  brains 
To  give  a  look  in  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor; 
W^here  certain  solemn  sages  of  the  nation 
Were  at  that  moment  in  deliberation 
How  to  relieve  the  wide  world  of  its  chains, 

Pluck  despots  down. 

And  thereby  crown 
Whitee  as  w-ell  as  blackee — man — cipation. 
Pug  heard  the  speeches  Avith  great  approbation, 
And  gazed  with  pride  upon  the  Liberators ; 

To  see  mere  coal-heavers 

Such  jierfect  Bolivars — 
Waiters  of  inns  sublimed  to  innovators. 
And  .slaters  dignified  as  legislators — 
Small  publicans  demanding  (such  their  high  sense 
Of  liberty)  a  universal  license — 
And  patten-makers  easing  Freedom's  clogs — 

The  whole  thing  seemed 

So  fine,  he  deemed 
The  smallest  demagogues  as  groat  as  Gogs ! 

Pug,  with  some  curious  notions  in  his  noddle. 
Walked  out  at  last,  and  turned  into  the  Strand, 

To  the  left  hand, 
Conning  some  portion  of  the  previous  twaddle, 


512 


CYCLOI'JWIA    OF  lilllTlSa  A^D  AMERICAN  VOICTRY. 


Aud  striding  with  a  step  that  seemed  dosi<;ned 
To  represent  the  mighty  Mareh  of  Mind, 

Inst<':id  of  that  slow  waddle 
Of  thought,  to  wliieh  our  aneestors  inclined  — 
No  wouder,  then,  that  ho  should  quickly  lind 
He  stood  iu  front  of  that  intrusive  pUe 

Where  Cross  keeps  many  a  kind 

Of  bird  confined, 
Aud  free-born  animal,  iu  durance  vile — 
A  thought  that  stirred  \\\^  all  the  monkey-bile! 

The  window  stood  ajar — 

It  was  not  far, 
Nor,  like  Parnassus,  verj'  hard  to  climb — 
The  liour  Avas  verging  on  the  supper-time. 
And  many  a  growl  was  sent  through  nuiny  a  bar. 
Meanwhile,  Pug  scrambled  upward  like  a  tar, 

And  soon  crept  in. 

Unnoticed  iu  the  din 
Of  tuneless  throats  that  made  the  attics  ring 
"With  all  the  harshest  notes  that  they  could  bring; 

For,  like  the  Jews, 

Wild  beasts  refuse 
In  mulist  of  their  captivity — to  sing. 

Lord  !    how  it  made  him  chafe, 
Full  of  his  new  emancipating  zeal. 
To  look  around  upon  this  brute-bastile. 
And  see  the  king  of  creatures  iu — a  safe ! 
The  desert's  denizen  in  one  snniU  den. 
Swallowing  slavery's  most  bitter  pills — 
A  bear  iu  bars  nnbearable !     And  then 
The  fretful  porcupine,  with  all  its  quills, 

Imprisoned  in  a  pen  ! 
A  tiger  limited  to  four  feet  ten  ; 

And  still  worse  lot, 

A  leopard  to  one  si)ot, 

An  eh'idiant  enlarged. 

I'lil   not  discharged 

(It  was  before  the  elephant  was  shot); 
A  dolt  I'nl  wandcrow,  that  wandered  not  : 
Au  ounce  much  disproportioned  to  his  pound. 

Pug's  wrath  waxed  hot, 
To  gaze  upon  these  captive  creatures  round  ; 
Whose  claws — all  scratching — gave  liiin  full  assur- 
ance 
Tliey  found  their  dnriince  vile  of  vile  endurance. 

Ho  went  above — a  solitary  mounter 

Up  gloomy  stairs — and  saw  a  jieusive  group 

Of  hapless  fowls — 

Cranes,  vultures,  owls ; 
In  fact,  it  was  a  sort  of  poult ry-couipter. 


Where  feathered  prisoners  were  doomed  to  droo])  : 
Ileni  sat  au  eagh;,  forced  to  makcj  a  stoop. 
Not  from  the  skies,  but  his  inipendlMg  roof; 

And  then;  aloof, 
A  pining  ostrieli,  moping  in  a  coop  ; 
With  other  samples  of  the  bird  creation. 
All  caged  against  their  powers  and  their  wills. 
And  cramped  in  such  a  space,  the  longest  bills 
Were  i)lainly  bills  of  least  accommodation. 
In  truth,  it  was  a  very  ugly  scene 
To  fall  to  any  liberator's  /iliare. 
To  see  tliose  winged  fouls,  that  once  had  been 
Free  as  th(^  wind,  no  freer  than  fixed  air. 

Ilis  temper  little  mended. 
Pug  from  tills  bird-cage  walk  at  last  descended 

Unto  tlu!  lion  and  the  ele[)hant, 

His  bosom  in  a  pant 
To  see  all  nature's  free  list  thus  suspended, 
And  lieasts  deprived  of  what  she  had  intended. 

They  could  not  even  prey 

In  their  own  way  ; 
A  hardship  always  reckoned  (luite  prodigious. 

'I'luis  he.  r(!volved  — 

And  soon  resolved 
To  give  them  freedom,  civil  aud  religions. 

That  night  there  were  no  country  cousins,  raw 
From  Wales,  to  view  the  lion  and  his  kin  : 
The  keeper's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  saw — 
The  saw  was  fixed  upon  a  bullock's  shin  ; 

Meanwhile,  with  stealth}'  paw, 

Pug  hastened  to  withdraw 
The  bolt  that  kept  the  king  of  brutes  within. 
Now,  monarch  of  the  forest!   thou  shalt  win 
Precious  enfranchisement — thj'  bolts  are  undone; 
Thou  art  no  longer  a  degraded  creature, 
IJut  loose  to  roam  with  liberty  and  nature  ; 
And  free  of  all  tho  jungles  about  London — 
All  Hampstead's  heathy  desert  lies  before  thee  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  bound  from  Cross's  ark. 
Full  of  tho  native  instinct  that  comes  o'er  thee, 

And  turn  a  ranger 
Of  Ilounslow  Forest,  and  the  Regent's  Park^ 
Tliin  Kliodes's  cows,  the  mail-coach  steeds  endanger, 
And  goldile  ])arish  watchmen  after  dark: — 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  with  tho  early  lark, 
Stealing  to  Merlin's  cave — (f/(.i/  cave). — Alas 
That  sucii  bright  visions  should  not  come  to  pass! 
Alas  for  iVeedom,  and  for  freedom's  hero ! 

Alas  for  lil)erty  of  life  and  liml)! 
For  Pug  ha<l  only  half  unbolted  Nero, 

W ben  Nero  boiled  him! 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


513 


THE   LEE   SIIOEE. 

Sleet,  and  hail,  ami  tbunder! 

Aiul  ye  vriiuls  that  rave, 
Till  the  sands  thereunder 

Tinge  the  sullen  wave — 

Winds  that  like  a  demon 
Howl  with  horrid  note 

Round  the  toiling  seaman 
In  his  tossing  boat — 

From  liis  humble  dwelling 
On  the  shingly  shore. 

Where  the  billows  swelling 
Keep  such  hollow  roar — 

From  that  weeping  woman, 
Seeking  with  her  cries 

Succor  superhuman 

From  the  frowning  skies — 

From  the  urchin  pining 
For  his  father's  knee — 

From  the  lattice  shining, 
Drive  him  out  to  sea ! 

Let  broad  leagues  dissever 
Him  from  yonder  foam  ; — 

O  God !  to  think  man  ever 
Comes  too  near  his  home ! 


TO  CHARLES  DICKENS,  ESQ., 

ox    HIS    DEPARTURE    FOR    AMERICA. 

Pshaw !   away  with  leaf  and  berry, 

And  the  sober-sided  cup  ! 
Bring  a  goblet  and  bright  sherry. 

And  a  bumper  fill  me  up  ! 
Though  a  jjledge  I  had  to  shiver, 

And  the  longest  ever  was! 
Ere  his  vessel  leaves  our  river, 

I  would  drink  a  health  to  Boz  I 

Here's  success  to  all  his  antics. 

Since  it  pleases  him  to  roam. 
And  to  paddle  o'er  Atlantics, 

After  such  a  sale  at  home ! 
May  he  shun  all  rocks  whatever, 

And  each  shallow  sand  that  lurks. 
And  his  passage  be  as  clever 

As  the  best  among  his  works. 
33 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn. 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn. 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush. 
Deeply  ripened: — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born. 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which,  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  : — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


A  PARENTAL   ODE   TO  MY   SON. 

AGED    THREE    YEARS    AND    FIVE    MONTHS. 

Tliou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear!) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather-light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  uusoiled  by  sin, 
(Good  heavens!   the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin!) 

Thou  little  trick.sy  Puck, 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestnck. 
Light  as  the  singing-bird  that  wiugs  the  air, 
(The  door!  the  door!  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair!) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents — (Drat  the  boy! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth ! 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale, 


.14 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BIUTISU  AND   AMElilCAX  I'OETin'. 


In  liarmlcss  sport  and  inirtli, 
(The  dog  uill  ))iti'  him   il'  \w  pulls  its  tail!) 

Tlion  hniuan  liiimiiuiij;-ltcc,  cxtrai-tinj;  Iioiicy 
From  every  blossom  in  tlie  world  tiiat  l)l(>\vs, 

8ii)<j;ing  in  yontli's  Elysinni  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tninblc — that's  his  precious  nose!) 

Thy  father's  prido  and  hope ! 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  ^vith  that  skipping-rope!) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint, 

(Wliere  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  doniestie  dove  ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  olf  with  another  shove!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Arc  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  jdan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He's  got  a  knife!) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on,  mj-  elhn  John  ! 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk. 

With  nniny  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He's  got  the  scissors  snipping  at  your  gown!) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  -wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  South, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth!) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  Avindow  had  an  iron  bar!) 
Hold  as  the  liawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
1  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above!) 


THE   IMPUDENCE   OF   STEAM. 

(^ver  the  billows  and  over  the  brine. 
Over  the  water  to  Palestine! 
Am  I  awake,  or  do  I  dream  ? 
Over  the  ocean  to  Syria  by  steam ! 
My  say  is  sootli,  by  tliis  right  hand; 
A  steamer  brave 
Is  on  the  wave, 
Bound  positively  for  the  Holy  Land! 
Godfrey  of  Bnlogine,  and  thou 

Kiehard,  lion-hearted  king, 
Candidly  inform  us,  now. 


Did  you  ever  ? 
No,  you  never 
Could  have  fancied  such  a  thing. 
Never  such  vociferations 
Entered  your  imaginations 
As  the  ensuing — 

''  Ease  lier,  stop  her  !" 
'•Any  gentleman  for  Joppa?" 
"  'Mascus,  'Mascus  ?"     "  Ticket,  please,  sir !" 
"  Tyro  or  Sidon  ?"     "  Stop  her,  ease  her !" 
"  .Jerusalem,  'lem  !  'lem  !"— "  Shur !   Shur  !" 
"  Do  you  go  on  to  Egypt,  sir?" 
"  Captain,  is  this  the  land  of  Pharaoh  ?" 
"Now  look  alive  there!     Who's  for  Cairo?" 
"  Back  her !"     "  Stand  clear,  I  say,  old  file !" 
"  What  gent  or  lady's  for  the  Nile, 
Or  Pyramids  ?"    "Thebes!  Thebes,  sir!"    "Steady!" 
"  Now  Where's  that  party  for  Engedi  ?" — 
Pilgrims  holy,  Red  Cross  Knights, 

Had  ye  e'er  the  least  idea. 
Even  in  your  wildest  flights, 
Of  a  steam  trip  to  Judea  ? 
What  next  marvel  Time  will  show, 

It  is  diflicult  to  say  : 
"  'Buss,"  perchance,  to  Jericho  ; 
"  Only  sixpence  all  the  way." 
Cabs  in  Solyma  may  ply, 

— 'Tis  a  not  unlikely  tale — 
And  from  Dan  the  tourist  hie 
Unto  Beersheba  bv  "  rail." 


THE   DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  aiul  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kei>t  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  <|niet  eyelids  closed — she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


JOHN  MOULTRIE. 


515 


ilolju  illoultvic. 


Moultrie  (1799-1874)  was  associated  with  Praed,  Hen- 
ry Nelson  Coleridire,  and  others  in  the  Etonian  and  in 
Knight's  Quarterly  ^lagazine.  He  studied  for  the  Church, 
and  became  Rector  of  Rugby.  A  complete  edition  of  liis 
poems,  with  a  memoir  by  the  Rev.  Derwent  Coleridge, 
was  published  in  1876.  Moultrie  edited  an  edition  of 
Gray's  poetical  works.  He  was  tlie  author  of  "My 
Brother's  Grave,  and  other  Poems,"  published  in  18.37; 
"  Lays  of  the  English  Church,  1843,"  etc.  He  also  edit- 
ed the  "  Poetical  Remains  "  of  his  friend,  William  Siducy 
Walker. 


'•F0RC4ET  THEE?" 

'•Forget  tbee  ?"'    If  to  dream  by  night, 

And  muse  on  thee  by  day, 
If  all  the  worship  deep  and  wild 

A  iioet's  heart  can  pay, 
If  prayers  in  absence  breathed  for  tbee 

To  Heaven's  protecting  power, 
If  winged  thoughts  that  flit  to  thee, — 

A  thousand  iu  an  hour, 
If  busy  Fancy  blending  thee 

With  all  my  future  lot, — 
If  this  thou  call'st  "forgetting,'' 

Thou,  indeed,  shalt  be  forgot ! 

"  Forget  thee  ?"     Bid  the  forest-birds 

Forget  their  sweetest  tune  ; 
*•  Forget  thee  ?"     Bid  the  sea  forget 

To  swell  beneath  the  nioon  5 
Bid  the  thirsty  flowers  forget  to  driuk 

The  eve's  refreshing  dew  ; 
Thyself  forget  thine  own  "  dear  land," 

And  its  '•  mountains  wild  and  blue." 
Forget  each  old  familiar  face, 

Each  long-remembered  spot, — 
W^hen  these  things  are  forgot  by  thee, 

Then  thou  shalt  be  forgot ! 

Keep,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  maiden  peace. 

Still  calm  and  fancy-free. 
For  God  forbid  thy  gladsome  heart 

Should  grow  less  glad  for  me  ; 
Yet,  while  that  heart  is  still  nnwon, 

Oh  !   bid  not  mine  to  rove, 
But  let  it  nurse  its  humble  faith, 

And  uncomplaining  love  ; — 
If  these,  preserved  for  patient  years. 

At  last  avail  rae  not, 
Forget  me  then  ; — hut  ne'er  believe 

That  thou  canst  be  forgot  I 


HERE'S   TO   TIIEE,  MY   SCOTTISH   LASSIE. 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

Here's  a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 
For  thine  eye  so  bright,  thy  form  so  light. 

And  thy  step  so  firm  and  free  ; 
For  all  thine  artless  elegance. 

And  all  thy  native  gi-ace, 
For  the  music  of  thy  mirthful  voice. 

And  the  sunshine  of  thy  face  ; 
For  thy  guileless  look  and  speech  sincere, 

Yet  sweet  as  speech  can  be. 
Here's  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

Here's  a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie  I — 

Though  nij'  glow  of  youth  is  o'er. 
And  I,  as  once  I  felt  and  dreamed. 

Must  feel  and  dream  no  more, — 
Though  the  world,  with  all  its  frosts  and  storms, 

Has  chilled  my  soul  at  last, 
And  genius,  with  the  foodful  looks 

Of  youthful  friendship,  passed, — 
Though  my  path  is  dark  and  lonely  now 

O'er  this  world's  dreary  sea — 
Here's  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie, — 

Here's  a  hearty  health  to  thee  I 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie! — 

Though  I  know  that  not  for  me 
Is  thine  eye  so  bright,  thy  form  so  light, 

And  thy  step  so  iirm  and  free ; 
Though  thou,  with  cold  and  cai'eless  looks 

Wilt  often  pass  me  by, 
U^nconscions  of  my  swelling  heart, 

And  of  my  wistful  eye, — 
Though  thou  wilt  wed  some  Highland  love. 

Nor  waste  one  thought  on  me — 
Here's  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

Here's  a  heartj'  health  to  thee! 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie ! 

When  I  meet  thee  in  the  throng 
Of  merry  youths  and  maidens 

Dancing  lightsomely  along, 
I'll  dream  away  an  liour  or  twain, 

Still  gazing  on  thy  form, 
As  it  flashes  through  the  baser  crowd 

Like  lightning  through  a  storm  ; 
And  I  perhaps  shall  touch  thy  hand. 

And  share  thy  looks  of  glee, 
And  for  once,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

Dance  a  giddy  dance  with  thee! 


516 


cyCLUl'J::DIA    OF  BIHTI^U   ASD   AMElilL'JX  rOKTRY. 


Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie! — 

I  shall  think  of  theo  at  even. 
When  I  see  its  first  and  fairest  star 

Come  smiling  up  throngli  lieaviii  : 
I  shall  hear  thy  sweet  and  toucliing  voice 

In  every  -wind  that  grieves, 
As  it  whirls  from  the  abandoned  oak 

Its  withered  antnmn  leaves; 
In  the  gloom  of  the  wild  forest, 

In  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
I  sliall  think,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

I  shall  often  think  of  thee! 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie ! — 

In  my  sad  and  lonely  honrs, 
The  thonglit  of  thee  comes  over  mo 

Like  the  breath  of  distant  flowers ; — 
Like  the  music  that  enchants  mine  ear, 

The  sights  that  bless  mine  eye, 
Like  the  verdure  of  the  meadow, 

Like  the  azure  of  the  sky  : — 
Like  the  rainbow  in  the  evening, 

Like  the  blossoms  on  the  tree, — 
Is  the  thought,  my  Scottish  lassie, — 

Is  the  lonely  thought  of  thee. 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie ! — 

Though  my  muse  must  soon  bo  dumb, — 
(For  graver  thoughts  and  duties 

With  my  graver  years  are  come), — 
Though  my  soul  must  burst  the  bonds  of  earth, 

And  learn  to  soar  ou  high, 
And  to  look  on  this  Avorld's  follies 

With  a  calm  and  sober  eye, — 
Though  the  merry  wine  must  seldom  How, 

The  revel  cease  for  me — 
Still  to  thee,  mj^  Scottish  lassie, 

Still  I'll  drink  a  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie. 

Here's  a  parting  health  to  thee! 
May  thine  be  still  a  cloudless  lot. 

Though  it  ho  far  from  me  ! 
May  still  thy  Innghing  eye  be  bright. 

And  open  still  thy  brow,- 
Thy  thoughts  as  pure,  thy  speech  as  free. 

Thy  heart  as  light  as  now! 
And  whatsoe'er  my  after  fate. 

My  dearest  toast  shall  be, — 
Still  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie, 

Still  a  hearty  health  to  thee !' 

1  Moultrie  wns  one  of  the  most  (rrnopfiil  nnd  inerlitiitive  of 
Eiiglaiicl's  minoi- poets;  but  he  was  not  of  the  "luodeni  school." 


Uobcrt  JJollok. 


PoHok  (1799-1S27)  was  a  native  olEaglesliam,  Scotland. 
He  studied  at  the  Glai^gow  Univcr.sity,  and  was  live  years 
ill  the  divinity  hall  uiuler  Dr.  Dick.  His  application  to 
study  brought  on  a  iiuliuouary  disease,  and  shortly  after 
he  began  to  i)i-each  (IS'JT)  lie  had  to  seek' a  luiidcr  air  in 
the  South  of  England.  It  ellected  no  iniproveiucnt.  The 
"Course  of  Time,"  his  piincii)al  poem,  had  a  prodigious 
success,  passing  through  a  vast  number  of  editions  both 
in  Great  Britain  and  America.  It  is  a  strange  mi.xture 
of  prosaic  utterances  with  brief  bursts  of  poetic  fervor: 
a  long  disquisition  in  verse,  extending  to  ten  books. 
John  Wilson  said  of  it :  "  Though  not  a  poem,  it  over- 
flows with  poetry."  The  praise  is  overstrained.  Tlie 
oases  iu  tliis  desert  of  words  are  few  and  far  between. 
At  times  we  see  in  the  style  the  influence  of  Milton, 
Ulair,  and  Young.  It  bears  all  the  tuarks  of  mental  im- 
maturity, and,  as  Chambers  says,  "is  often  harsh,  turgid, 
and  vehement,  and  deformed  by  a  gloomy  piety,  which 
repels  the  reader,  in  spite  of  many  line  passages."  The 
same  year  witnessed  Pollok's  advent  as  a  preacher,  and 
his  untimely  death. 


1^'V0CATI0N:    OPENING   OF   BOOK   I. 
Fkom  "  The  Course  of  Time." 

Eternal  Spirit!   God  of  truth !   to  whom 
All  thiugs  seem  as  they  are ;  Thou  -who  of  old 
The  prophet's  eye  unsealed,  that  uightly  saw. 
While  heavy  sleep  fell  down  on  other  men, 
In  holy  vision  tranced,  the  future  pass 
IJefore  him,  and  to  Judah's  harp  attuned 
Burdens  which  made  the  pagan  mountains  shake 
And  Zion's  cedars  bow — inspire  my  song ; 
My  eye  nuscale ;   me  what  is  substance  teach. 
And  shadow  what,  while  I  of  things  to  come. 
As  past,  rehearsing,  sing  the  Course  of  Time, 
The  second  Birth,  and  final  Doom  of  man. 

The  muse,  that  soft  ami  sicklj^  wooes  the  ear 
Of  love,  or  chanting  loud  in  windy  rhyme 
Of  fabled  hero,  raves  through  gaudj'  tale 
Not  overfraught  with  sense,  I  ask  not ;   such 
A  strain  befits  not  argument  so  high. 
Mo  thought,  and  phrase,  severely  sifting  out 
The  whole  idea,  grant — uttering  as  'tis 
The  essential  truth  :  Time  gone,  the  righteous  saved, 
The  wicked  damned,  aiul  Providence  apjiroved. 


PRIDE    THE    CAUSE    OF    SIN. 

From  "  The  CoensE  or  Tijie,"  Book  II. 

Pride,  self-adoring  pride,  "was  primal  cause 
Of  all  sin  past,  all  pain,  all  woo  to  come. 
L^nconipterablo  pride  I   first,  eldest  sin  ; 


ROBERT  rOLLOK.—GEORdE   WASHINGTON  DOANE. 


517 


Great  fountuiii-bead  of  evil  ;   highest  source 

AVheuce  flowed  rebellion  'gaiust  the  Oninipotent, 

Whence  hate  of  man  to  man,  and  all  else  ill. 

Pride  at  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart 

Lay,  and  gave  root  and  nourishment  to  all 

Tliat  grow  above.     Great  ancestor  of  vice ! 

Hate,  unbelief,  and  blasphemy  of  God  ; 

Envy  and  slander  ;   malice  and  revenge  ; 

And  murder,  and  deceit,  and  exevy  birth 

Of  damned  sort,  was  progeny  of  pride. 

It  was  the  ever-moving,  acting  force, 

The  constant  aim,  and  the  most  thirsty  wish 

Of  every  sinner  unrenewed,  to  be 

A  god  : — in  purple  or  in  rags,  to  have 

Himself  adored  :   whatever  shape  or  form 

His  actions  took:    whatever  phrase  he  threw 

About  his  thoughts,  or  mantle  o'er  his  life. 

To  be  the  highest,  was  the  inward  cause 

Of  all — the  purpose  of  the  heart  to  be 

Set  up,  admired,  obeyed.     But  who  would  bow 

Tlie  knee  to  one  who  served  and  was  dependent  ? 

Hence  man's  perpetual  struggle,  night  and  day. 

To  prove  he  was  his  own  proprietoi-, 

And  independent  of  his  God,  that  what 

He  had  might  be  esteemed  his  own,  and  praised 

As  such.     He  labored  still,  and  tried  to  stand 

Alone,  nnpropped — to  be  obliged  to  none  ; 

And  in  tlie  madness  of  his  pride  he  bade 

His  God  farewell,  and  turned  away  to  be 

A  god  himself;   resolving  to  rely. 

Whatever  came,  upon  his  own  right  hand. 


TRUE   HAPPINESS. 

From  "  The   Course   of   Time,"  Book   V. 

True  happiness  had  no  localities. 

No  tones  provincial,  no  peculiar  garb. 

Where  duty  went,  she  went ;   with  justice  went ; 

And  went  with  meekness,  charity,  and  love. 

Where'er  a  tear  was  dried  ;   a  wounded  heart 

Bound  up  ;   a  bruised  spirit  with  tlie  dew 

Of  sympathy  anointed  ;   or  a  pang 

Of  honest  suffering  soothed  ;   or  injury 

Repeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven  ;— 

Where'er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued, 

Or  Virtue's  feeble  embers  fanned  ;  where'er 

A  sin  was  heartily  abjured,  and  left ; 

Where'er  a  pious  act  was  done,  or  breathed 

A  pious  prayer,  or  wished  a  pious  wish — 

There  was  a  high  and  holy  place,  a  spot 

Of  sacred  light,  a  most  religious  fane, 

Where  Happiness,  descending,  sat  and  smiled. 


HOLY    LOVE. 

From  "  The   Coiiisi;   of   Time,"  Book   V. 

Hail,  holy  love!   thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss! 
Gives  and  receives  all  bliss ;   fullest  when  most 
Thou  givest.     Sin'ing-head  of  all  felicity! 
Deepest  when  most  is  drawn.     Emblem  of  God ! 
O'erflowing  most  when  greatest  numbers  drink. 
Essence  that  binds  the  uncreated  Three  ; 
Chain  that  unites  creation  to  its  Lord  ; 
Centre  to  which  all  being  gravitates. 
Eternal,  ever-growing,  happy  love  ! 
Enduring  all,  hoping,  forgiving  all ; 
Instead  of  law,  fulfilling  every  law  ; 
Entirely  blessed,  because  it  seeks  no  more ; 
Hopes  not,  nor  fears ;   but  on  the  pi-esent  lives. 
And  holds  perfection  smiling  in  its  arms. 
Mysterious,  infinite,  exhaustless  love  ! 
On  earth  mjsterious,  and  mysterious  still 
In  heaven  ;   sweet  chord,  that  harmonizes  all 
The  harps  of  Paradise  ;   the  spring,  the  well 
That  fills  the  bowl,  and  banquet  of  the  sky. 


A  MOONLIGHT   EVENING. 

From  "  The  Codrse   of  Time,"  Book    V. 

It  was  an  eve  of  autumn's  holiest  mood ; 

The  cornfields,  bathed  in  Cynthia's  silver  light. 

Stood  ready  for  the  reaper's  gathering  hand  ; 

And  all  the  winds  slept  soundly :   nature  seemed, 

In  silent  contemplation,  to  adore 

Its  Maker :   now  and  then  the  aged  leaf 

Fell  from  its  fellows,  rustling  to  the  ground  : 

And,  as  it  fell,  bade  man  think  on  his  end. 

On  vale  and  lake,  on  wood  and  mountain  high, 

With  pensive  wing  outspread, sat  heavenly  Thought, 

Conversing  with  itself;  Vesper  looked  forth 

From  out  her  western  hermitage,  and  smiled  : 

And  up  the  east,  unclouded,  rode  the  moon 

With  all  her  stars,  gazing  on  earth  intense. 

As  if  she  saw  some  wonder  walking  there. 


(!:corcic  lllasljingtou  Poanc. 


Born  in  Trenton,  N.  J.,  in  1799,  Doane  studied  for  tlie 
Episcopal  Church,  and  was  consecrated  bishop  of  the 
diocese  of  his  native  State  in  1S33.  He  published  a  col- 
lection of  poetical  pieces  in  1824,  and  was  the  author  of 
various  theological  treatises.     He  died  April  27, 1859. 


il8 


CYCL<)I\i:i)IA    OF  nillTJSIl  AND  AMEIilCAX  rOKTUY. 


WPIAT   IS   THAT,  MOTHKK? 

Wli.'it  is  that,  niotlier  ? — 

The  Lark,  my  child,— 
Tlio  iiioin  has  but  just  lookt'd  out,  ami  smiled, 
Wlicu  he  starts  from  his  humble,  grassy  nest. 
And  is  np  and  away,  with  the  dew  on   his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  l)iiglit  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 
Ever,  my  eliild,  be  thy  morn's  tirst  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise. 

What  is  that,  mother?— 

Tlie  Dove,  my  sou, — 
And  that  low,  sweet  voice,  like  the  widow's  moan, 
Is  tiowiug  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant  and  pure,  by  that  lonely  nest, 
As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crystal  nrn. 
For  the  distant  dear  one's  quick  return. 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove, — 
In  fiiendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love. 

AViiat  is  that,  mother?— 

The  Eagle,  boy, 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy, 
Firm,  in  his  own  mountain  vigor  relying, 
breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying ; 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  liis  eye  on  the  sun. 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Hoy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward  and  upward,  true  to  tlie  line. 

What  is  that,  molher  ? — 

The  Swan,  my  love, — 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove, 
No  loved  one  now.  no  nestling  nigh; 
He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  die. 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  it  nnplnmes  his  wings. 
Yet  the  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 
Live  so,  my  love,  tliat  when  death  shall  come, 
Swau-likc  and  sweet  it  may  waft  thee  home. 


^laric  3laaui)cr  lUatts. 

Watts  (1799-1864)  was  a  native  of  London.  He  be- 
came connected  witli  tlic  periodical  press,  and  was  also 
among  the  th'st  editors  of  those  illustrated  "Annuals," 
once  so  fashionable,  in  which  poems,  essays,  and  stories 


by  the  popular  writers  of  the  day  were  published.  His 
"  Lyrics  of  tlie  Heart,  with  oilier  Poems,"  appeared  in 
18,51.  lie  also  conducted,  at  dillercnt  jieriods,  Tlic  United 
Service  Gazette,  The  St<tit(!iinl,  and  other  nc\N>papers. 


A   KEMOXSTKANX'E. 

ADDIIES-SED  TO   A   ITMKNM)   WHO  TdMl'LAINED  OF   BEIN<i 
ALONE  IN  TIIK  WOULD. 

Oil !   say  not  thou  art  all  alone 

I'pon  this  wide,  eold-hcarted  earth  ; 
Sigh  not  o'er  joys  forever  flown, 

The  viicant  chair, — the  silent  hearth  : 
AViiy  should  tlui  world's  unholy  mirth 

Upon  thy  (piiet  dreams  intrude, 
To  scare  those  shapes  of  heavenly  birth 

That  p(M)plt'  oft  thy  solihnlel 

Thniigh  many  a  ftsrvent  ho])e  of  youth 

Hath  passed,  and  scarcely  left  a  trace; — 
Though  earth-born  love,  its  tears  and  truth, 

No  longer  in  thy  heart  have  place  : 
Nor  time  nor  grief  can  e'er  efface 

The  brighter  hopes  that  now  are  thine, — 
The  fadeless  love, — all-pitying  grace, 

That  makes  thy  darkest  hours  divine  I 

Not  all  alone — for  thon  canst  hold 

Connnnniou  sweet  with  saint  and  sage. 
And  gather  gems,  of  price  nntold, 

From  many  a  pnre,  nntravelle<l  page: — 
Youth's  dreams,  the  golden  light  of  age, 

The  poet's  lore — are  still  thine  own: 
'J'Ikmi  while  such  themes  tliy  thoughts  engage, 

Oh,  how  canst  thou  be  all  alone! 

Not  all  alone  :   the  lark's  rich  note, 

As  mounting  np  to  heaven  she  sings ; 
The  thonsand  silvery  sounds  that  float 

Above — below — on  morning's  wings: 
The  softer  mnrmurs  twilight  brings, — 

The  cricket's  chirp,  cicala's  glee  : — 
All  earth — that  lyre  of  myriad  strings — 

Is  jubilant  with  life  for  thee! 

Not  all  alone:  the  whispering  trees, 

The  rippling  brook,  the  starry  sky, — 
Have  each  peculiar  harmonies, 

To  soothe,  subdue,  and  sanctify  : 
The  low,  sweet  breath  of  evening's  sigh, 

For  thee  hath  oft  a  friendlj-  tone, 
To  lift  thy  grateful  thoughts  on  high,— 

To  say,  thou  art  not  all  alone! 


ALARIC  ALEXANDER   WATTS.— JOHN  ABRAHAM  HERALD. 


519 


Not  all  alone :    a  watchful  eye, 

That  notes  the  wandering  sparrow's  fall  : 
A  saving  hand  is  ever  nigh, 

A  gracious  Power  attends  thy  call : 
When  sadness  holds  thy  heart  in  thrall, 

Is  oft  His  tendcrest  mercy  shown  ; 
Seek  then  the  balm  vouchsafed  to  all, 

And  thou  canst  never  be  alone. 


FOKEVER  THINI-]. 

Forever  thine,  whate'er  this  heart  betide  ; 

Forever  mine,  where'er  our  lot  bo  cast  ; 
Fate,  that  maj'  rob  us  of  all  wealth  beside, 

Shall  leave  us  love — till  life  itself  be  past. 

The  world  may  wrong  us,  we  will  brave  its  hate  ; 
False  friends  may  change,  and  falser   hopes  de- 
cline ; 
Though  bowed  by  cankering  cares,  we'll  smile  at 
Fate, 
Since  thou  art  mine,  beloved,  and  I  am  thine  I 

Forever  thine,  when  circling  years  have  spread 
Time's  snowy  blossoms  o'er  thy  placid  brow; 

When  youth's  rich  glow,  its  "purple  liglit,"  is  fled. 
And  lilies  bloom  where  roses  flourish  now  ;  — 

Say,  shall  I  love  the  fading  beautj'  less 

Whose   spring -tide    radiance   has   been    wholly 
mine  ? — 

No, — come  what  will,  thy  steadfast  truth  I'll  Idess, 
In  youth,  in  age — thine  own,  forever  thine  ! 

Forever  thine,  at  evening's  dewy  hour. 

When  gentle  hearts  to  tenderest  thoughts  incline; 

When  balmiest  odors  from  each  closing  flower 
Are  breathing  round  me, — thine,  forever  thine! 

Forever  thine  I   'mid  Fashion's  heartless  throng; 

lu  courtly  bowers;   at  Folly's  gilded  shrine; — 
Smiles  on  my  cheek,  light  words  upon  my  tongue, 

My  deei)  heart  still  is  thine, — forever  thine  I 

Forever  thine,  amid  the  boisterous  crowd. 

Where  the  jest  sparkles,  with  the  sparkling  wine; 

I  may  not  name  thy  gentle  name  aloud. 

But  drink  to  thee  in  thought, — forever  thine! 

I  would  not,  sweet,  profane  that  silvery  sound, — 
The  depths  of  love  could  such  rude  hearts  divine  ? 


Let  the  loud  laughter  peal,  the  toast  go  round, 
My   tliDUghfs,  my   tiiongbts   are   thine,  —  forever 
tliiiK' ! 

Forever  thine,  whate'er  this  heart  betide  ; 

Forever  mine,  where'er  our  lot  be  cast ; 
Fate,  that  may  rob  us  of  all  wealth  beside. 

Shall  leave  us  love, — till  life  itself  be  past! 


iJolju  ^braljam  ijei'tiui^- 

An  English  poet  and  miscellaneous  writer  (born  1799), 
Heraud  has  been  a  diligent,  if  not  a  successful,  cultivator 
of  the  poetic  art.  He  has  written  tragedies,  lyrics,  and 
narrative  poems :  "  The  Legend  of  St.  Loy  "  (1821) ;  "  The 
Descent  into  Hell,  and  other  Poems  "  (1830) ;  "  Judgment 
of  the  Flood:  ii  Poem"  (1834);  "Tlie  War  of  Ideas" 
(1871).  It  was  his  fortune  to  be  snubbed  by  the  critics, 
and  not  always  unjustly.  On  his  asking  Douglas  Jerrold 
whether  he  had  ever  seen  his  "  Descent  into  Hell,"  the 
reply  was,  "No,  but  I  would  like  to  see  it."  Heraud 
was  a  man  of  genius,  though  his  writings  show  much 
misplaced  power  and  abortive  striving.  Chambers  says 
of  him,  that  "he  was  in  poetry  what  ]\Iartiu  was  in  art, 
a  worshipper  of  tlie  vast,  the  remote,  and  the  terrible." 
His  "Descent"  and  "Judgment"  are  chiefly  remarkable 
as  psychological  curiosities. 


THE   EMIGRANT'S   HOME. 

Prepare  thee,  soul,  to  quit  this  spot. 
Where  life  is  sorrow,  doubt,  and  pain  : 

There  is  a  land  where  these  are  not, 
A  land  where  Peace  and  Plenty  reign. 

And,  after  all,  is  Earth  thy  home  ? 

Thy  place  of  exile,  rather,  where 
Thou  wert  conveyed,  ere  thought  could  come. 

To  make  thy  young  remembrance  clear. 

Oh  I   there  in  thee  are  traces  still. 
Which  of  that  other  country  tell — 

That  angel-land  where  came  no  ill. 
Where  thou  art  destined  yet  to  dwell. 

Yon  azure  dejith  thou  yet  shall  sail. 
And,  lark-like,  sing  at  heaven's  gate; 

The  bark  that  shall  through  air  prevail. 
Even  now  thy  pleasure  doth  await. 

The  Ship  of  Souls  will  thrid  the  space 

'Twixt  earth  and  heaven  with  sudden  flight; 

Dread  not  the  darkness  to  embrace. 
That  leads  thee  to  the  Land  of  Light  I 


523 


LycLUl'J::DlA    OF  liULTlun  AM)  AMElilCAX  VOETllY. 


lllilliam  Kcimci)ii. 


Kennedy  (1799-1849)  was  a  native  of  Paislcj-,  Scotland. 
Before  he  was  twenty-live  years  old  lie  wrote  "  >ly  Early 
Daj's,"  a  patlictic  little  story,  which  liad  s^rcat  success, 
and  was  republished  in  Boston.  In  1827  appeared  his 
volume  of  poems,  under  the  title  of  "Fitful  Fancies;" 
in  1830,  "The  Arrow  and  the  Rose,  and  other  Poems." 
lie  was  the  literary  associate  of  Mulherwell  in  conduct- 
uv^  the  ruidey  Magazine.  Removinij  to  London,  he  en- 
gaged in  some  literary  enterprises  with  Lcilch  Ritchie. 
He  accompanied  the  Earl  of  Dalhousie  to  Canada  as  his 
private  secretary,  and  was  appointed  consul  at  Galves- 
ton, Texas,  where  ho  resided  several  years.  In  1841  he 
published  in  two  volumes,  in  London,  the  "Rise,  Prog- 
ress, and  Prospects  of  the  Republic  of  Texas."  He  re- 
turned to  England  in  1847,  retired  on  a  pension,  and 
took  up  Ills  residence  near  London,  where  he  died,  short- 
ly after  a  visit  to  his  native  Scotland. 


LINES 

AVRITTEN  AFTER  A  VISIT  TO  THK  GHAVK  OF  MY  FRIEND, 
WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL,  NOVEMBER,  1847. 

Place  we  a  stone  at  his  head  and  lii.s  feet; 
Sprinkle  Lis  sward  with  the  small  llowers  sweet; 
Piously  hallow  the  jioet's  retreat : — 

Ever  approvingly, 

Ever  mo.st  lovingly, 
Turned  he  to  nature,  a  worshipper  meet. 

Harm  not  the  thorn  which  grows  at  his  head  ; 
Odorous  honors  its  hlossonis  will  shod, 
Grateful  to  him,  early  summoned,  who  sped 

Hence,  not  unwillingly — 

For  he  felt  thrillingly — 
To  rest  his  poor  head  'mong  the  low-lying  dead. 

Dearer  to  him  than  the  deep  niinstcr-bell, 
Winds  of  sad  cadence,  at  midnight,  will  swell, 
Vocal  with  sorrows  he  knoweth  too  well, 

AVho,  for  the  early  day. 

Plaining  this  roundelay. 
Might  his  own  fate  from  a  brother's  foretell. 

Worldly  ones  treading  this  terrace  of  graves. 
Grudge  not  the  miustrel  the  little  be  craves, 
When  o'er  the  snow-mound  the  winter-blast  raves, — 

Tears — which  devotedly, 

Tliongh  all  unnotedly, 
Flow  from  their  spring  in  the  soul's  silent  caves. 

Dreamers  of  noble  thoughts,  raise  him  a  shrine. 
Graced  with  the  beauty  which  lives  iu  his  line  ; 


Strew   with   pale   flowerets,  when   peusive   moons 
shine. 

His  grassj'  covering, 

Where  spirits,  hovering, 
Chaut  for  his  requiem  music  divine. 

Not  as  a  record  he  lacketh  a  stone  I 

Pay  a  light  debt  to  the  singer  we've  known — 

Proof  that  our  love  for  his  name  hath  not  flown 

With  the  frame  perisliing — 

That  we  are  cherishing 
Feelings  akin  to  the  lost  poet's  own. 


A  THOUGHT. 

Oh  that  I  were  the  great  soul  of  a  world! 

A  glory  iu  space ! 
Cy  the  glad  hand  of  Omnipotence  hurled 

Sublime  on  its  race  I 
Reflecting  the  marvellous  beauty  of  heaven, 

Encircled  with  joy; 
To  endure  when  the  orbs  shall  wax  dim  that  are 
given 

Old  Time  to  destroy ! 

Oh  that  I  were  this  magnificeut  spirit!  4 

Embodied  to  jirove 
The  measureless  bliss  they  were  sure  to  inherit, 

Who  lived  in  my  love : 
With  elements  infinite  fitted  for  taking 

All  forms  of  my  will, — 
To  give  me  forever  the  rapture  of  making 

More  happiness  still! 


Uobcrt  Comfort  SauiJs. 

AMERICAN. 

Sands  (1799-1833)  was  a  native  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  a  graduate  of  Columbia  College,  of  the  class 
of  1815.  One  of  his  college  companions,  two  j^ears  his 
senior,  was  James  Wallis  Eastburu,  who  was  also  a  poet, 
and  wrote,  in  conjunction  with  Sands,  the  poem  of  "  Ya- 
muydcn,"  founded  on  the  history  of  Philip,  the  Pequod 
chieftain.  Eastburu  took  orders  in  the  Episcopal  Church, 
and  died  iu  1819,  in  his  twenty-second  year.  The  best 
part  of  "  Yamoydcn"  is  the  "Proem,"  written  by  Sands, 
and  containing  some  graceful  and  pathetic  stanzas  iu  ref- 
erence to  Eastburu,  one  of  which  we  subjoin  : 

"  Go  forth,  ?ncl  frai^ments  of  a  broken  strain, 
The  last  that  either  bard  shall  e'er  essay  ! 
The  hand  can  ne'er  attempt  the  chords  again. 
That  flist  awoke  them  iu  a  happier  day : 


ROBERT  COMFORT  SANDS. 


521 


Where  sweeps  the  ocean  breeze  its  desert  wny, 
His  lequieiu  niuniuii-s  o'er  the  moaning  wave; 
And  he  who  feebly  now  prolongs  the  lay, 
Shall  ne'er  the  minstrel's  hallowed  honors  crave : 
His  harp  lies  buried  deep  in  that  untimely  grave  !" 

Saiuls  was  a  lawyer,  but  the  attractions  of  literature 
drew  him  away  from  liis  profession,  and  he  became  an 
associate  editor  of  the  Couunercial  Advcrtker.  He  Ycnt- 
nred  on  several  literary  projects,  edited  magazines,  and 
wrote  a  "  Life  of  John  Paul  Jones."  He  did  not  live 
to  fullil  the  promise  which  his  early  compositions  gave. 
He  died  unmarried,  having  always  lived  at  home  in  his 
father's  house.  His  "  Writings  in  Prose  and  Verse,  with 
a  Memoir  of  the  Author,"  in  two  volumes,  were  pub- 
lished by  the  Messrs.  Harper  in  1834. 


THE   DEAD   OF   1832. 

O  Time  and  Death  !  witli  certaiu  pace, 
Thougli  still  iiuequal,  hnrryiug  on, 

O'ertnruiug  in  your  awful  race 

The  cot,  the  palace,  and  the  throne, — 

Not  always  in  the  storm  of  war. 
Nor  l)y  the  pestilence  that  sweeps 

From  the  plague-smitten  realms  afar 
Beyond  the  old  and  solemn  deeps. 

In  crowds  the  good  and  mighty  go, 
And  to  those  vast  dim  chambers  hie. 

Where,  mingled  with  the  vile  and  low. 
Dead  Caesars  and  dead  Shakspeares  lie ! — 

Dread  Ministers  of  God  I   sometimes 
Ye  smite  at  once,  to  do  His  will, — 

In  all  earth's  ocean-.se vered  climes, — 
Those — whose  renown  ye  cannot  kill ! 

AVhcn  all  the  brightest  stars  that  burn 
At  once  are  banished  from  their  spheres. 

Men  sadly  a.sk,  When  shall  return 
Such  lustre  to  the  coming  years  ? 

For  where  is  he' — who  lived  so  long— - 
Who  rai,sed  the  modern  Titan's  ghost, 

And  showed  his  fate,  in  powerful  song. 
Whose  soul  for  learning's  sake  was  lost  ? 

Where  he — who  backward  to  the  birth 
Of  Time  iti^elf  adventurous  trod, 

And  in  the  mingled  mass  of  earth. 
Found  out  the  handiwork  of  God  ?* 


1  Goethe  and  his  "Faust.' 


2  Cnv.ier. 


Where  ho — who  in  the  mortal  head' 

Ordained  to  gaze  on  heaven,  could  trace 

The  soul's  vast  features,  that  sliall  tread 
The  stars,  when  earth  is  nothingness  ? 

Where  he — who  struck  old  Albyn's  lyre," 
Till  round  tiie  world  its  echoes  roll. 

And  swept,  with  all  a  prophet's  lire, 
The  diapason  of  the  soul  ? 

Where  he — who  read  the  mystic  lore,^ 
Buried,  where  buried  Pharoahs  sleep, 

And  dared  presumptuous  to  explore 

Secrets  four  thousand  years  could  keep  ? 

Where  he — who  with  a  poet's  eye,* 
Of  truth,  on  lowly  nature  gazed, 

And  made  even  sordid  Poverty 

Classic,  when  in  his  numbers  glazed  ? 

Where — that  old  sage,  so  hale  and  staid, ^ 
The  "greatest  good"  who  sought  to  find; 

Who  in  his  garden  mu.sed,  and  made 
All  forms  of  rule,  for  all  mankind  ? 

And  thou — whom  millions  far  removed'' 
Revered — the  hierarch  meek  and  wise ; 

Thj'  ashes  sleep, — adored,  beloved  I — 
Near  where  thy  Wesley's  coffin  lies! 

He  too,  the  heir  of  glory — where 
Hath  great  Napoleon's  scion  lied  ? 

Ah!   glory  goes  not  to  an  heir! 
Take  him,  ye  noble,  vulgar  dead ! 

But  hark  !   a  nation  sighs !   for  he,^ 
La.st  of  the  brave,  who  perilled  all 

To  make  an  infant  empire  free, 
Obeys  the  inevitable  call ! 

They  go — and  with  them  is  a  crowd, 

For  human  rights  who  thought  and  did  I 

We  rear  to  them  no  temples  proud. 
Each  hath  his  mental  pyramid. 

All  earth  is  now  their  sepulchre, 

The  MiXD,  their  monument  sublime — 

Young  in  eternal  Fame  they  are — 

Such  are  your  triumphs,  Death  and  Time ! 


1  Spnrzheim. 
3  Champollion. 
5  Jeremy  Bentham. 
'  Charles  Carroll. 


2  Scott. 

*  Crabbe. 

8  Adam  Clarke. 


522 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


lUilliam   B.  (D.  JJcaboliij   aui)  (Dlincr 
111.  13.  jJcabo^ij. 

AMERICANS. 

William  Bourne  Oliver  Peabody  (171)9-1847)  ami  Oliver 
William  Bourne  Peabody  (1799-1848)  were  twin  brothers, 
natives  of  Exeter,  N.  II.,  and  sons  of  Judge  Oliver  Pea- 
body.  They  entered  Harvard  College  together  at  the 
early  age  of  thirteen,  and  graduated  in  1817.  Both  were 
men  of  fine  intellectual  endowments,  gentle  and  afl'ec- 
tionate,  keenly  sensitive  to  all  that  is  beautiful  and  good 
in  nature  and  in  art.  Both  brothers  studied  divinity,  and 
became  clergymen.  "William  was  settled  over  the  Unita- 
rian Church  in  Springfield,  Mass.,  in  18:iO,  and  continued 
in  his  pastorate  till  his  death.  Oliver  was  settled,  in 
1845,  over  the  Unitarian  Church  in  Burlington, Vt.  Both 
brothers  wrote  poetry,  very  similar  in  style  ;  and  both 
were  so  indifferent  to  fame  that  neither  made  a  collection 
of  iiis  writings.  A  selection  from  the  sermons  and  poems 
of  William  was  published  in  1849.  The  noble  "Hymn 
to  the  Stars"  (see  page  544)  is  believed  to  have  been 
from  the  pen  of  O.  W.  B.  Pcabody,  but  is  not  in  his  MS. 
collection. 

The  poetical  faculty  is  not  unfrequently  inherited,  and 
tliis  was  notably  so  in  the  case  of  Colonel  Everett  Pca- 
body (1830-1863),  son  of  William,  and  wlio  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing spirited  song,  which  was  sung  at  a  supper  given 
in  1853  by  the  Boston  Independent  Cadets  : 
•'We  have  met  again  to-night  -,  we're  hand  in  hand  once  more, 

A  century  behind  u?,  eternity  before  ; 

Then  let  tlie  wiiie-ctip  circle  round  ;  like  the  cavaliers  of  old, 

In  the  revel  we'll  be  joyous,  iu  the  hour  of  battle  bold. 
P'ill  the  Clip,  biimmiug  up;   by  its  light  divine, 
We  swear  he  is  no  true  Cadet  who  shuns  the  sparkling  wine. 

"For  the  wine-cup  and  the  sword  are  married  since  the  day 
When  King  Arthur  spread  the  festive  board,  and  led  the  bat- 
tle fray. 
And  shall  we  part  what  Heaven  hath  joined  ?    No  I  thiiiiclers 

forth  with  might 
The  ghost  that  you  have  summoned  up,  one  of  his  krights— 
to-night. 
Fill  the  cup,  brimming  up,  etc. 

"And  if  the  armies  of  the  foe  invade  our  native  land, 
Or  rank  disunion  gathers  up  its  lawless,  faithless  band. 
Then  the  arm  upon  our  ancient  shield  shall  wield  his  blade 

of  might, 
And  we'll  show  our  worthy  brethren  that  gentlemen  can  tight. 
Fill  the  cup,  brimming  up,  etc." 

The  result  showed  that  Colonel  Everett  Peabody  was 
no  mere  lieio  on  paper.  The  last  stanza  is  prophetic  of 
his  own  high  daring  and  honorable  death.  He  was  acting 
Brigadier-general  iu  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  near  Pittsburgh 
Landing,  in  which  the  Twenty -fifth  Missouri  regiment 
took  part,  in  186'3.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  vigilance  in 
sending  out  a  sconting-party,  the  whole  of  the  brigade 
under  his  command  would  have  been  captured  by  the 
Confederate  army.  While  waving  his  sworil,  and  bravely 
rallying  his  men  in  the  action  that  ensued,  a  Minie-ball 
struck  him  in  the  upper  lip,  passed  through  his  head, 
and  killed  him  instantly.  There  was  no  officer  more  be- 
loved by  his  luen,  or  whose  loss  was  more  deplored. 


THE   AITUMN   EVENING. 
\\.  15.  0.  Peabody. 

IJebolil  the  Western  evcuiiig  liglit  ! 

It  iiieltH  ill  deepeuing  gloom  : 
'So  calmly  Cliristians  sink  away, 

Des-ceiiiliiig  to  the  tomb. 

Tiie  \viii(l.s  breathe  low  ;   the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  Avhispers  from  the  tree  : 

So  gently  flows  tlie  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  ccasi;  to  be. 

How  boatitiftil  on  all  the  hilhs, 

The  criiiisou  light  is  shed! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  dying  gives 

To  mourners  roiiud  his  bed. 

How  mildly  ou  the  Avandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast! 
'Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind 

W'hen  loved,  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears  ; 
So  faith  sjjriiigs  in  the  hearts  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glories  shall  restore ; 
And  eyelids  that  are  sealed  in  death 

Shall  wake  to  close  no  more. 


THE    ALAKM. 

W.   15.  0.  rEABODT. 

Look  there!   the  beacon's  crimson  light 

Is  blazing  wide  and  far! 
And  sparkles  in  its  towering  height 

The  rocket's  signal  star! 
Rise!   rise!   the  cannon  rolls  at  last 

Its  deep  and  stern  reply  ; 
And  heavier  sleep  is  coming  fast 

Than  seals  the  living  eye. 

And  now  the  warning  trumpet  peals! 

Tlie  battle's  on  the  w  ay  ; 
Tli(^  bravest  heart  that  moment  feels 

The  thrilling  of  dismay. 
Around  the  loved,  in  shrinking  fear, 

Love's  straining  arms  are  cast ; 


WILLIAM  B.  0.  rEABODY  AM)   OLIVER    TV.  B.  PEABODY. 


52:5 


Tilt'  lieurt  is  iu  that  single  tear, 
That  parting  is  the  last. 

A  thousand  avIikIows  flash  with  fires 

To  light  them  through  the  gloom, 
Before  the  taper's  llame  expires, 

To  glory  or  the  tomb. 
Far  (lowu  the  hollow  street  rebounds 

The  charger's  rattling  heel ; 
And  ringing  o'er  the  pavement  sounds 

The  cannon's  crushing  wheel. 

Then  answers  to  the  echoing  drum 

The  bngle's  stormy  blast ; 
With  crowded  ranks  the  warriors  come, 

And  bands  are  gathering  fast ; 
Eed  on  their  arms  the  torch-light  gleanii- 

As  on  their  footsteps  spring, 
To  perish  ere  the  morning  beams — 

For  death  is  on  the  wing. 

The  courier,  iu  his  arrowy  flight, 

Gives  out  the  battle-cry ! 
And  now  march  on  with  stern  delight — 

To  fall  is  not  to  die  ! 
Already  many  a  gallant  name 

Your  country's  storj"  bears: 
Go!   rival  all  your  fiithcrs'  fame, 

Or  cam  a  death  like  theirs. 


NATURE  AND  NATURE'S  GOD. 

ADDRESSED   TO   A   LITTLE   GIRL   OF   NINE   YEARS. 
W.  B.  0.  Peabodt. 

Louisa,  did  jou  never  trace 
The  smile  on  Nature's  glorious  fiice. 
That  seems  to  breathe  from  every  part 
Tlie  deep  expression  of  a  heart  ? 
I  know  you  have ; — in  every  flower 
You  feel  a  presence  and  a  power; 
To  you  the  blue  and  silent  sky 
Has  meaning,  like  an  earnest  ej-c  ; 
And  all  the  warm  and  living  glow 
Where  foliage  heaves,  and  waters  flow, 
Inspires  in  every  changing  tone 
Some  feelings  answering  to  your  own. 

But  tell  me  Avhence  that  smile  can  be  ? 
The  earth  says,  "  It  is  not  in  me  ;" 
'"Tis  not  in  me,"  the  deep  replies; 
The  same  Aoice  answers  from  the  skies. 


The  smile  divine  that  nature  wears 
Comes  from  some  higher  source  than  theirs; 
For  such  expression  never  springs 
From  lifeless  and  unmeaning  tilings; 
Tliej'  have  no  influence  to  impart, 
They  have  no  power  to  touch  the  heart ; 
And  all  the  brightness  round  them  throwu 
Is  beautiful,  but  not  their  own. 

Then  there  must  be  a  living  soul 
That  quickens  and  informs  the  whole; 
There  is !   iu  Nature  ever  shine 
The  kindlings  of  that  Soul  Divine. 
And  thus  the  rich  and  dreamy  haze. 
That  sweetly  veils  the  autumn  days. 
The  scarlet  leaves  that,  glancing  round. 
With  rainbow  fragments  strew  the  ground, 
The  clear  transparency  of  noon. 
The  bright  and  thoughtful  harvest-moon, 
And  all  around  us  and  above, 
Reflect  a  Father's  smile  of  love. 

I  know  that  your  young  heart  discerns 

What  man's  hard  spirit  coldly  learns — 

The  truth  which  throws  the  brilliant  ray 

Of  joy  upon  the  earthly  way  ; 

Yuu  have  a  Father, — kind  and  true. 

And  full  of  sympathy  for  yon  ; 

And,  though  with  warm  affection  blessed, 

Remember  that  he  loves  you  best ; 

Oh  turn,  then,  to  that  Friend  above, 

Resolve  to  answer  love  with  love; 

And  ever  act  the  filial  part 

With  faithful  and  confiding  heart. 


VISIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

0.  W.  B.  Peabodt. 

Yes,  visions  of  his  future  rest 

To  man.  the  pilgrim,  here  are  shown; 

Deep  love,  pure  friendship,  thrill  his  breast, 
And  hopes  rush  in  of  joys  nnknown. 

Released  from  earth's  dull  round  of  cares, 
The  a.splring  soul  her  vigor  tries; 

Pinnies  her  soiled  pinions,  and  prepares 
To  soar  amid  ethereal  skies. 

Arnnnd  ns  float  in  changing  light 
The  dazzling  forms  of  distant  years. 

And  earth  becomes  a  glorious  sight. 
Beyond  which  opening  heaven  appears. 


524 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  JilllTISH  A\D  AMEllWAX  POETRY. 


TO   A  DEPARTED   FKIEXD. 
O.  W.  B.  Peabodt. 

Too  lovely  and  too  early  lost! 

My  memory  clings  to  thee ; 
For  thou  wast  once  my  guiding-star 

Amid  the  treacherous  sea ; — 
But  doubly  cold  and  cheerless  now, 

The  wave  too  dark  before, 
Since  every  beacou-light  is  <xueuched 

Along  the  midnight  shore. 

I  saw  thee  first,  when  hope  arose 

On  youth's  triumphant  wing. 
And  thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  light 

Of  early  dawning  spring. 
Who  then  could  dream  that  health  and  joy 

Would  e'er  desert  the  brow, 
So  bright  with  varying  lustre  once, — 

So  chill  and  changeless  now  ? 

That  brow !  how  proudly  o'er  it  then 

TLy  kingly  beauty  hung. 
When  wit,  or  eloquence,  or  mirth. 

Came  burning  from  the  tongue; 
Or  when  upon  that  glowing  cheek 

The  kindling  smile  was  spread. 
Or  tears,  to  thine  own  woes  denied, 

For  others'  griefs  were  shed ! 

Thy  mind!   it  ever  was  the  home 

Of  high  and  holy  thought  ; 
Thy  life,  an  emblem  of  the  truths 

Thy  pure  example  taught ; 
Wlicn  blended  in  thine  eye  of  liglit, 

As  from  a  royal  throne, 
Kindness,  and  peace,  aiul  virtue  there 

In  mingled  radiance  shone. 

One  evening,  when  the  antumti  dfw 

Upon  the  hills  was  shed, 
And  Hesperus  far  down  the  west 

His  starry  host  had  led, 
Thou  said'st  how  sadly  and  how  oft 

To  that  prophetic  eye, 
Visions  of  darkness  and  decline, 

And  early  death  were  nigh. 

It  was  a  voice  from  other  worlds. 
Which  none  beside  might  hear ; — 

Like  the  night  breeze's  plaintive  lyre, 
Breathed  faintly  on  the  ear ; 


It  was  the  warning  kindly  given, 

When  bless(^d  spirits  come, 
From  their  bright  paradise  above, 

To  call  a  si^ster  home. 

IIow  sadly  on  my  spirit  then. 

That  fatal  warning  fell! 
But  oh !   the  dark  reality 

Another  voice  may  tell ; 
The  quick  decline, — the  parting  sigh, — 

The  slowly  moving  bier, — 
The  lifted  sod, — the  sculptured  stone, — 

The  unavailing  tear! — 

The  amaranth  flowers  that  bloom  in  heaven. 

Entwine  thy  temples  now; 
The  crown  that  shines  immortally. 

Is  beaming  on  thy  brow ; 
The  seraphs  round  the  burning  throne 

Have  borne  thee  to  thy  rest. 
To  dwell  among  the  saints  on  high, 

Companion  of  the  blessed. 

The  sun  hath  set  in  folded  clouds, — 

Its  twilight  rays  are  gone  ; 
And,  gathered  in  the  shades  of  night, 

The  storm  is  rolling  on. 
Alas!  how  ill  that  burstiug  storra 

The  fainting  spirit  braves, 
When  they, — the  lovely  and  the  lost, — 

Are  gone  to  early  graves ! 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT. 

0.  W.  B.  Teabodv. 

O  sacred  star  of  evening,  tell 

In  what  unseen,  celestial  sphere. 
Those  spirits  of  the  perfect  dwell. 

Too  pure  to  rest  in  sadness  here. 

Roam  they  the  crystal  .spheres  of  light, 

O'er  paths  by  holy  angels  trod. 
Their  robes  with  heavenly  lustre  bright. 

Their  home,  the  Paradise  of  God? 

Soul  of  the  jnst!   and  canst  thou  soar 
Amid  those  radiant  spheres  sublime, 

Where  countless  hosts  of  heaven  adore, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  .space  or  time  ? 

And  canst  thou  join  the  sacred  choir. 

Through  heaven's  high  dome  the  song  to  raise, 


WILLIAM  B.  O.  PEABODY  AXD  OLIVER   W.  B.  PEABODY.—GRENVILLE  MELLEN.       525 


Where  seraphs  strike  the  goldeu  lyre 
III  ever-during  notes  of  praise  ? 

Oh,  who  woiihl  heed  the  chilling  blast 
Tliat  blows  o'er  time's  eventful  sea, 

If  bid  to  hail,  its  peril  i)ast, 
The  bright  wave  of  eteruity ! 

And  who  the  sorrows  would  not  bear 
Of  such  a  transient  world  as  this, 

When  Hope  displays,  beyond  its  care, 
So  bright  au  entrance  into  bliss! 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 


W.  B.  0.  Peabodt. 


God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains, 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky. 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  npon  the  dale  below. 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering- bauds 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas. 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  "  Depart  in  peace." 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ; 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee  : 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form. 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green. 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce   and  wintry  tempests  blow, — 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 

That  hardlj'  lifts  the  drooping  flower. 
To  the  wild  wliirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 


God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  .springs 
The  tented  dome  of  heavenly  blue 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  wings ! 
Each  brilliant  star  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud  tliat  wanders  free, 
In  evening's  purple  radiauce,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  jiraise  to  Thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze. 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun. 

And  every  spark  that  glows  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world !   the  hour  must  come, 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay. 

Her  incense-tires  shall  cease  to  burn  : 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow, 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


(Drcncillc  illcllcn. 


Mellen  (1799-1841)  was  a  native  of  Biddeford,  Me.  He 
graduated  at  Cambridge,  and  studied  law ;  but  a  teu- 
deucy  to  epilepsy  prevented  all  professional  success.  He 
resided  at  times  in  Boston,  Washington,  and  New  York. 
A  man  of  singular  elevation  and  purity  of  character,  and 
a  true  poet  in  feeling,  he  lacked  the  artistic  gift  by  wliich 
expression  is  made  to  interpret  and  impart,  in  aptest, 
briefest  form,  what  is  powerfully  felt.  The  chief  collec- 
tion of  his  poems,  "  The  Martyr's  Triumph,  Buried  Val- 
ley, and  other  Poems"  (of  which  few  copies  are  to  be 
found),  was  publislied  in  Boston  in  1833. 


THE   BUGLE. 

"Bat  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Piolonged  the  swelling  bugle's  note ; 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dre.im, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream: 
Rimnd  nnd  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  'turned  au  answering  blast." 

Lady  of  the  Lake. 

O  wild  enchanting  horn  ! 
Whose  music  up  the  deep  and-  dewy  air 
Swells  to  the  clouds,  and  calls  on  echo  there, 

Till  a  new  melody  is  born  ; — 


iV26 


vy(ia)1'j:dia  of  britihii  jmj  ameiucax  ruETity. 


Wake,  wake  ai^aiii  !   tlie  iii.i::lit 
Is  bending  from  Iht  throne  ol'  licauly  down, 
Willi  still  stars  beaming  on  InT  aznre  crown, 

Intense  and  elo<inentl.v  briglit! 

Night,  nt  its  pulseless  noon. 
When  the  far  voice  of  waters  mourns  in  song, 
And  some  tired  wateh-dog,  lazily  and  long. 

Barks  at  the  melancholy  moon  I 

Hark  !   how  it  sweeps  away, 
Soaring  and  dying  on  the  silent  sky. 
As  if  some  sprite  of  sonnd  went  wandering  by. 

With  lone  halloo  and  roundelay. 

Swell,  swell  in  glory  ont! 
Thy  tones  come  pouring  ou  my  leaping  Leart, 
And  my  stirred  spirit  hears  thee  with  a  start 

As  boyhood's  old,  remembered  shout. 

Oh,  have  ye  heard  that  peiil 
From  sleeping  city's  moon-bathed  battlements, 
Or  from  the  guarded  field  and  warrior  tents. 

Like  some  near  breath  aronnd  yon  steal  ? 

Or  have  ye,  in  the  roar 
Of  sea,  or  storm,  or  battle,  heard  it  rise, 
Shriller  than  eagle's  clamor,  to  the  skies, 

Where  wiugs  and  tempests  never  soar  ? 

Go,  go  !   no  other  sound, 
No  mnsic  that  of  air  or  earth  is  born. 
Can  match  the  mighty  music  of  that  horn. 

On  midnight's  fathomless  prol'onndl 


3oI)n  5mlal). 


Imlah  (1799-184G),  a  Scottish  song-writer,  was  a  native 
of  Aberdeen,  tlic  son  of  an  iinikcepcr,  and  the  youngest 
of  seven  sons  born  in  succession.  On  completing  an 
ordinary  education  at  the  grammar-school,  he  was  ap- 
prenticed to  a  piano-forte-maker.  Excelling  as  a  jMano- 
tuncr,  he  got  employment  in  that  capacity  in  London. 
He  composed  songs  from  his  boyhood.  In  l.S'2~  he  piili- 
lislicd  "^lay  Flowers,"  a  ISmo  volume  of  lyrics,  chielly 
in  tlie  Scottish  dialect.  His  second  vohinic  of  poems 
appeared  in  ISll. 


Tin-:   GATHERING.' 

Ri.se,  rise !   LoAvlaud  and  Highland  men, 

Bald  sire  to  beardless  son,  each  come,  and  early ; 


'  This  Roiiff  has  been  erroneously  ascribed  to  James  Hog 
the  Ellrick  Shepherd. 


Rise,  rise !   main-land  and  island  men. 

Belt  on  yonr  broad  claymores — fight  for  Prince 
Charlie  ; 

Down  from  the  mountain  steep, 
rp  from  the  valley  deep, 
Ont  from  the  clachan,  the  bothic,  and  shieling, — 
Bugle  and  battle-drnni. 
Bid  chief  and  vassal  come ! 
Bravely  onr  bagpipes  the  pibroch  are  pealing. 

Men  of  the  mountains — descendants  of  heroes! 

Heirs  of  the  fame  as  the  hills  of  your  fathers; 
Say,  shall  the  Southron,  the  Sassenach,  fear  us. 
When  to  the  war-peal  each  plaided  clan  gathers  / 

Too  long  on  the  trophied  walls 

Of  your  ancestral  halls. 
Red  rust  has  blunted  the  armor  of  Albyu  ; 

Seize,  then, — ye  mountain  Macs  ! — 

Buckler  and  battle-axe, 
Lads  of  Locliaber,  Braemar,  and  Breadalbin  ! 

When  hath  the  tartan-plaid  mantled  a  coward  ? 
When  did  the  blue-bonnet  crest  the  disloyal? 
Up,  then,  and  crowd  to  the  standard  of  Stuart, 
Follow  your  leader,  the  rightful,  the  royal : 

Chief  of  Clanronald, 

Donald  Macdonald  ! 
Lovat!   Lochiel !   Avith  the  Grant  and  the  Gordon  I 

Rouse  every  kilted  clan. 

Rouse  every  loyal  man, 
Gun  on  the  shonlder,  and  thigh  the  good  sword  on! 


FROM  "THERE   LIVES  A  YOUNG  LASSUv" 

TIkm'c  lives  a  young  lassie 

Far  down  jon  lang  glen  ; 
How  I  lo'e  that  lassie 

There's  nae  ane  can  ken ! 
O !   a  saint's  faith  may  varj', 

But  faithful  I'll  be  ; 
For  well  I  lo'e  Mary, 

An'  Mary  lo'es  me. 

Red,  red  as  the  rowan' 

Her  smiling  wee  mou' : 
And  white  as  the  gowan'^ 

Her  breast  and  her  brow! 
Wi'  a  foot  o'  a  fairy 

She  links^  o'er  the  lea: 
O !   weel  I  lo'e  Mary, 

And  Mary  lo'es  me. 
'  Mouiitaiii-ash  berry.  *  Daisy.  '  To  trip  along. 


JXOXFMOrS  JXD  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


j27 


vlnontimous  aub  iUiGCcllancous  fJocms 
of  tl)c  18tlj  iiiiLi  imij  Centuries. 


MERRY  MAY  THE   KEEL   ROW. 

AxosiMors  (Scottish — IStii  Cextcrv). 

As  I  came  down  through  Cunuobie, 
Through  Caiinobie,  through  Caunobie, 
The  sniniuer  sun  hail  shut  his  e'e, 

Aud  hjud  a  hiss  did  sing,  O: 
Ye  wcstliu  winds,  all  geutly  blow; 
Ye  seas,  soft  as  uiy  wishes  flow ; 
And  merry  may  the  shallop  row 

That  my  true  love  sails  in,  O ! 

My  love  hath  breatli  like  roses  sweet, 
Like  roses  sweet,  like  roses  sweet, 
Aud  arms  like  lilies  dipped  iu  weet, 

To  fold  a  maiden  in,  O  ! 
There's  not  a  wave  that  swells  the  sea 
But  bears  a  prayer  and  wish  frae  me  ;— 
Oh  soon  may  I  my  true  love  see, 

Wi'  his  bauld  bauds  again,  O  I 

ily  lover  wears  a  bonnet  blue, 
A  bonnet  blue,  a  bonnet  blue — 
A  rose  so  white,  a  heart  so  true, 

A  dimple  on  his  chin,  O ! 
He  bears  a  blade  his  foes  have  felt. 
And  nobles  at  his  nod  have  knelt ; 
My  heart  will  break,  as  well  as  melt, 

Should  he  ne'er  come  again,  O  I 


OH    SAW    YE    THE    LASS? 

Anonymous  (Scottish — 18tii  CENTrRY). 

Oh  saw  ye  the  lass  wi'  the  bonnie  blue  ecu  ? 
Her  smile  is  the  sweetest  that  ever  was  seen  ; 
Her  cheek  like  the  rose  is,  but  fresher,  I  ween  ; 
She's  the  loveliest  lassie  that  trips  on  the  green. 

Tiie  home  of  my  love  is  below  in  the  valley, 
Where  wild  flowers  welcome  the  wandering  bee  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  flowers  in  that  spot  that  is  seen 
Is  the  dear  one  1  love  wi'  the  bonnie  blue  een. 

When  night  overshadows  her  cot  iu  the  glen, 
.She'll  steal  out  to  meet  her  loved  Donald  again  ; 
Aud  when  the  moon  shines  on  yon  valley  so  green, 
ril  welcome  the  lass  wi'  the  bonnie  blue  een. 


As  the  dove  that  has  wandered  away  from  his  nest, 
Returns  to  the  mate  his  fond  heart  loves  the  best, 
I'll  fly  from  the  world's  false  and  vanishing  scene, 
To  niv  dear  one.  the  lass  w  i'  the  bonnie  blue  een. 


THE   PAUPER'S    DRIVE. 

Thomas  Xoel  (British — 19th  Centiry). 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  iu  a  jolly  round  trot, 
To  the  church-yard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 
The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  s[)riiigs; 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  sad  driver  sings: 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  I 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  ?  Alas  !  there  are  none  ; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  iu  the  world  now  he's  gone — 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man  ; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can  : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns ! 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and  din ! 
The  whip  how^  it  cracks,  and  the  Avheels  how  they 

spin  ! 
How  the  dirt,  right  and  left, o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  I 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns ! 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  .some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach  ! 
He's  taking  a  drive  iu  his  carriage  at  last; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast ! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns ! 

You  bumpkins!  who  stare  at  your  brother  conveyed. 

Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  jjaid  ! 

Aud  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid 

low, 
Y'ou've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gcmman  to  go! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones! 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owus ! 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  ;    for  my  soul  it  is  sad. 
To  think  that  a  heart  iu  Innnanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end. 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend. 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

Though   a  pauper,  he's  cue   whom  his  Maker 
yet  owns ! 


528 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  lililTISR  AXJ>  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


SONNET:  DECEMBER  MORNING. 

Anna  Sewaud  (Lichfield,  Knoland — IT-IT-IHUO). 

I  lovo  to  rise  ere  gleams  the  tardy  lij;Iit, 
Wiuter's  palo  tlawu  ;    and  as  warm  liies  illuiiu', 
And  cbeerfnl  tapers  sliine  around  the  room, 
Through  misty  windows  bend  my  musing  sight, 
Where,  round  the  dusky  hiwn,  the  mansions  white, 
With  shutters  closed,  peer  faintly  through  the  gloom, 
That  slow  recedes  ;  while  yon  gray  si)ircs  assume, 
Rising  from  their  dark  pile,  an  added  height 
By  indistinctness  given.     Then  to  decree 
The  grateful  thoughts  to  God,  ere  they  unfold 
To  friendship  or  the  Muse,  or  seek  with  glee 
Wisdom's  rich  page.    O  hours  more  worth  than  gold, 
By  whose  blessed  use  we  lengthen  life,  and,  free 
From  drear  decays  of  age,  outlive  the  old ! 


SONG   OF   BIRTH. 

Anonymous  (British — 19th  CENTrRT). 

Hail,  uew-waked  .atom  of  the  Eternal  whole, 
Young  voyager  upon  Time's  mighty  riv^er! 
Ilail  to  thee,  Human  Soul, 

Hail,  and  forever ! 
Pilgrim  of  life,  all  hail ! 
He  who  at  first  called  forth 
From  nothingness  the  earth. 
Who  clothed  the  hills  in  strength,  and  dug  the  sea; 
Who  gave  the  stars  to  gem 
Night,  like  a  diatleni, 

Thou  little  child,  made  thee  ; 
Young  habitant  of  earlli. 
Fair  as  its  ilowers,  though  brought  in  sorrow  forth, 
Thou  art  akin  to  God  who  fashioned  thee  ! 

The  Heavens  themselves  shall  vanish  as  a  scroll. 
The  solid  earth  dissolve,  the  stars  grow  pale, 
But  thou,  O  human  Soul, 

Shalt  be  immortal !     Hail ! 
Thou  young  Immortal,  hail ! 
He,  before  whom  are  dim 
Seraph  and  cherubim, 
Who  gave  the  archangels  strength  and  majesty, 
Who  sits  upon  Heaven's  throne. 
The  Everlasting  One, 

Thou  little  child,  made  thee! 
Fair  habitant  of  Earth, 
Immortal  in  thy  God,  though  mortal  by  thy  birth. 
Born  for  life's  trials,  hail,  all  hail  to  thee ! 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 
Anonymous  (liBinsii — 1'.)th  Centlry). 

Sliiink  not,  O  human  Spirit, 
The  Everlasting  Arm  is  strong  to  save! 

Look  up,  look  up,  frail  nature,  put  thy  trust 
In  Him  Avho  went  down  mourning  to  the  dust, 

And  overcame  the  grave ! 

Quickly  goes  down  the  sun  ; 

Life's  work  is  almost  done  ; 
Fruitless  endeavor,  hope  deferred,  and  strife! 

One  little  struggle  more. 

One  pang,  and  then  is  o'er 
All  the  long,  mournful,  weariness  of  life. 

Kind  friends,  'tis  almost  past ; 

Come  now  and  look  your  last  I 

Sweet  children,  gather  near. 

And  his  last  blessing  heai", 
See  how  he  loved  you  who  departeth  now  ! 
And,  with  thy  trembling  step  and  pallid  brow. 

Oh,  most  belovdd  one. 

Whose  breast  he  leaned  upon. 

Come,  faithful  unto  death. 

Receive  his  parting  breath  ! 
The  fluttering  spirit  pauteth  to  be  free, 
Hold  him  not  back  who  speeds  to  victory ! 
— The  bonds  are  riven,  the  struggling  soul  is  free  ! 

Hail,  hail,  enfranchised  Spirit ! 
Thou  that  the  wine-press  of  the  field  hast  trod  ! 
On,  blessed  Immortal,  on,  through  boundless  space, 
And  stand  with  thy  Redeemer  face  to  face  ; 

And  stand  before  thy  God ! 

Life's  weary  work  is  o'er, 

Tliou  art  of  earth  no  more ; 
No  more  art  tramuielled  by  the  oppressive  clay. 

But  tread'st  with  winged  ease 

The  high  acclivities 
Of  truths  sublinu>,  up  Heaven's  crystalline  way. 

Here  is  no  bootless  quest ; 

This  city's  name  is  Rest ; 

Here  shall  no  fear  appal ; 

Hero  love  is  all  in  all ; 
Here  shalt  thou  w'in  thy  ardent  soul's  desire  ; 
Here  clothe  thee  in  thy  beautiful  attire. 

Lift,  lift  thy  wond'ring  ejes ! 

Yonder  is  Pai'adise, 

And  this  fair  shining  baud 

Are  spirits  of  thy  land ! 
And  these  who  throng  to  meet  thee  are  thy  kin, 
Wiio  have  awaited  thee,  redeemed  from  sin  ! 
— The  city's  gates  unfold — enter,  oh  !   enter  in  ! 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  I'OEMS. 


529 


YOUNG   AIRLY. 

Anontmods  (Scottish— 18th  Centurt). 

Koii  yo  aiigbt  of  bnive  Locliiel  ? 

Or  ken  ye  anglit  of  Airly  ? 
They  have  belted  on  tlieir  bright  broadswords, 

Aud  off  aud  awa'  wi'  Charlie! 
Now  briug  me  tire,  uiy  merry,  merry  men, 

And  bring  it  red  and  yarely — 
At  mirk  midnight  there  flashed  a  light 

O'er  the  topmost  towers  of  Airly. 

What  lowe'  is  yon,  quo'  the  gude  Lochiel, 

Which  gleams  so  red  and  rarely  ? 
By  the  CTod  of  my  kin,  quo'  young  Ogilvie, 

It's  my  ain  bonuie  hame  of  Airly  ! 
Put  up  your  sword,  said  the  brave  Lochiel, 

And  calm  your  mooil,  said  Charlie ; 
Ere  morning  glow  we'll  raise  a  lowe 

Far  brighter  than  bounie  Airly. 

Oh,  yon  fair  tower's  my  native  tower! 

Nor  will  it  soothe  my  mourning, 
Were  London  palace,  tower,  and  town. 

As  fiist  and  brightly  burning. 
It's  no  my  hame — my  father's  hame. 

That  reddens  my  cheek  sae  sairlie — 
But  u\y  ^Yife,  and  twa  sweet  babes  I  left 

To  smoor"  in  the  smoke  of  Airly. 


LOVE'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

James  Kexnet  (see  Page  359). 

Dear  Tom,  my  brave,  free-hearted  lad. 

Where'er  you  go,  God  bless  jou  ; 
You'd  better  speak  than  wish  you  bad, 

If  love  for  me  distress  you. 
To  me,  they  say,  your  thoughts  incline, 

And  possibly  they  may  so : 
Then,  once  for  all,  to  quiet  mine, 

Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so. 

On  that  sound  heart  and  manly  frame 

Sits  lightly  sport  or  labor. 
Good-humored,  frank,  and  still  the  same, 

To  parent,  friend,  or  neighbor: 
Then  why  postpone  your  love  to  own 

For  me,  from  day  to  day  so, 
Aud  let  me  whisper,  still  alone, 

"  Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so  ?" 


*  To  smotliei-. 


34 


How  oft  when  I  was  sick,  or  sad 

With  some  remeni\)ered  folly, 
The  sight  of  you  has  made  luo  glad, — 

And  then  most  melancholy  ! 
Ah!   Avhy  will  thoughts  of  one  so  good 

Upon  my  spirit  prey  so  ? 
By  you  it  should  be  understood — 

"  Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so !" 

Last  Monday,  at  the  cricket-match. 

No  rival  stood  before  you ; 
In  harvest-time,  for  quick  despatch 

The  farmers  all  adore  you  ; 
And  evermore  your  praise  they  sing, 

Though  one  thing  you  delay  so, 
Aud  I  sleep  nightly  murmuring, 

"  Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so !" 

Whate'er  of  ours  you  chance  to  seek. 

Almost  before  you  breathe  it, 
I  briug  with  blushes  on  my  cheek, 

And  all  my  soul  goes  -with  it. 
Why  thank  me,  then,  with  voice  so  low, 

And  faltering  turn  away  so  ? 
When  next  you  come,  before  you  go, 

Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so ! 

W^heu  Jasper  Wild,  beside  the  brook. 

Resentful  round  us  lowered, 
I  oft  recall  that  lion-look 

That  quelled  the  savage  coward. 
Bold  Avords  aud  free  you  uttered  then  : 

Would  they  could  find  their  way  so. 
When  these  moist  eyes  so  plainly  mean, 

"  Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so !" 

My  friends,  'tis  true,  are  well  to  do, 

Aud  yours  are  poor  and  friendless ; 
Ah,  no  !   for  they  are  rich  in  you. 

Their  happiness  is  endless. 
Y'ou  never  let  them  shed  a  tear. 

Save  that  on  you  they  weigh  so ; 
There's  one  might  bring  you  better  cheer; 

Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so ! 

My  uncle's  legacy  is  all 

For  you,  Tom,  whcrt  you  choose  it ; 
In  better  hands  it  cannot  fall. 

Or  better  trained  to  use  it. 
I'll  wait  for  years ;   but  let  me  not 

Nor  wooed  nor  plighted  stay  so ; 
Since  wealth  and  worth  make  even  lot, — 

Tom,  if  you  love  me,  say  so  ! 


530 


cTCLorjwiA  OF  nniTjsn  jxd  americax  roETiiY. 


SONNET:   COMPARISON. 

AXONTMOl-S  (Bbitisu— IOtii  Cestcht). 

The  lake  lay  hid  in  mist,  and  to  tlio  sand 

The  little  billows  hastening  silently 

Camo  sparkling  on,  in  many  a  gladsome  baud, 

Soou  as  they  touched  the  shore  all  doomed  to  die. 

I  gazed  npon  them  with  a  pensive  eye ; 

For,  on  that  dim  and  melancholy  strand, 

I  saw  the  image  of  man's  destiny  : 

So  hurry  we  right  onward  thoughtlessly, 

Unto  the  coast  of  that  Eternal  Laud, 

Where,  like  the  worthless  billows  in  their  glee. 

The  first  faint  touch  unable  to  withstand, 

We  melt  at  once  into  eternity. 

O  Thou  who  weighest  the  waters  in  thine  hand. 

My  awe-struck  spirit  imts  her  trust  in  Thee! 


THE  CROCUS'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Miss  Hnnnah  Flags;  Gould  (17S9-lS65),by  whom  the  following 
little  poem  wns  written,  was  a  native  of  Lancaster,  Vt.,  \ml  siib- 
sequently  resided  in  Newbui-yport,  Mass.  A  volume  of  her  po- 
ems appeared  in  183?;  another  in  1836;  and  a  third  in  1841. 

Down  in  my  solitude  under  the  snow, 
Where  nothing  cheering  can  reach  me, 

Here,  without  light  to  see  how  to  grow, 
I'll  trust  to  nature  to  teach  me. 

I  will  not  despair,  nor  be  idle,  nor  frown. 

Locked  in  so  gloomy  a  dwelling ; 
My  leaves  shall  run  up,  and  my  roots  shall  run  down. 

While  the  bud  in  my  bosom  is  swelling. 

Soon  as  the  frost  will  get  out  of  my  bed. 
From  this  cold  dungeon  to  free  me, 

I  will  peer  up  with  my  little  bright  head; 
All  will  be  joyful  to  see  me. 

Then  from  my  heart  will  young  petals  diverge. 
As  rays  of  the  sun  from  their  focus; 

I  from  the  darkness  of  earth  will  emerge, 
A  happy  and  beautiful  crocus. 

Gayly  aiTayed  in  mj'  yellow  and  green, 

When  to  their  view  I  h.avo  risen. 
Will  they  not  wonder  that  one  so  serene 

Came  from  so  dismal  a  prison  ? 

Many,  perhaps,  from  so  simple  a  flower 

This  little  lesson  may  borrow : 
Patient  to-day,  through  its  gloomiest  hour. 

We  come  out  the  brijrhter  to-morrow. 


THE    MANAGING    MAMMA. 

Anostmocs  (BiimsH— 19th  CESxunT). 

She  walketh  up  and  down  the  marriage  mart. 
And  swells  with  triumph  as  her  wares  depart; 
In  velvet  clad,  with  well-bejcwelled  hands, 
She  has  a  smile  for  him  who  owns  broad  lands, 
And  wears  her  nodding  plumes  with  rare  efi'ect 
In  passing  poverty  with  head  erect. 
She  tries  each  would-be  suitor  in  the  scale — 
That  social  scale  whose  balance  does  not  fail ; 
So  much  for  wealth,  so  nmch  for  noble  blood, 
Deduct  for  age,  or  for  some  clinging  mud. 
Her  daughters,  too,  avcU  tutored  by  her  art. 
All  unreluctant  in  her  game  take  part ; 
Or,  meekly  passive,  yield  themselves  to  fate. 
Knowing  full  well  resistance  is  too  late. 
Thus  are  her  victims  to  the  altar  led, 
With  shining  robes  and  flowers  upon  the  head  ; 
There,  at  the  holy  shrine,  'mid  sacred  vows. 
She  fancies  Heaven  will  bless  what  earth  allows, 
And  sells  her  child  to  Mammon  with  a  smile, 
While  Mephistoiiheles  approves  the  style. 


A  RIDDLE   OX   THE   LETTER  H. 
Miss  CATiiEniSE  M.  Fanshawe  (England — 1764^1834). 

'Twas  whispered  in  heaven, 'twas  muttered  in  hell, 
And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell ; 
On  the  confines  of  earth  'twas  permitted  to  rest, 
And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed. 
'Twill  be  foinul  in  the  sphere,  when  'tis  riven  asun- 
der. 
Be  seen  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 
'Twas  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath. 
Attends  at  his  birth  and  awaits  him  in  death  : 
Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health, 
Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth  : 
In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  'tis  hoarded  with  care. 
But  is  sure  to  be  lost  on  his  prodigal  heir. 
It  begins  every  hope,  every  -wish  it  must  bound, 
With  the  husbandman  toils,  and  with  monaichs  is 

crowned. 
Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman  may  roam. 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home. 
In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 
Nor  c'eu  in  the  whirlwind  of  pa.ssion  is  drowned. 
'Twill  not  soften  the  heart ;  and  though  deaf  be  the 

ear, 
It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 
Yet  in  shade  let  it  rest  like  a  delicate  flower. 
Ah,  breathe  on  it  softly — it  dies  in  an  hour. 


AXOXTMOUS  AXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


531 


SWEET  TYRANT,  LOVE. 

The  followiug  appeared  in  the  London  Literary  Gazette,  Octo- 
ber 9, 1S30,  as  uiuloubtedly  the  production  of  James  Thomson. 
It  was  taken  from  a  mauiiscript  vohime  of  dramatic  and  oth- 
er collections,  made  by  a  Mr.  Ogle,  who  published  a  work  on 
Gems,  toward  the  latter  part  of  the  ISth  century.  The  internal 
evidence  is  good,  and  justifies  the  ascription.  For  an  account 
of  Thomson,  see  page  105. 

Sweet  tyrant,  Love !   but  hear  me  uow, 

Aud  cure,  while  youug,  this  pleasing  smart. 
Or  rather  aid  my  ti'embling  vow, 

And  teach  me  to  reveal  my  heart : 
Tell  her  whose  goodness  is  my  bane. 

Whose  looks  have  smiled  my  peace  away — 
Oh,  whisper  how  she  gives  me  pain. 

Whilst  uudesigning,  frank,  and  gay  ! 

'Tis  not  for  common  charms  I  sigh. 

For  what  the  vulgar  beauty  call ; 
'Tis  not  a  cheek,  a  lip,  an  eye — 

But  'tis  the  soul  that  lights  them  all. 
For  that  I  drop  the  tender  tear, 

For  that  I  make  this  artless  moan, 
Oh,  sigh  it,  Love,  into  her  ear. 

And  make  the  bashful  lover  known  ! 


THE   END   OF  THE   DEOUGHT. 

AxoxTMOus  iBritish— 19th  Century). 

The  rain's  come  at  last ! 
And  'tis  pouring  as  fast 
As  if  it  would  pay  the  arrears  of  the.  past ; 
While  the  clouds  on  the  wind 

Press  on  thicker  aud  thicker, 
As  if  they'd  a  mind 

To  disgorge  all  their  liquor. 

Let  them  patter  away — 
There's  a  toper  to-day 
Tliat  will  take  their  whole  tonnage  to  moisten  his 
clay: 

Yea,  though  they  keep  up 

For  a  fortnight  their  dropping, 
He  won't  flinch  a  cup. 
Nor  require  any  moppiug. 

Yea,  earth  that  was  cursed 
With  a  vehement  thirst. 
Is  drinking  so  eager  you'd  fancy  he'd  burst ; 
And  his  hot  chappy  lips — 

How  he  smacks  them  together 


As  he  gulps,  tastes,  aud  sips 
The  delicious  wet  weather! 

See  the  beautiful  flowers. 
How  they  soak  in  the  showers 
That  plash  on  the  meadows  or  splash  through  the 
bowers ! 

Leaves,  blossoms,  and  shoots 

Quaft'  with  succulent  mouth  ; 
And  the  fibres  and  roots 
Are  imbibing  the  South. 

The  farmer's  nice  ear 
Distinctly  can  hear 
The  growth  of  his  croiJs  through  their  bacchanal 
cheer ; 

And  the  boozy  potatoes 
Cry  out,  under  cover, 
"With  elbow-room  treat  us, 
Arrah  !   neighbors,  lie  over." 

The  horses  aud  cows. 
Neglecting  to  browse, 
Stand  still  Avheu  they  give  their  parched  hides  a 
carouse ; 

Aud  tlie  indolent  sheep 

Their  frieze  jackets  unbutton. 
While  with  rain-drops  they  steep 
Their  half-roasted  mutton. 

The  birds  of  the  air 
Seem  little  to  care. 
If  the  summer  should  never  again  dry  up  fair ; 
For  they're  dabbling,  like  snipes, 

And  rejoicing  together, 
While  the  quail  tunes  his  pipes 
To  wet-tceather  !  xcet-treather  ! 

The  ducks  and  the  drakes 
Spread  their  feathers  in  flakes. 
And  dabble  their  bellies  in  stable-yard  lakes ; 
And  nothing  on  earth 

Can  be  half  so  absurd 
As  the  bibulous  mirth 
Of  the  pond-loving  Ijird. 

In  brief,  to  sum  up — 
All  things  seem  to  sup 
New  vigor  from  Nature's  most  bountiful  cup; 
While  the  sky  dropping  rain, 

And  the  sun,  shining  southerly. 
Make  the  country  again 

Look  good-natured  and  motherly. 


53-2 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  lilUTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY, 


THREE   KISSES   OF   FAKEWELL. 

FnoM  ONE  OF  "  EsTnEU  Wtns's  Love-lettehs,"  by  the  Anony- 
mous AUTHOIl  OP  THE   SAXE-HoLM   STOB1E8   (1873). 

Tlirco,  only  tliroc,  my  darling, 

Separate,  solemn,  slow  : 
Not  like  the  swift  and  joyous  cues 

We  used  to  know, — 
When  -wo  kissed  because  we  loved  cacli  other, 

Simply  to  taste  love's  sweet. 
And  lavished  our  kisses  as  the  summer 

Lavishes  heat, — 
But  as  they  kiss  whose  hearts  are  wrung, 

When  hope  and  fear  are  spent. 
And  nothing  is  left  to  give,  except 

A  sacrament  ! 

First  of  the  three,  my  darling. 

Is  sacred  unto  pain  : 
We  have  hurt  each  otlier  often, — 

We  sliall  again, — 
When  we  pine  because  we  miss  each  otiier, 

Aud  do  not  understand 
How  the  written  Avords  are  so  much  colder 

Thau  eje  aud  hand. 
I  kiss  thee,  dear,  for  all  such  pain 

Which  wc  may  give  or  take; — 
Buried — forgiven  before  it  comes. 

For  our  love's  sake ! 

The  second  kiss,  my  darling, 

Is  full  of  joy's  sweet  thrill ; 
We  have  blessed  each  other  always; 

We  always  will. 
We  shall  reach  until  we  feel  each  other. 

Past  all  of  time  and  space. 
We  shall  listen  till  we  hear  each  otlier 

In  every  place. 
The  earth  is  full  of  messengers 

Which  love  sends  to  aud  fro. 
I  kiss  thee,  darling,  for  all  the  joy 

Which  wc  .shall  know. 

The  last  kiss,  oh,  ray  darling, 

My  love — I  cannot  see 
Through  my  tears,  as  I  rcniembor 

What  it  may  be. 
We  may  die  and  never  see  each  otlier, 

Die  with  no  time  to  give 
Any  sign  that  our  hearts  are  faithful 

To  die  as  live. 
Token  of  what  they  will  not  see 

Who  see  our  parting  breath : 


This  one  last  kiss,  my  darling,  seals 
The  seal  of  death! 


THE   SAILOR'S  CONSOLATION. 

In  Cassell's  "Illustrated  Readings,"  edited  by  Tom  Hood, 
tlic  younger  (1S3.V1S75),  this  aimi^int,'  song  is  credited  to  Wil- 
liam Pilt,  who  was  master  attendant  at  Jamaica  Dock-yard,  and 
afterward  at  Malta,  where  he  died  in  1S40.  It  is  credited  in 
many  collections  to  Charles  Dibdin  ;  an  error  arising  probably 
from  the  fact  that  Dibdin  wrote  a  song  nnder  the  same  title, 
and  commencing— 

"Spanking  Jack  was  so  comely,  so  pleasant,  so  jolly, 

Though  winds  blew  great  guns  still  he"d  whistle  and  sing  : 
Jack  loved  his  friend,  and  was  true  to  his  Molly, 
Aud,  if  honor  gives  greatness,  was  great  as  a  king." 

This  song  was  set  to  music,  and  published  by  Xovello  &  Co.. 
London.  Pitt's  song  (a  much  better  one)  was  also  set  to  innsir, 
aud  published  by  Purday  &  Son,  London. 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane, 

The  sea  was  mountains  rolling. 
When  Barney  Bnntline  turued  his  quid. 

And  said  to  Billy  Bowling — 
"A  strong  nor'-wester's  blowing,  Billy — 

Hark  I   don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now  ? 
Lord  help  'em  !   how  I  pities  all 

Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now  I 

"Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  town — 

What  danger  they  are  all  in  I 
And  now  are  quaking  in  their  beds. 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall  in. 
Poor  creatures!   how  they  envies  u.s. 

And  wishes,  I've  a  notion, 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm, 

To  be  u])on  the  ocean. 

"  But  as  for  tliem  wlio're  out  all  day. 

On  business  from  their  houses, 
And  late  at  night  are  coming  home, 

To  cheer  the  babes  and  spouses. 
While  you  aud  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying — 
My  eyes !   what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

About  their  heads  are  Hying! 

"  And  very  often  have  wc  heard 
How  men  are  killed  and  undone 

By  overturns  of  carriages, 
■  By  thieves  and  tires  in  London. 

We  know  what  risks  all  landsmeu  run. 
From  noblemeu  to  tailors ; 

Tiien,  liill,  let  us  thank  Providence 
That  you  and  I  are  sailors !'' 


ANOyi'MOUS  AM)  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


533 


WHEEE   IS   HE? 

Ileuiy  Neele  (179S-tS'2S),  author  of  the  following  poem,  was  a 
native  of  London,  who  published  two  volunies  of  poems,  and- 
wrote  "The  Romance  of  English  History."  Just  after  his  thir- 
tieth birthday  he  committed  suicide  iu  a  lit  of  despondency. 

And  Avhero  is  lie  ?     Not  by  the  side 

Of  her  whose  wauts  ho  loved  to  tend  ; 
\ot  o'er  those  valleys  wandering  wide, 

Where,  sweetly  lost,  he  oft  would  wend 
That  form  beloved  he  marks  no  more  ; 

Those  scenes  admired  no  more  shall  see— 
Tliose  scenes  are  lovely  as  before. 

And  she  as  fair — but  where  is  he  ? 

No,  no  I   the  radiance  is  not  dim 

That  used  to  gild  his  favorite  hill ; 
Tlie  pleasures  that  were  dear  to  him 

Are  dear  to  life  and  nature  still ; 
But  ah!   his  home  is  not  so  fair; 

Neglected  must  his  garden  be — • 
The  lilies  droop  and  wither  there. 

And  seem  to  whisper,  where  is  he  ? 

His  was  the  pomp,  the  crowded  hall ! 

But  where  is  now  the  proud  display  ? 
His  riches,  honors,  pleasures,  all 

Desire  could  frame :  but  where  are  they  ? 
And  he,  as  some  tall  rock  that  stands 

Protected  by  the  circling  sea, 
Surrounded  by  admiring  bauds. 

Seemed  proudly  strong — and  where  is  he  ? 

The  church-yard  bears  an  added  stone, 

The  fireside  shows  a  vacant  chair  ; 
Here  sadness  dwells  and  weeps  alone, 

Aud  death  displays  his  banner  there  ; 
The  life  has  gone,  the  breath  has  fled, 

Aud  what  has  beeu  no  more  shall  be  ; 
The  well-kuowu  form,  the  welcome  tread, 

O  where  are  tliey  ?   and  where  is  he  ? 


HEAVING    OF    THE    LEAD. 

Anonimous  (BniTisii — 18th  Century). 

For  England  when  with  favoring  gale 
Our  gallant  ship  up  Channel  steered, 

And,  scudding  Tinder  easy  sail. 

The  high  blue  western  land  appeared ; 

To  heave  the  lead  the  seaman  sprung, 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

'•  By  the  deep — nine !" 


And  bearing  up  to  gain  the  port. 

Some  well-known  object  kept  in  view  ; 

An  abbey-tower,  the  harbor-fort. 
Or  beacon  to  the  vessel  true  ; 

While  oft  the  lead  the  seaman  flung, 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

''  By  the  mark — seven  !" 

And  as  the  inuch-loved  shore  we  near. 
With  transport  Ave  behold  the  roof 

Where  dwelt  a  friend  or  partner  dear, 
Of  faith  and  love  a  matchless  proof. 

The  lead  once  more  the  seaman  flung, 

Aud  to  the  watchful  pilot  snug, 

"  Quarter  less — five  !" 

Now  to  her  berth  the  ship  draws  nigh : 
We  shorten  sail — she  feels  the  tide — 

"  Stand  clear  the  cable,"  is  the  cry — 
The  anchor's  gone  ;   we  safely  ride. 

The  watch  is  set,  and  through  the  night 

We  hear  the  seaman  with  delight 

Proclaim— "All's  well!" 


COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Anonymous  (Scottish — 18th  Centuky). 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comiu'  through  the  rye. 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  bodj'. 

Need  a  body  cry? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amaug  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  mysel' ; 
But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I  dinua  care  to  tell. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  frae  the  town, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body. 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comiu'  through  the  rye. 
Amaug  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  mysel' ; 
But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I  dinna  care  to  tell. 


534 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


OH!  SAY  NOT  WOMAN'S  HEART  IS  BOUGHT. 

Thomas  Love  Teacock.' 

Oh !   saj'  not  womau's  beart  is  bought 

With  vain  and  empty  treasure ; 
Oh !  say  not  woman's  heart  is  canght 

By  every  idle  pleasure. 
When  fust  her  gentle  bosom  knows 

Love's  flame,  it  wanders  never ; 
Deep  iu  her  heart  the  passion  glows, — 

She  loves,  and  loves  forever. 

Oh!   say  not  woman's  false  as  fair, 

That  like  the  bee  she  ranges ; 
Still  seeking  flowers  more  sweet  and  rare, 

As  fickle  fancy  changes. 
Ah,  no !  the  love  that  first  can  warm 

Will  leave  her  bosom  never ; 
No  second  passion  e'er  can  charm, — 

She  loves,  and  loves  forever. 


LOVE    AND    AGE. 
Thomas  Love  Peacock." 

I  played  with  yon  'mid  cowslips  blowing, 

When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four  ; 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower-balls  throwing. 

Were  pleasures  soon  to  jilease  no  more. 
Through  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 

With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro, 
We  wandered  hand  in  hand  together: 

But  that  was  sixty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 

And  still  our  earlj-  love  was  strong ; 
Still  with  no  care  our  days  were  laden, 

They  glided  joyously  along  : 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly — 

How  dearly,  words  want  power  to  show  ; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touched  as  nearly  : 

But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 

Tliiii  oilier  lovers  came  around  you, 
Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year, 

And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 
The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 


>  Novelist  and  poet,  Peacock  (Ensrland— 1785-1866)  wrote 
"Headlons  IlaU"  (1S15).  His  chief  poeme  were  "Palmyra" 
(IsOU)  ;  "The  Genius  of  the  Thamei^  "  (ISIO,  1812) ;  and  "  Rho- 
dodaphne  ;  or,  tlie  Thcssalian  Spell '"  (ISlS).  Peacock  held  an 
appointment  iu  the  India  Ilouse,  but  found  his  best  relaxation 
iu  literature. 


I  saw  yon  then,  first  vows  forsaking,' 
On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow  ; 

Oil,  then  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking, — 
But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

And  I  lived  on,  to  wed  another: 

No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine ; 
And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 

I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 
My  own  young  flock,  in  fair  progression. 

Made  up  a  jileasant  Christmas  row : 
My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression ; 

But  that  was  thirty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 

You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze ; 
My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely, — 

But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 
No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glistened 

Around  the  hearth-stone's  wintry  glow, 
Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christened 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  passed.     My  eldest  girl  was  married. 

And  I  am  now  a  grandsire  gray ; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 

Among  the  wild-llowered  meads  to  play. 
In  our  old  fiejds  of  childish  pleasure. 

Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow. 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure, — 

And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  though  first  love's  impassioned  blindness 

Has  passed  away  in  colder  light, 
I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness, 

And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good-night. 
The  ever-rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  wo  shall  not  know, 
When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 

Will  be  an  hundred  vears  ago! 


GO,  SIT   BY  THE   SUMMER   SEA. 
Anontmocs  (British— 18th  Centcrt). 

Go,  sit  by  the  summer  sea, 

Thou  whom  scorn  wasteth, 
And  let  thy  nnising  bo 

Where  the  flood  hasteth. 
Mark  how  o'er  ocean's  breast 
Rolls  the  hoar  billow's  crest: 
Such  is  his  heart's  unrest, 
Who  of  love  tasteth  ! 


JXONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


535 


Giiev'st  tlioH  (hat  hearts  should  change 

Lo !   whore  life  reigueth, 
Or  the  free  sight  doth  range, 

Wliat  long  reniaineth? 
Spring  with  her  Howers  doth  die  ; 
Fast  fades  the  gihled  sky  ; 
And  the  fiiU-moou  on  high 

Ceaselessly  waneth. 

Smile,  then,  ye  sage  and  wise  ! 

And  if  love  sever 
Bonds  which  thy  soul  doth  prize. 

Such  does  it  ever! 
Deep  as  the  rolling  seas, 
Soft  as  the  twilight  breeze, — 
And  yet  of  more  than  these 

Boast  could  it  never! 


TO   A  BEREAVED  MOTHER. 

John  Quincy  Aflams,  son  of  the  second  President  of  the  United 
States,  and  himself  President  for  cue  term,  published,  in  1S32, 
a  long  composition  iu  verse,  entitled  "  Dermot  MacMorrogh." 
The  following  tender  little  lyric  from  his  pen  will  probably  out- 
last all  his  other  poetical  productions.  Adams  died  in  the  Cap- 
itol at  Washington,  February  23d,  1S4S.  His  last  words  were, 
'•  This  is  the  last  of  earth  !"'  He  was  born  in  Braintree,  Mass., 
July  11th,  ITOT. 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blessed 

When  infant  innocence  ascends. 
Some  angel,  brighter  than  the  rest. 

The  spotless  spirit's  flight  attends. 
On  wings  of  ecstasy  they  rise, 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll. 
Till  some  fair  sister  of  the  skies 

Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 
That  inextinguishable  beam. 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth, 
Sheds  a  more  dim,  discolored  gleam 

The  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  mortal  breath 

Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume. 
And  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death 

Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb, 
No  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire 

Has  quenched  the  radiance  of  the  flame  ; 
Back  to  its  God  the  living  fire 

Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 
Fond  mourner,  be  that  solace  thine ! 

Let  Hope  her  healing  charm  impart. 
And  soothe,  with  melodies  divine. 

The  anguish  of  a  mother's  heart. 


Oh,  think!   the  darlings  of  thy  love. 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 
Amid  unnumbered  saints,  above. 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  God. 
O'er  thee,  with  looks  of  love,  they  bend  ; 

For  thee  the  Lord  of  life  implore  ; 
And  oft  from  sainted  bliss  descend 

Thy  wounded  spirit  to  restore. 
Then  dry,  henceforth,  the  bitter  tear ; 

Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see : 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here. 

They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee! 


AGAIN. 


Anontoous  (British — 19th  Century). 

O  sweet  and  fair !   O  rich  and  rare ! 

That  day  so  loug  ago  ; 
The  autumn  sunshine  eveiywhere. 

The  heather  all  aglow  ! 
The  ferns  were  clad  iu  cloth  of  gold. 

The  waves  sang  on  the  shore : 
Such  suns  will  shine,  such  waves  will  sing. 

Forever,  evermore. 

O  fit  and  few  !    O  tried  and  true  ! 

The  friends  who  met  that  day  ; 
Each  oue  the  other's  spirit  knew ; 

And  so,  in  earnest  play. 
The  hours  flew  past,  until  at  last 

The  twilight  kissed  the  shore. 
We  said,  "  Such  days  shall  come  again 

Forever,  evermore." 

Oue  day  again,  no  cloud  of  pain 

A  shadow  o'er  us  cast ; 
And  yet  we  strove  in  vain,  in  vain. 

To  conjure  up  the  past. 
Like,  but  unlike,  the  sun  that  shone. 

The  waves  that  beat  the  shore. 
The  words  we  said,  the  songs  we  suug — 

Like, — unlike, — evermore. 

For  ghosts  unseen  crept  in  between, 

And,  when  onr  songs  flowed  free. 
Sang  discords  in  an  undertone, 

And  marred  our  harmony. 
"  The  past  is  ours,  not  yours,"  they  said  ; 

"  The  waves  that  beat  the  shore. 
Though  like  the  same,  are  uot  the  same, 

O  never,  never  more  I" 


536 


CYCLOrjWlA    OF  JiRrnSH  AND  AMEltlCAN  I'VETllY. 


NEVER  DESPAIR. 

Anonvmol's  (BniTisii — lOxii  CENTunY). 

Tho  opal-luied  and  niaiiy-perfmnod  Mi»in 

From  Gloom  is  born  ; 
I'roiii  out  the  siilleu  depth  of  cltoii  Night 

Tho  stars  shed  liglit ; 
(jleras  ill  the  ray  less  caverns  of  tho  earth 

Have  their  slow  birth  ; 
From  wondrous  alchemy  of  winter-hours 

Come  summer  flowers ; 
Tho  bitter  waters  of  tho  restless  main 

Give  gentle  rain  ; 
The  fading  bloom  and  dry  seed  bring  once  more 

The  year's  fresh  store  ; 
Just  sequences  of  clashing  tones  afford 

Tho  full  accord  ; 
Tiirough  weary  ages,  full  of  strife  and  rnth, 

Thought  reaches  Truth  ; 
Through  efforts,  long  in  vain,  prophetic  Need 

Begets  the  Deed : 

Nerve,  then,  thy  soul  with  direst  need  to  cope : 

Life's  brightest  liopo 
Lies  latent  in  Fate's  darkest,  deadliest  lair — 

Never  despair ! 


MY  PHILOSOPHY. 

ANONTMors  (British— IOtii  Century). 

Bright  things  can  never  die. 

Even  though  they  fade  ; 
Beauty  and  minstrelsy 

I^eathless  Avere  made. 
What  though  the  summer  day 
Passes  at  eve  away  ? 
Doth  not  the  moon's  soft  ray 

Solace  the  uigbt  ? 
Bright  things  can  never  die, 
Saith  my  philosophy  : 
Phd'bus,  while  passing  by, 

Leaves  ns  the  light. 

Kind  words  can  never  die : 

Cherished  and  blessed, 
God  knows  how  deep  they  lie 

Stored  in  tho  breast! 
Like  childhood's  simple  rhymes, 
Said  o'er  a  thousand  times, 
Ay,  in  all  years  and  climes. 


Distant  and  near. 
Kind  words  can  never  die, 
Saith  my  philosophy  ; 
Deep  in  tho  soul  tiicy  lie, 

God  knows  how  dear. 

Childhood  can  never  die  ; 

Wrecks  of  the  past 
Float  o'er  the  memory. 

Even  to  the  last. 
Many  a  happy  thing, 
Many  a  daisied  spring 
Float,  on  Time's  ceaseless  wing, 

Far,  far  away. 
Childhood  can  never  die, 
Saith  my  philosophy ; 
W^recks  of  our  infancy 

Live  on  for  aye. 

Sweet  fancies  never  die; 

They  leave  behind 
Some  fairy  legacy 

Stored  in  the  mind — 
Some  happy  thought  or  dream, 
Pino  as  day's  earliest  beam 
Kissing  tho  gentle  stream 

In  the  lone  glade. 
Y'ea,  though  these  things  pass  by, 
Saith  my  philosophj', 
Bright  things  can  never  die. 

Even  though  they  fade. 


PROGRESS. 

Anonymous  (Bbitisii — 19tii  Century). 

All  victory  is  struggle,  using  chance 

And  genius  well;   all  bloom  is  fruit  of  death! 

All  being,  elVort  for  a  future  germ; 

All  good,  just  sacrifice;   and  life's  success 

Is  rounded-np  of  integers  of  thrift. 

From  toil  and  self-denial.     Man  must  strive 

If  ho  would  freely  breathe  or  coiKpicr  :    slaves 

Are  amorous  of  ease  and  dalliance  soft ; 

Who  rules  himself  calls  no  man  master,  and 

Commands  success  even  in  the  throat  of  Fate. 

Creation's  soul  is  thrivanco  from  decay ; 

And  nature  feeds  on  ruin;   the  big  earth 

Sunnuers  in  rot,  and  harvests  through  the  frost. 

To  fructify  the  world;   the  mortal  Now 

Is  pregnant  with  the  spring-flowers  of  To-come  ; 

And  death  is  seed-timo  of  Eternitv. 


AXONYMOrS  JXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


537 


RELIQUI^. 

AxoxTMors  (British — IOth  CEXTcnt). 

A  wild,  •wet  night!     The  driving  sleet 
Blurs  all  the  lamps  aloug  the  quay ; 

The  wiudows  shake ;   the  busy  street 

Is  yet  alive  with  hnrryiug  feet; 
The  wind  raves  from  the  sea. 

So  let  it  rave !     My  lamp  Imrns  bright ; 

My  long  day's  work  is  almost  done  ; 
I  curtain  out  each  sound  and  sight  — 
Of  all  the  nights  in  the  year,  to-night 

I  choose  to  be  alone. 

Alone,  with  doors  and  windows  fast, 

Before  my  open  desk  I  stand. 
Alas !   can  twelve  long  mouths  be  past, 
My  hidden,  hidden  wealth,  since  last 

I  held  thee  in  ray  hand  ? 

So,  there  it  lies !     From  year  to  year 
I  see  the  ribbon  change ;   the  page 

Turn  yellower ;   and  the  very  tear 

That  blots  the  writing,  disappear 
And  fade  awaj'  witli  age. 

Mine  eyes  grow  dim  when  they  behold 
The  precious  trifles  hoarded  there — 

A  ring  of  battered  Indian  gold, 

A  withered  harebell,  and  a  fold 
Of  sunny  chestnut  hair. 

Xot  all  the  riches  of  the  earth, 

Not  all  the  treasures  of  the  sea, 
Could  huy  these  house-gods  from  my  hearth 
And  yet  the  secret  of  their  worth 
Must  live  and  die  with  me. 


FAITH. 

Anontmocs  (Uritisu — 19Tn  Centcrt). 

Ye  who  think  the  truth  ye  sow 
Lost  beneath  the  winter  snow, 
Doubt  not,  Time's  unerring  law 
Yet  shall  bring  the  genial  thaw ; 
God  in  nature  ye  can  trust : 
Is  the  God  of  mind  less  just  ? 

Eead  we  not  the  mighty  thought 
Once  bv  ancient  sages  taught  ? 


Though  it  withered  in  the  blight 
Of  the  media-val  night. 

Now  the  harvest  we  behold  ; 

See !   it  bears  a  thonsand-fold. 

Workers  on  the  barren  soil, 
Yonrs  may  seem  a  thankless  toil ; 
Sick  at  heart  with  hope  deferred, 
Listen  to  the  cheering  Avord  : 

Now  the  faithful  sower  grieves  ; 

Soon  he'll  bind  his  golden  sheaves. 

If  great  AYisdom  have  decreed 
Man  may  labor,  yet  the  seed 
Never  in  this  life  shall  grow, 
Shall  the  sower  cease  to  sow  ? 
The  fairest  fruit  may  yet  be  born 
On  the  resurrection  morn  ! 


GENIUS. 

AxoxTMOcs  (Beitish — 19th  CEXrUBT). 

Far  out  at  sea — the  sun  was  high, 

While  veered  the  wind,  and  flapped  the  sail- 
We  saw  a  snow-white  butterfly 

Dancing  before  the  titful  gale, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

The  little  stranger,  wlio  had  lost 
His  way,  of  danger  nothing  knew  ; 

Settled  awhile  upon  the  mast, 

Then  fluttered  o"er  the  waters  blue  ; 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Above,  there  gleamed  the  boundless  sky ; 

Beneath,  the  boundless  ocean  sheen  ; 
Between  them  danced  the  butterfly. 

The  spirit-life  in  this  vast  scene  ; 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Away  he  sped  with  shimmering  glee! 

Dim,  indistirict — now  seen — now  gone  ; 
Night  comes,  with  wind  and  rain — and  he 

No  more  will  dance  before  the  morn, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

He  dies  unlike  his  mates,  I  ween  ; 

Perhaps  not  sooner,  nor  worse  crossed  ; 
And  he  hath  felt,  and  known,  and  seen, 

A  larger  life  and  hope — though  lost, 

Far  out  at  sea. 


538 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BIIITISH  AND  AMElilCAX  rOETllY. 


deirdr£"s  farewell  to  alba. 

Anonymous  (Kbom  the  Gaelu). 

Deirdre,  wife  of  Naise,  the  poii  of  Usna,  retiiniing  with  her 
husbuiid  to  Eniniiiii  in  Kriu,  laments  for  Albii  (Scotland),  hei- 
adopted  country.  Both  the  oii^jinal  and  the  translation  aie 
anonymous.    The  poem  is  exceptionally  beautiful. 

Alas!   and  alas,  my  sorrow! 

The  pain  that  hath  no  relief, 
Alas!   for  the  dreadful  morrow 

To  dawn  on  our  day  of  grief! — 
Oh  land  in  the  orient  glowing. 

The  last  of  thy  smiles  hiith  shone 
On  ns,  for  Fate's  wind  is  blowing, 

And  the  wave  of  our  doom  speeds  on. 
And  a  Idight  from  the  westward  couieth,  and  the 
bloom  of  oitr  life  is  gone  ! 

Oh  land  of  the  morn-bright  moiintaius 

With  the  purple  moors  at  their  feet, 
Of  the  clear  leaf-niirroiiiig  fountains 

And  rivers  of  water  sweet ; 
Of  the  fragrant  wood-bowers  twining, 

Aud  the  cataract's  sounding  roar, 
Of  the  lakes  in  their  splendor  shining, 

With  the  pine-woods  whispering  o'er. 
Ah !   naught  bttt  my  lord,  my  lover,  could  lure  me 
from  thy  green  shore  ! 

Sweet  is  it  in  Daro's  valley 

To  list  to  the  falling  rill, 
To  the  breeze  in  the  woodland  alley, 

And  the  goshawk's  note  from  the  hill ; 
To  the  light-winged  swallow  purstiing 

His  mate  with  a  joyous  cry, 
To  the  cuckoo's  voice  and  the  cooing 

Of  doves  in  the  piue-tops  high, 
And  the  throstle's  song  in  the  thicket,  aud  the  lark's 
from  the  morning  sky. 

L'tider  the  summer  arbor 

IJy  the  fresh  sea-breezes  fanned. 
Where  the  waters  of  Drayno's  htirbor 

Sing  over  the  silver  sand, 
Happy  from  morn  till  even 

We've  watched  the  sea-birds  play, 
And  the  ocean  meeting  the  heaven. 

In  the  distance  far  away, 
And  the  gleara  of  the  white-sailed  galleys,  and  the 
flash  of  the  sunlit  spray ! 

lu  Masan  the  green,  the  blooming, 
How  happy  our  days  did  pass ; 


Many  its  flowers  perfuming 

Aud  studding  like  gems  the  grass  : 
Tiiere  the  foxglove  purpled  the  hollow, 

Aud  the  iris  flaunted  its  gold. 
And  the  flower  that  waits  for  the  swallow. 

Its  dainty  bloom  to  unfold,  « 

With  the  hyacinth  bine  and  the  primrose,  laughed 
in  the  breezy  wold. 

In  Eta  of  sunny  weather, 

'Neath  our  happy  home-porch  hid. 
On  venison  sweet  from  the  heather 

Aud  flesh  of  the  mountain  kid, 
On  game  from  the  forest  cover 

And  fish  from  the  crystal  stream, 
We  feasted  till  eve  was  over, 

And  the  moon  with  her  silver  gleam 
Soared  o'er  the  dusky  pine-woods  out  from  the  realm 
of  dream. 

O  land  of  the  East !   O  Giver 

Of  freedom  from  sore  distress ! 
O  land  where  no  cloud  came  ever 

To  darken  our  happiness! 
O  home  of  pleasure  and  promise 

Aud  peace  unto  mine  and  me, 
Wheu  I  see  thy  shores  fade  from  ns, 

I  sigh  in  my  misery, 
Aud  send  my  voice  o'er  the  waters  crying,  farewell 
to  thee ! 


THE   MYSTERY   OF  LIFE. 

By  John  Gambold,  a  Bishop  among  the  Moravian  Brethren, 
WHO  DIED  in  1771. 

So  many  years  I've  seeti  the  sun, 

And  called  these  eyes  and  hands  my  own, 

A  thousand  little  acts  I've  done, 

Aiul  childhood  have  and  manhood  knowu  ; 

Oh  what  is  life  ? — aud  this  dull  round 

To  tread,  why  was  ii  spirit  bound  ? 

So  many  airy  draughts  aud  lines, 
Aud  warm  excursions  of  the  mind, 

Have  tilled  my  soul  with  great  designs. 
While  practice  grovelled  far  behind  ; 

Oh  what  is  thought  ? — and  where  withdraw 

The  glories  which  my  fancy  saw  ? 

So  many  tender  joys  aud  woes 

Have  on  my  <inivering  soul  had  power ; 

Plain  life  with  heighteniug  passions  rose, 
The  boast  or  burden  of  their  hour  : 


AyOXYMOUS  AXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


539 


Ob  ^vbat  is  all  ■we  feel? — why  fled 
Those  pains  and  pleasures  o'er  ruy  head  ? 

So  many  human  sonls  divine, — 

Some  at  one  intewiew  displayed, — 

Some  oft  and  freely  mixed  Avitli  mine, — 
In  lasting  bonds  my  heart  have  laid  ; — 

Ob  what  is  friendship  ? — why  impressed 

On  my  weak,  wretched,  dying  breast? 

So  many  wondrous  gleams  of  light, 

And  gentle  ardors  from  above. 
Have  made  me  sit,  like  seraph  bright, 

Some  moments  on  a  throne  of  love : 
Ob,  what  is  virtue  ? — why  had  I, 
"Who  am  so  low,  a  taste  so  high  ? 

Ere  long,  when  sovereign  wisdom  wills. 
My  soul  an  unknown  path  shall  tread, 

And  strangely  leave, — who  strangely  fills 
This  frame — -and  waft  me  to  the  dead! 

Oh,  what  is  death  ?   'tis  life's  last  shore. 

Where  Aanities  are  vain  no  more  ; 

Where  all  pursuits  their  goal  obtain, 

And  life  is  all  retouched  again  ; 

Where  in  their  bright  result  shall  rise 

Thoughts,  virtues,  friendships,  griefs,  and  joys ! 


FAME. 
Taraphrase  from  the  German-  of  Schiller  (1759-1805). 

What  shall  I  do  lest  life  in  silence  pass  ? 

And  if  it  do, 
And  never  prompt  the  bray  of  noisy  brass, 

What  need'st  thou  rue  ? 
Remember,  aye  the  ocean  deeps  are  mute ; 

The  shallows  roar ; 
Worth  is  the  ocean,  fame  is  but  the  bruit 

Along  the  shore. 

What  shall  I  do  to  be  forever  known  ? — 

Thy  duty  ever. — 
This  did  full  many  who  yet  slept  unknown. — 

Oh  !   never,  never ! 
Think'st  thou, perchance,  that  they  remain  unknown 

Whom  thon  know'st  not  ? 
By  angel-trumps  in  heaven  their  praise  is  blown, — 

Divine  their  lot ! 

What  shall  I  do  to  gain  eternal  life  ? 

Discharge  aright 
The  simple  dues  Avitli  which  each  day  is  rife! 

Yea,  with  thy  might ! 


E'er  perfect  scheme  of  action  thou  devise, 

Will  life  bo  fled  : 
While  he  who  ever  acts  as  conscience  cries, 

Shall  live,  though  dead. 


THE  CLOWN'S  SONG. 

Anonymous  (British — 19tii  CENTrRT). 

"  Here  I  am  !" — and  the  house  rejoices  ; 
Forth  I  tumble  from  out  the  slips; 
"  Here  I  am  !" — ^and  a  hundred  voices 
Welcome  me  on  with  laughing  lips. 

The  master,  with  easy^  pride, 

Treads  the  sawdust  down  ; 

Or  quickens  the  horse's  stride, 

And  calls  for  his  jesting  clown. 

"  What,  ho,  Mr.  Merriman  ! — Dick, 
Here's  a  lady  that  wants  your  place." 
I  throw  them  a  somerset,  quick, 
And  grin  in  some  beauty's  face. 
I  tumble,  and  jump,  and  chaff, 
Aud  fill  them  with  wild  delights ; 
Whatever  my  sorrow,  I  laugh, 
Through  the  summer  and  winter  nights. 

I  joke  with  the  men,  if  I  dare  ; 

Do  they  strike,  why  I  cringe  aud  stoop ; 

And  I  ride  like  a  bird  in  air. 

And  I  jump  through  the  blazing  hooji. 

Whatever  they  say  or  do, 

I  am  ready  with  joke  and  jibe ; 

And,  whenever  the  jests  are  new, 

I  follow,  like  all  my  tribe. 

But  life  is  not  all  a  jest. 
Whatever  the  wise  ones  say  ; 
For  when  I  steal  home  to  rest 
(And  I  seek  it  at  dawn  of  day), 

If  winter,  there  is  no  fire  ; 

If  summer,  there  is  no  air: 

My  welcome's  a  hungry  choir 

Of  children,  and  scanty  fare. 

My  wife  is  as  lean  a  scold 

As  famine  can  make  man's  wife ; 

We  are  both  of  us  sour  and  old 

With  drinking  the  dregs  of  life. 
Yet,  why  do  I  sigh  ?     I  wonder. 
Would  the  "Pit"'  or  the  "Boxes"  sigh. 
Should  I  wash  off  my  paint,  and,  under. 
Show  how  a  fool  must  die  ? 


540 


CTCLOrJiDlA    UF  BlllTISU  ASD  AMElllCAX  I'OETRY. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FORGE. 

Anonymois  (ISiiiTisii — IOtii  Century). 

Clang,  clang!   tlio  massive  anvils  ring; 

Clang,  clang  !   a  liundietl  hammers  swing; 

Like  the  tliuucler-rattle  of  a  tropic  skj-. 

The  mighty  blows  still  mnltiply, — 

Clang,  clang ! 

8a.v,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 

\Vhat  arc  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang! — we  forge  the  coulter  now, — 
The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough. 

Sweet  Slary,  mother,  bless  our  toil ! 
May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil ! 

Clang,  clang! — our  coultei-'s  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 

By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide ; 
Amid  the  song  of  morning  birds, 
Amid  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amid  soft  breezes,  which  do  stray 
Tlu'ougli  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 

Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  Autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  wide-spread  glory  clothes  the  laud, — 

When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brow 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 
A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold,- — 

We  bless,  we  bless  the  plough. 

Clang,  clang! — again,  my  mates,  wliat  glows 
Beneath  the  hanmier's  potent  blows? 
Clink,  clank! — we  forge  the  giant  chain 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain 

'Mid  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides: 
Secured  by  this,  tlie  good  ship  braves 
TJie  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 

Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
Tlie  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm-cloud  ou  the  hill  ; 
Calmly  he  rests, — though  far  away, 
In  boisterous  climes,  liis  vessel  lay, — 

Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  those  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep  ? 


By  Afric's  pestilential  shore  ? 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar, — 
By  many  a  palmy  western  isle, 
Basking  in  spring's  perpetual  smile? 
Wy  stormy  Labrador?    , 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 
Wlien  to  the  battery's  deadly  peal 

Tlio  crashing  broadside  makes  reply  ; 
Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 
Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 

For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah  ! — cling,  clang  ! — once  more,  what  glows. 
Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 

The  irou  tempest  of  your  blows. 
The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 

Clang,  clang! — a  burning  torrent,  clear 
And  brilliant,  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 

Around  and  up  in  the  dusky  aii-. 
As  our  hammers  forgo  the  Sword. 

The  Sword ! — a  name  of  dread ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  'tis  bound, — 

While  for  his  altar  and  his  liearth, 

While  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 
The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, — 

How  sacred  is  it  then  ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  Hashes  in  the  van  of  fight, — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas  ; 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 
A  Marston  or  a  Bannockburu  ; 
Or  amid  crags  and  bursting  rills, 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills; 
Or  as,  when  sank  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide, — 

Still,  still,  w'heue'er  the  battle  word 
Is  Liberty,  Avhen  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, — 

Then  Heaven  bless  the  Sword! 


SUNRISE  COMES  TO-MORROW. 

Anonymous  (Beitisii— IOtii  Centiby). 

True  it  is  that  clouds  and  mist 
Blot  the  clear,  blue  weather; 

True  that  lips  that  once  have  kissed 
Come  no  more  tojrethcr : 


AXOXYMOUS  AXD  MISCELLAXEOVS  I'UEMS. 


541 


True  that  when  we  would  do  good, 

Evil  often  follows ; 
True  that  greeu  leaves  quit  the  wood, 

Summers  lose  their  swallows  ; 
True  that  we  must  live  alone, 

Dwell  with  pale  dejections; 
True  that  we  must  often  moan 

Over  crushed  aftections ; 
True  that  man  his  queen  awaits — 

True  that,  sad  and  lonely, 
"Woman,  through  licr  prison-gates, 

Sees  her  tyrant  only  : 
True,  the  rich  despise  the  iioor, 

And  tlie  poor  desire 
Food  still  from  the  rich  man's  door, 

Fuel  from  his  fire  ; 
True  that,  in  this  age  of  ours, 

There  are  uone  to  guide  us — 
Gone  the  grand  primeval  powers ! 

Selfish  aims  divide  us  : 
True  the  plaint ;   but,  if  more  true, 

I  would  not  deplore  it ; 
If  an  Eden  fade  from  view. 

Time  may  yet  restore  it. 

Evil  comes,  and  evil  goes, 

But  it  moves  me  never  ; 
For  the  good,  the  good,  it  grows. 

Buds  and  blossoms  ever. 
Winter  still  succeeds  to  Spring, 

But  fresh  springs  are  coming; 
Other  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

Other  bees  are  humming. 
I  have  loved  with  right  good-will, 

Mourned  my  hopes  departed, 
Dreamed  my  golden  dream — and  still 

Am  not  broken-hearted. 
Problems  are  tiiere  hard  to  solve. 

And  the  Aveak  may  try  them — 
May  review  tliem  and  revolve. 

While  the  strong  pass  hy  them. 
Sages  prove  that  God  is  not ; 

But  I  still  adore  him. 
See  the  shadow  in  each  spot 

That  he  casts  before  him. 
What  if  cherished  creeds  must  fade  ? 

Faith  will  never  leave  us ; 
God  preserves  what  God  has  made. 

Nor  can  Truth  deceive  us. 
Let  in  light— the  holy  light ! 

Brothers,  fear  it  never; 
Darkness  smiles,  and  wrong  grows  right 

Let  in  light  forever ! 


Let  in  light!     When  this  shall  be 

Safe  and  pleasant  duty, 
Men  in  common  things  shall  see 

Goodness,  truth,  and  beauty  ; 
And  as  noble  Plato  sings — 

Hear  it,  lords  and  ladies! — - 
AVe  shall  love  and  praise  the  things 

Tliat  are  down  in  Hades. 
Glad  am  I,  and  glad  will  be  ; 

For  my  heart  rejoices 
Wlien  sweet  looks  and  lips  I  see, 

When  I  hear  sweet  voices. 
I  will  hope,  and  work,  and  love, 

Singiug  to  the  hours, 
While  the  stars  are  bright  above. 

And  below,  the  flowers  : — 
Apple-blossoms  on  the  trees. 

Gold-cups  in  the  meadows, 
Branches  waving  in  the  breeze. 

On  the  grass  their  shadows : — 
Blackbirds  whistling  in  the  wood, 

Cnckoos  shouting  o'er  us; 
Clouds,  with  white  or  crimson  hood, 

Pacing  right  before  us: 
Who,  in  such  a  world  as  this. 

Could  not  heal  his  sorrow  ? 
Welcome  this  sweet  sunset  bliss — 

Sunrise  comes  to-morrow ! 


WHERE   ARE   YE? 

Anonymous  (British— 19th  Century). 

Where  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I  started. 
Dear  companions  of  my  golden  days  ? 

Ye  are  dead,  estranged  from  me,  or  parted  ; 
Flown,  like  morning  clouds,  a  thousand  ways. 

Where  art  thou,  in  youth  my  friend  and  brother- 
Yea,  iu  soul  my  friend  and  brother  still  ? 

Heaven  received  thee,  and  on  earth  no  other 
Can  the  void  in  my  lorn  bosom  fill. 

Wliere  is  she  whose  looks  were  love  and  gladness- 
Love  and  gladness  I  no  longer  see  ? 

She  is  gone,  and  since  that  hour  of  saduess 
Nature  seems  her  sepulchre  to  me. 

Where  am  I  ?     Life's  current  faintly  flowing. 
Brings  the  welcome  warning  of  release  ; 

Struck  with  death  ! — ah  !    whither  am  I  going  ? 
All  is  well — my  spirit  parts  in  peace! 


542 


CYCLOPJUDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


COME,  SUNSHINE,  COME  ! 

FnoM   THE   Fbentii   of   CiiAriLES  Vincent. 

Come,  Siiiishiiio,  coiiw  !   llicc  Niitmc  calls! 

Give  to  the  grape  its  vermeil  line. 
Dispel  the  frost,  the  cloud,  the  storm, — 

Come,  Sunshine,  come  !   the  year  renew  ! 
Tlie  grain  lies  dormant  in  the  soil. 

The  bird  sings  from  the  withered  tree. 
The  ice-bound  brook,  the  buried  flowers, 

Tarry,  and  watch,  and  long  for  thee. 

Come,  Sunshine,  come!   the  torpid  Earth 

Beneath  thy  kisses  will  awake  ; 
Her  blush,  her  bloom,  shall  truly  tell — 

She  loves  thee,  for  thy  own  love's  sake. 
Lo,  at  the  opened  sash,  the  Poor ! 

Waiting  for  thee,  their  being's  sum  ! 
Cold  their  abode,  and  scant  their  store — 

Come  and  relieve  them.  Sunshine,  come! 

Mountain,  and  vale,  and  desert  waste, 

Trairie,  and  wood,  and  sea-bound  isle, 
Herb,  tree,  and  insect,  roof  and.  spire, 

Kindle  to  life  beneath  thy  smile. 
Pleasure  and  love  thy  coming  wait, 

Poets  and  birds  thy  coming  sing; 
Th^'  quickening  kiss  Creation  needs;— 

Come,  Sunshine,  come  :   we  yearn  for  Sprinj 


WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  JIE 

AxoNTMOCs  (American— 19th  Centum). 

AVheu  the  grass  shall  cover  nie 
Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying, — 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Sunnner  bloom  or  winter  snows. 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing : 
Close  above  me  as  yon  jiass, 
You  will  say,  "  How  kind  she  was ;" 
You  will  say, "  How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  gra.ss  shall  cover  me, 
Holden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom, 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  siug, 
Nevermore  for  anything, — 
You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom. 
Sweet  small  voices,  odorous, 
Tender  pleaders  of  my  cause. 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was, — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


When  the  grass  shall  cover  me ! 

Ah !  belov6d,  in  my  sorrow 
Very  patient  cau  I  wait, 
Knowing  that,  or  soon  or  late. 

There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow, — 
When  your  heart  will  moan, '"Alas, 
Now  I  know  how  true  she  was ; 
Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was," — 

When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


BATTLE   HYMN   AND   FAREWELL   TO   LIFE. 

The  following  spirited  translation  is  from  the  German  of 
Theodore  Korner.  Born  in  the  year  1791,  he  fell  in  battle  with 
the  French,  August  25th,  1S13,  wheu  he  was  scarcely  tweuty- 
two  years  old. 

Father  of  earth  and  heaven,  I  call  thy  name! 

Round  me  the  smoke  and  shout  of  battle  roll  ; 
My  eyes  are  dazzled  with  the  rustling  dame — 

Father,  sustain  an  untried  soldier's  soul. 

Or  life,  or  death,  whatever  be  the  goal 
That  crowns  or  closes  round  the  struggling  hour, — 

Thou  kuowest  if  ever  from  my  spirit  stole 
One  deeper  prayer,  'twas  that  no  cloud  might  lower 
On  my  young  fame !    Oh  hear,  God  of  eternal  power ! 

Now  for  the  fight !     Now  for  the  cannon-peal ! 

Forward,  through  blood  and  toil,  and  cloud  and 
tire! 
Glorious  the  shout,  the  shock,  the  crash  of  steel. 

The  volley's  r<»ll,  the  rocket's  blasting  spire! 

Tiicy  shake!  like  broken  waves  their  squares  re- 
tire ! 
On  them,  hussars !     Now  give  them  reiu  and  heel  I 

Think  of  tlio  orphaned  child,  the  murdered  sire  : 
Earth  cries  for  blood !  In  thunder  on  them  wheel  I 
This  hour  to  Europe's  fate  shall  set  the  triumph-seal ! 


My  deep  wound  burns  ;  my  pale  lips  quake  in  death  ; 

I  feel  my  fainting  heart  resign  its  strife ; 

And  reaching  now  the  limit  of  my  life, 
Lord,  to  thy  will  I  yield  my  parting  breath ! 
Yet  many  a  dream  htith  charmed  my  youthful  eye, 

And  must  life's  fairy  visions  all  depart  ? 

Oh,  surely,  no !  for  all  that  lired  my  heart 
To  rapture  here  shall  live  with  me  on  high. 
And  that  fair  form  that  won  my  earliest  vow, 

That  my  young  spirit  prized  all  else  above, 

And  now  adored  as  freedom,  now  as  love. 
Stands  in  seraphic  guise  before  me  now  ! 

And  as  my  failing  senses  fade  away. 

It  beckons  me  on  high,  to  realms  of  endless  day! 


AXOXYAfOUS  AXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


543 


THE    GOING    OF    MY    BRIDE. 

Anonymous  (British— 19th  CENTunv). 

By  tbe  brink  of  the  river  our  parting  was  fond,     • 
But  I  whispered  the  -words  soft  and  low ; 

For  a  baud  of  bright  augels  were  waiting  beyond, 
And  my  bride  of  a  day  was  to  go  : 

Was  to  go  from  our  shore,  with  its  headland  of  years. 
On  a  water  whose  depths  were  untold  ; 

And  the  boat  was  to  float  on  this  River  of  Tears, 
Till  it  blent  with  an  ocean  of  gold. 

Our  farewell  was  brief  as  the  fall  of  a  tear — 
The  minutes  like  winged  spirits  flew, 

When  my  bride  whisiiered  low  that  a  shallop  drew 
near, 
And  the  beck  of  the  boatman  she  knew. 

Then  I  spoke  in  one  kiss  all  the  passion  of  years, 
For  I  knew  that  our  parting  was  nigh  ; 

Yet  I  saw  not  the  end — I  was  blinded  by  tears, 
And  a  light  had  gone  out  from  the  sky. 

But  I  caught  the  faint  gleam  of  an  outdriftiug  sail, 

And  the  dip  of  a  silver-tipped  oar ; 
And  knew,  by  the  low,  rustling  sigh  of  the  gale. 

That  a  spirit  had  gone  from  the  shore. 

All  alone  in  my  grief,  I  now  sit  on  the  sand, 
Where  so  often  she  sat  by  my  side  ; 

And  I  long  for  the  shallop  to  come  to  the  strand, 
That  again  I  may  sit  by  my  bride. 


ERIN. 


Dr.  William  Drennnu  (1T.54-1S20),  jiuthor  of  "Gleiidalloch,  aud 
other  Poems  "  (1S15),  was  one  of  the  ablest  writers  among  the 
United  Irishmen.  He  was  the  first  to  bestow  on  Ireland  the 
title  of  '-The  Emerald  Isle."  It  occurs  in  the  subjoined  poem 
of  "Erin,"  esteemed  by  Moore  as  "  among  the  most  perfect  of 
modern  songs." 

When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood, 
God  blessed  the  dear  island,  and  saw  it  was  good  ; 
The  emerald  of  Europe,  it  spa,rkled  and  shone 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone. 
In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blessed. 
With  her  back  toward  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West, 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular,  on  her  steep  shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  liarji  'mid  the  ocean's  deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  aud  to  weep. 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep  ; 


At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her 

eyes. 
And  the  pnlso  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom 

rise. 
O  sons  of  green  Erin  !   lament  o'er  the  time 
W^Iieu  religion  was  Avar,  and  our  country  a  crime, 
When  man,  in  God's  image,  inverted  his  plan. 
And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man  ; — 

When  the  int'rest  of  State  wrought  the  general  woe. 

The  stranger  a  friend,  and  the  native  a  foe  ; 

While   the   mother  rejoiced  o'er  her   children   op- 
pressed. 

And  clasped  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast ; 

When  with  pale  for  the  body,  and  pale  for  the  soul, 
!  Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the 

whole  ; 
I  And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  ^lilesian  blood, 

Eyed  each  other  askance   aud  iironounced  it  was 
I  good. 

j  By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers' 

j  grave. 

For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave, 
Drive  the  demon  of  Bigotry  home  to  Iiis  den, 
Aud  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Eriu  make 

men. 
Let  my  sous  like  the  leaves  of  tlie  .shamrock  unite, 
A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right : 
Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas  for  poor  Eriu!   that  some  are  still  seen 
Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to 

greeu  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  when  you're  up  and  they're  down,  let  them 

live, 
Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not 

give. 
Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong!   but  be  gentle  as  brave! 
And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save  ! 
Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  of,  or  men  of,  the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  arc  true. 
And  the  green  shall  outlive  both  the  orange  and  blue ! 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share. 
With  the  fnll-swelling   chest  and  the  fair-llowing 

hair. 
Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  tlie  worthy  aud  brave, 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  .soft-swelling  wave ; 
Men  of  Eriu  !  arise  and  make  haste  to  be  blest, — 
Rise — Arch  of  the  Ocean,  ami  Queen  of  the  West! 


544 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE   SWANS   OF  WILTON. 

Anonymous    (IJ  niT  is  ii  — 19  tii   Century). 

Oh  how  the  Swans  of  Wilton 

Twenty  abreast  did  <;(>, 
Like  conntiy  brides  bonnd  for  the  chnrcb, 

Sails  set  and  all  aglow  ! 
With  ponting  breast  in  pure  white  dressed, 

Soft  gliding  in  a  row. 

Where  through  the  weed's  green  fleeces, 

The  perch  in  brazen  coat, 
Like  golden  shuttles  mermaids  use 

Shot  past  my  crimson  float ; 
Where  swinish  carp  were  snoring  loud 

Around  the  anchored  boat, — 

Adown  the  gentle  river 

The  white  swans  bore  in  sail, 
Tlieir  full  soft  feathers  puffing  out 

Like  canvas  in  the  gale  ; 
And  all  the  kine  and  dappled  deer 

Stood  watching  in  the  vale. 

The  stately  Swans  of  Wilton 

Strutted  and  pnft'ed  along, 
Lilce  canons  in  their  fnll  white  gown 

Late  for  the  eveu-song, 
Wlioni  up  the  vale  the  peevish  bell 

In  vain  has  eluded  long. 

Oil  how  the  Swans  of  Wilton 
Bore  down  the  radiant  stream ; 

As  calm  as  holy  hermits'  lives 
Or  a  play-tired  infant's  dream ; — 

Like  fairy  beds  of  last  year's  snow, 
Did  those  radiant  creatures  seem ! 


HYMN  TO   THE   STARS. 

This  leinarkable  poem  appe.nred  in  the  Boston  Christian  Ex- 
aminer in  ]8'24;  but  whether  it  had  previously  appeared  in 
some  other  work,  British  or  American,  we  cannot  yet  say. 

Ay,  there  yo  shine,  and  there  have  shone 

In  one  eternal  hour  of  prime  ; 
Each  rolling,  bnrningly  alone. 

Through  boundless  space  and  countless  time! 
Ay,  there  ye  shine — the  golden  dews 

Tiiat  pave  the  realms  h^  scrai)hs  trod. 
There  through  yon  echoing  vault  dilfuse 

The  song  of  choral  worlds  to  (iod. 


Ye  visible  spirits!   bright  as  erst 

Young  Eden's  birthnight  .saw  ye  shine 
On  all  her  flowers  and  fountains  first. 

Yet  sparkling  from  the  baud  divine ; — 
Yes,  brigiit  as  then  ye  smiled  to  catch 

The  music  of  a  sphere  so  fair, 
Ye  hold  your  higli  innnortal  watch  ; 

And  gird  yonr  God's  i)avilion  there ! 

Gold  frets  to  dust, — yet  there  ye  are  ; 

Time  rols  the  diamond, — there  ye  roll, 
In  j)rimal  light,  as  if  each  star 

Enshrined  an  everlasting  soul ! — 
And  do  they  not — since  yon  bright  throngs 

One  all-enlightening  Spirit  own. 
Praised  there  by  pure  sidereal  tongues, 

Eternal,  glorious,  blessed,  and  lone  ? 

Could  man  but  see  what  ye  have  seen, 

Unfold  awhile  the  shrouded  jiast. 
From  all  that  is,  to  what  has  been, 

The  glance  how  rich,  the  range  how  vast ! 
The  birth  of  time — the  rise,  the  fall 

Of  empires,  myriads,  ages  flown. 
Thrones,  cities,  tongues,  arts,  worships — all 

The  things  whose  echoes  are  not  gone. 

Yo  saw  rapt  Zoroaster  send  ^ 

His  soul  into  your  mystic  reign  ; 
Ye  saw  the  adoring  Sabiau  bend — 

The  living  hills  his  mighty  fane! 
Beneath  his  blue  and  beaming  sky 

He  worshijjped  at  your  lofty  shrine. 
And  deemed  he  saw,  with  gifted  eye. 

The  Godhead  in  his  works  divine. 

And  there  ye  shine,  as  if  to  mock 

Tlie  children  of  a  mortal  sire! 
The  storm,  the  bolt,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

The  red  volcano's  cataract  lire. 
Drought,  famine,  plague,  and  flood,  and  flame, 

All  Nature's  ills  (and  Life's  worst  woes), 
Are  naught  to  you — ye  smile  the  same. 

Ami  scorn  alike  their  dawn  and  close. 

Ay,  there  ye  roll — emblems  sublime 

Of  Him,  whose  spirit  o'er  us  moves. 
Beyond  tht>  clouds  of  grief  and  crime. 

Still  shining  on  the  world  he  loves; — 
Nor  is  one  scene  to  m<n"tals  given, 

Tiiat  more  divides  the  soul  and  sod, 
Tiian  yon  proud  heraldry  of  heaven — 

Yon  1)urning  blazonrv  of  G(k1  ! 


jyOXYMOi'S  JXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


545 


SUMMER   DAYS. 
AsosTMOus  (British— IOtk  Centcrt). 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  the  wood  ; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong, 
Sweet  flutterings  were  in  our  blood, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came  ; 
We  gathered  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns  ; 

We  walked  'mid  floppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  leaped  the  hedge-row,  crossed  the  brook  ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book. 

In  summer  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees. 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  twilight  and  the  breeze 
We  feasted  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

W^hile  larks  Avere  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread, 

We  feasted,  with  uo  grace  but  song  ; 
We  plucked  wild  strawberries,  ripe  and  red, 
.  In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not, — 
For  loviug  seemed  like  breathing  then  ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

lu  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone ; 

I  see  her  not ;   but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer,  when  the  d;iys  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood  : 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs; 

And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old ; 
35 


My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong  ; 

For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


WITH  A  ROSE   IX  HER  HAIR. 

Anontmocs  (Dritish — 19th  Century). 

My  own,  it  is  time  you  were  coming. 
For  the  ball-room  is  flooded  with  light. 

And  the  leader  impatiently  humming. 
The  raise  they  begin  with  to-night  I 

But  the  music,  the  flowers,  and  the  lustre 
Lack  completeness  when  you  are  not  there, 

So  hasten  to  join  Beauty's  muster 

With  a  rose  in  your  hair. 

'Twas  thus  I  first  saw  you,  my  own  one  I 
As  adown  the  long  terrace  you  paced, 

You  had  plucked  the  white  rose — a  full  blown  one-  - 
Which  amid  your  dark  tresses  was  placed. 

Then  my  heart  blossomed  forth  like  the  flower, 
To  see  yon  so  young  and  so  fair. 

As  you  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  tower 

W'ith  a  rose  in  your  hair. 

And  for  aye,  since  that  moment  enchanted, 

My  life,  both  in  sun  and  its  storm, 
In  sorrow  and  joy,  has  been  haunted 

By  an  angel  in  feminine  form. 
Yet  I  can't — though  'tis  constantly  nigh  me — 

Describe  all  its  loveliness  rare; 
But  I  know  this — it  always  floats  by  me 
With  a  rose  in  its  hair. 

And  then  you  remember — (come  nearer, 
A  word  in  that  ear — like  a  shell ! — ) 

When  you  whispered  me  none  could  be  dearer 
Than  one — but  his  name  I'll  not  tell — 

Ah  !   your  hair — of  its  flower  who  bereft  it  ? 
For  you  had  none,  I  vow  and  declare, 

On  regaining  the  honse ;   though  you  left  it 
With  a  rose  in  your  hair. 

But  why  waste  we  moments  of  pleasure? 

Hark  !  the  music  invites  us  above : 
Soon  our  feet  shall  beat  time  to  the  measure, 

As  our  hearts  beat  the  measure  of  love. 
Come,  queen  of  the  poet's  rich  fancies — 

My  queen,  with  whom  none  may  compare. 
C(mie  and  glide  in  your  grace  through  the  dances 
With  a  rose  in  your  hair. 


546 


CFCLOPjEDIA    of  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POKTUY. 


A    HUNDRED    YEARS    TO    COME. 
William  Goldsmith  Urown  (19tu  Cextcry). 

AVIr'Ic,  wlioro  -will  bo  the  birds  tliiit  sing, 

A  liniiilied  years  to  come,  ? 
The  flowers  that  now  in  beauty  spring, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
The  rosy  lips,  the  lofty  brow, 
The  heart  that  beats  so  gayly  now, 
Oh,  where  will  be  love's  beaming  eye, 
Joy's  pleasant  smile,  and  sorrow's  sigh, 

A  hundred  years  to  come? 

Wlio'll  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Whi>'ll  tread  yon  church  with  willing  feet, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Pale  trembling  age,  and  fiery  youth. 
And  childhood  with  its  brow  of  truth, 
Tlie  rich,  the  poor ;   on  land  and  sea,— 
Where  will  the  mighty  millions  be 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

We  all  within  our  graves  shall  sleep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ; 
No  living  soul  for  us  will  weep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 
Hut  other  men  our  lands  shall  till, 
And  others  then  our  streets  will  fill, 
W'hile  other  birds  will  sing  as  gay, — 
As  bright  the  sunshine  as  to-day, 

A  huuilrcd  vears  to  come  I 


LINES   ON  A   SKELETON. 

The  MS.  of  the  following  piece  was  fount!  in  the  Museum  of 
theKoyal  College  of  Surgeons,  London,  placed  near  one  of  the 
skeletons,  about  Ihe  year  1S07.  The  secret  of  its  authorship  has 
not  been  divulged,  though  a  reward  was  offered  for  it, 

Behold  this  ruin  !     'Twas  a  skull. 

Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 

Tins  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat. 

This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  scat. 

What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 

What  dreams  of  pleasures  long  forgot! 

Nor  hope,  nor  love,  imr  joy,  nor  fear. 

Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Kencath  this  mouldering  canopy 
Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye ; 
But — start  not  at  the  dismal  void — 
If  social  love  that  eye  employed  ; 


If  with  no  lawless  tire  it  gleamed, 

But  throtigh  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed. 

That  eye  shall  bo  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  suns  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue. 

If  Falsehood's  honey  it  disdained. 

And  where  it  could  not  praise,  was  chained; 

If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, 

This  silent  Tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  time  unveils  Eternity. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine? 
Or  with  its  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  gem, 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 
But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought. 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought. 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  wealth  or  fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod, 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled. 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed  ; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned. 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned  ; 
These  feet  with  angel's  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 


SONNET:    THE   SEEN   AND   THE   UNSEEN. 

AsosTMors  (British— 19tu  Centi-hy). 

It  is  a  spectral  show — this  wondrous  world  — 

Aiul  all  things  in  it  are  a  spectral  show. 

In  everything  is  something  else  infurled ; 

And  in  the  known  lurks  what  we  cannot  know 

And  from  decay  outgrowths  stupendous  grow  ; 

And  naught  coheres.     Tlie  hardest  iron  hurled 

From  catapult  is  not  a  solid  ;   no ! 

Its  atoms  teem  with  tinier  atoms  whirled 

Within  ;    distinct  as  they  who  walk  the  pave 

Of  crowded  cities,  or  the  stars  whose  course 

We  watch  at  midnight.     For  in  tossing  wave, 

In  dense  deposit,  or  pneumatic  source. 

We  find  no  substance — naught  enduring — save 

The  mutable  results  of  hidden  Force. 

'  From  "Light  Leading  unto  Light." 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


547 


THOU  WILT  NEVER  GROW  OLD. 

Mks.  IIowarth  (Published  18(55). 

Tlioii  wilt  never  grow  old, 

Nor  weary,  nor  sad,  iii  the  home  of  thy  birth  : 
My  beautiful  lily,  thy  leaves  will  uufold 

lu  a  clime  that  is  purer  aud  brighter  than  earth. 
Oh,  holy  and  fair!   I  rejoice  thou  art  there, 

In  that  kingdom  of  light,  with  its  cities  of  gold, 
Where  the  air  thrills  with  angel  hosauuas,  aud  where 

Thou  wilt  never  grow  old,  sweet, — 
Never  grow  old ! 

I  am  a  pilgrim,  with  sorrow  and  sin 

Haunting  my  footsteps  wherever  I  go  ; 
Life  is  a  warfare  my  title  to  win  ; 

Well  will  it  be  if  it  end  uot  in  woe. 
Pray  for  me,  sweet ;   I  am  laden  with  care  ; 

.Dark  are  my  garments  with  mildew  and  mould : 
Thou,  my  bright  angel,  art  sinless  and  fair. 

And  wilt  never  grow  old,  sweet, — 
Never  grow  old ! 

Now  canst  thou  hear  from  thy  home  in  the  skies 

All  the  fond  words  I  am  whisiiering  to  thee  ? 
Dost  thou  look  dowu  on  me  with  the  soft  eyes 

Greeting  me  oft  ere  thy  spirit  was  free? 
So  I  believe,  though  the  shadows  of  time 

Hide  the  bright  spirit  I  jet  shall  behold  : 
Thou  wilt  still  love  me,  and  (pleasui'o  sublime  !) 

Thou  wilt  never  grow  old,  sweet, — 
Never  grow  old  I 

Thus  wilt  thou  be  when  the  jiilgrim,  grown  gray, 
Weeps  wlieu  the  vines  from  the  hearthstone  are 
riven  ; 
Faith  shall  behold  thee  as  pure  as  the  day 

Thou  wert  torn  from  the  earth,  and  transplanted 
in  heaven  : 
Oh,  holy  aud  fair !   I  rejoice  thou  art  there, 

In  that  kingdom  of  light,  with  its  cities  of  gold, 
Where  the  air  thrills  with  angel  hosannas,  and  where 
Thou  wilt  never  grow  old,  sweet, — 
Never  grow  old ! 


HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

Anontjious  (British — 19th  Century). 

They  tell  us,  love,  that  you  and  I 
Our  happiest  days  are  seeing, 

W^hile  yet  is  shut  from  cither's  eye 
The  change  that  waits  on  being. 


Ah !   life,  they  say,  is  a  weary  way, 

With  less  of  joy  than  sorrow, 
For  where  the  sunlight  falls  to-day 

There'll  be  a  shade  to-morrow. 

If  ours  be  love  that  will  uot  bear 

The  test  of  change  and  sorrow. 
And  only  deeper  channels  wear 

In  passing  to  each  morrow  ; 
Then  better  were  it  that  to-day 

We  fervently  were  praying 
That  what  Ave  have  might  pass  away 

While  we  the  words  were  saying. 

The  heart  has  depths  of  bitterness. 

As  well  as  depths  of  pleasure ; 
And  those  who  love,  love  uot,  unless 

They  both  of  these  can  measure. 
There  is  a  time,  and  it  will  come, 

When  this  they  must  discover; 
And  woe  if  either  theu  be  dumb 

To  power  that  moved  the  lover. 

There  are  some  spots  where  each  may  fall, 

Aud  each  will  need  sustaining ; 
And  suflering  is  the  lot  of  all, 

And  is  of  God's  ordaining  ; 
Theu  wherefore  do  our  hearts  unite 

In  bonds  that  none  can  sever. 
If  not  to  bless  each  changing  light. 

And  strengthen  each  endeavor  ? 

Then,  while  these  ha]ipy  days  we  bless. 

Let  us  no  doubt  be  sowing ; 
God's  mercy  never  will  be  lees, 

Though  he  should  change  the  showing. 
Such  be  our  faith,  as  on  we  tread, 

Each  trusting  and  obeying. 
As  two  who  by  his  hand  are  led. 

And  hear  what  he  is  saying. 


I   AM  THE   LORD;    I   CHANGE   NOT.' 

Change  not,  change  uot  to  me,  my  God, 

I  would,  that  thou  shouldst  be 
To  farthest  worlds  what  thou  hast  been 

On  this  sad  earth  to  me  : 
Though  thou  hast  baffled  sore  my  life. 

Though  thy  swift-scourging  rod 
Hath  left  me  spirit-scarred,  I  cry. 

Change  not  to  me,  my  God ! 

1  From  "The  New  Minnesinger,  iuid  othei-  Poems," by  Arrali 
Lei^li,  London,  1ST5. 


548 


CYCLOr.EDlA    OF  liRlTlSIl  AM)   AMEIUCAX  rOKTllY. 


CMiango  not  to  nic  for  any  change 

That  o'er  my  soul  may  come, 
When  lips  that  dearly  love  tliy  praise 

In  bitterness  are  dunil) ; 
Yea,  wlien  I  love  thee  not  at  all, 

When  from  thy  face  I  flee. 
Let  thy  compelling  love  pnrsne, — 

My  God,  change  not  to  me ! 

When  Death  has  wrought  his  awful  change, 

And  left  mo  spirit-bare, 
Thoii,  who  didst  hide  me  'neath  tliy  wings, 

Thy  mantling  love  prepare. 
I  am  no  other  than  I  was 

When  most  Thou  didst  befriend  ; 
I  trust  thee.  Lord,  for  what  thou  wert : 

Be  changeless  to  the  end. 

I  do  not  ask  with  sudden  step 

Thy  purest  heaven  to  win  ; 
Be  still.  Most  Merciful,  all  love, 

Relentless  to  my  sin  ; 
Yea,  Lord,  make  wholly  beautiful 

What  thou  bast  loved  so  well ; 
Burn  out  in  me  whate'er  defiles, — 

Burn  out  in  fire  of  hell. 

Let  me  but  know  thy  voice,  its  word 

I  w  ill  in  all  obey  ; 
In  outer  darkness  still  most  sure 

That  thou  wilt  find  a  way 
To  bring  thy  banished  to  thyself, 

As  thou  didst  bring  of  old, 
When  thy  sin-wearied  child  but  thought 

On  the  forsaken  fold. 

Change  not  to  me  in  those  far  worlds. 

Where  all  is  strange  and  new  ; 
Where  can  my  stranger  spirit  rest. 

If  thon  art  changdd  too  ? 
As  turns  the  child  from  aliiMi  crowd 

To  the  one  kindred  face, 
To  find  tliat  mother-eyes  make  home 

In  unfamiliar  place, — 

So,  trembling,  must  I  turn  to  thee, 

The  God  whom  I  have  known. 
The  God  who,  in  this  lonely  world. 

Hath  never  left  me  lone. 
Do  with  me.  Lord,  whate'er  thon  wilt, 

So  only  thon  wilt  be, 
Forever  and  for  evermore. 

What  thon  hast  been  to  mc. 


INVOCATION   OF  EARTH   TO   MORNING. 
Anonymols  (lifiiTisu — 19x11  Centcbt). 

Wake  from  thy  azure  ocean-bed, 

Oil !  beautiful  sister.  Day  ! 
Fl)lift  thy  gem-tiaraed  head. 
And,  in  thy  vestal  robes  arrayed. 

Bid  twilight's  gloom  give  way  ! 
Wake,  dearest  sister!   the  dark-browed  night 
Dehiyeth  too  long  her  drowsy  flight. 

Most  glorious  art  thon,  sister  Day, 

I'pon  tliy  chariot  throne, 
Wliile,  sitting  supreme  in  regal  sway, 
Tliou  boldest  tliy  high  eft'ulgeut  wa\-. 

In  majesty  alone  ; 
Till  into  thy  eloud-iiaviiioned  home 
In  the  burning  west  thy  footsteps  come. 

When  last  thy  parting  look  I  caught. 

Which  turned  to  smile  good-night. 
With  all  a  lover's  fondness  fraught — - 
There  seemed  not  in  the  universe  aught 

So  precious  in  thy  sight. 
As  thy  own  dear  Earth,  wliile  to  her  breast 
8iic  folded  her  slumbering  balies  to  rest. 

I  hear  the  sparkling  midnight  spheres 

Rehearse  the  choral  hymn. 
Which  yet,  ere  Earth  was  stained  with  tears, 
Burst  on  the  joy-entranced  ears 

Of  h(dy  seraphim: 
Whilt!  the  lofty  blue  empyrean  rang, 
As  the  morning  stars  together  sang. 

Oh,  many  a  joyous  mountain  rill. 

And  many  a  rustling  stream. 
Calm  lake  and  glassy  fountain  still, 
Tall  grove  and  silent  mist-clad  hill, 

Long  for  thy  coming  beam  ! 
Upronse  thee,  then,  fairest  sister,  dear! 
For  all  are  pining  thy  voice  to  hear. 

With  trembling  and  impatient  wing, 

ily  birds  on  every  spray 
Await,  tiiy  welcome,  forth  to  sing 

With  many  a  melting  lay; 
Tlien  wherefore,  beautiful,  linger  so  long? 
Earth  sighs  to  greet  thee  with  shout  and  song. 

The  sunflower  her  vigil  lone  hath  kept, 
With  love's  untiring  care; 


jyuXYMOUS  JXl)  MISCELLjyEOrS  POEMS. 


549 


Thougli  loiiiid  her  pinks  ami  violets  slept, 
She  wakefully  liatli  watched  aud  wept, 

Unto  the  dewy  air; 
And,  like  a  desolate  bride,  she  waits 
For  the  opening  of  her  lover's  gates. 

Oh,  then  arise,  fair  sister,  dear! 

Awake,  beloved  Day  I 
For  many  a  silent  trembling  tear 
Falls  ou  uiy  breast  like  diamond  clear, 

lu  grief  for  thy  delay, 
From  the  rosy  bowers  of  the  orient  skies. 
Theu  lip,  sweetest  sister,  arise,  arise  ! 


ODE   TO   WASHINGTON. 

Mrs.  Auiiis  Bondinot  Stockton,  of  Kew  Jersey,  anthor  of 
"The  Triumph  of  Mildness,"  and  who  wrote  iu  the  latter  half 
of  the  eighteej'.th  century,  addressed  some  of  her  poetry  to 
Washington,  whose  reply,  from  which  the  following  is  an  ex- 
tract, shows  he  was  not  so  austere  that  he  could  not  indulge, 
on  occasiou,  in  the  playful  gallantry  of  the  old  school : 

"  Rocky  Hilt,  September  2d,  1783. 

"You  apply  to  me,  my  dear  madam,  for  absolution,  as  though 
I  were  yonr  father-confessor.  If  it  is  a  crime  to  write  elegant 
poetry,  and  if  you  will  come  and  dine  with  me  on  Thursday, 
and  go  through  the  proper  course  of  penitence,  I  will  strive 
hard  to  acquit  you  of  your  poetical  trespasses. 

"Your  most  obedient  and  obliged  servant, 

"G£OEGE   WaSIUNOTON. 

"  To  Me8.  Stockton." 

The  following  lines,  though  they  may  lack  the  ideal  graces 
of  the  modern  school,  are  superior  to  much  that  passed  as 
poetry  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  Darwin  aud  Ilayley  ruled 
the  popular  tasie. 

With  all  th}'  country's  blessings  on  thy  head, 

Aud  all  the  glory  that  encircles  man, — 
Thy  deathless  fame  to  distaut  nations  spread, 

And  realms  unblessed  bj'  Freedom's  genial  plan  ; — 
Addressed  by  statesmen,  legislators,  kings, 

Itevered  by  thousands  as  you  pa.ss  along. 
While  every  muse  with  ardor  spreads  her  wings, 

To  greet  our  hero  in  immortal  song  : — 
Say,  can  a  woman's  voice  an  audience  gain, 

And  stop  a  moment  thy  triumphal  car  ? 
And  wilt  thou  listen  to  a  peaceful  strain, — 

Unskilled  to  paint  the  horrid  wrack  of  Avar  ? 
For  what  is  glory  ?     What  are  martial  deeds, 

Uupurified  at  Virtue's  awful  shrine? 
Full  oft  remorse  a  glorious  daj'  succeeds— 

The  motive  only  stamps  the  deed  divine. 
But  thy  last  legacy,  renowndd  chief. 

Hath  decked  thy  brow  with  honors   more   sub- 
lime : — 
Twined  in  thy  wreath  the  Christian's  firm  belief, 

And  nobly  owned  thy  faith  to  future  time  I 


KEQUIESCAM. 

This  remarkable  little  poem,  said  to  have  been  found  under 
the  pillow  of  a  wounded  soldier  near  Port  Royal  (1S04),  is  the 
production  of  an  American  ladj',  Mrs.  Robert  S.  Ilowlaud. 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
With  little  thought  or  care 

Whether  my  waking  find 
Me  here  or  there. 

A  bowing,  burdened  head. 

That  onlj'  asks  to  rest, 
Unquestioning,  upou 

A  loving  breast. 

My  good  right  hand  forgets 

Its  cunning  now — 
To  march  the  weary  marcli 

I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold. 

Nor  strong — ^all  that  is  past ; 

I  am  ready  not  to  do 
At  last,  at  last. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done, 

And  this  is  all  my  jiart ; 
I  give  a  patient  God 

My  patient  heart, — 

And  grasp  his  banner  still. 
Though  all  its  blue  be  dim; 

These  stripes,  no  less  than  stars, 
Lead  after  Him. 


THE   DEPARTED   GOOD. 
Isaac  Williams  (England — 180'2-18G.5). 

The  good — they  drop  around  us,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  when  morning  breaks;  though  lost  to  sight 

Around  us  are  they  still  iu  Heaven's  owu  light, 

Building  their  mansions  iu  the  purer  zone 

Of  the  invisible  :    when  round  are  thrown 

Shadows  of  sorrow,  still  serenely  bright 

To  faith  they  gleam  ;  and  blessed  be  sorrow's  night 

That  brings  the  o'erarching  heavens  iu  silence  down, 

A  mantle  set  with  orbs  unearthly  fair  I 

Alas  I   to  us  they  are  not,  though  they  dwell. 

Divinely  dwell  iu  memory  ;    while  life's  sun 

Declining,  bids  us  for  the  night  prepare ; 

That  we,  with  urns  of  light,  and  our  task  doue, 

May  stand  with  them  in  lot  unchangeable. 


550 


LYCLOI'JIDIA    or  liUlTlSU  AM)  AMEIUCAN   I'OETItY. 


A   SPIilXG   SONG. 
Ldwaiid  VoiL  (Iluuitt's  London  Magazine — 1847). 

Laud  the  first  spring  daisies ; 

Chant  aloud  their  praises  ; 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top; 

Tax  not  the  strength  of  their  young  hands 

To  increase  your  lauds. 

Gather  the  primroses ; 

Make  handfuls  into  posies  ; 

Take  them  to  the  little  girls  Avho  are  at  Avork  iu 

mills: 
I'liuk  the  violets  blue, — 
Ah,  pluck  not  a  few ! 
Knowest  thou  what  good  thoughts  from  heaven  the 

violet  instils? 

Give  the  children  holidays 

(And  let  these  be  jolly  days) ; 

Grant  freedom  to  the  children  iu  this  joyous  spring: 

Better  men,  hereafter, 

Shall  we  have,  for  laughter 

Freely  shouted  to  the  woods,  till  all  the  echoes  ring. 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top, 

Or  deep  into  the  wood's  recesses, 

To  woo  Si)ring's  caresses. 

See,  tlic  birds  together, 

In  this  si)len(lid  weather, 

Worship  God  (for  he  is  God  of  birds  as  well  as  men)  ; 

And  each  feathered  neighbor 

Enters  on  his  labor, — 

Sparrow,  robin,  redpole,  finch,  the  linnet,  and  the 
wren. 

As  the  year  advances, 

Trees  their  naked  branches 

Clothe,  and  seek  your  pleasure  iu  their  green  apparel. 

Insect  and  mild  beast 

Keep  no  Lent,  but  feast ; 

Spring  breathes  upon  the  eartli,  and  their  joy  is  in- 
creased. 

And  the  rejoicing  birds  break  forth  in  one  loud  carol. 

Ah,  come  and  woo  the  spring ! 
List  to  the  birds  that  sing  ; 
Pluck  the  primroses;   pluck  the  violets; 
Pluck  the  daisies. 
Sing  their  praises  ; 

Friendship  with  the  flowers  some  noble  thought  be- 
"lets. 


Come  forth  and  gather  these  sweet  elves 
(More  witching  are  thej'  than  the  fays  of  old). 
Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves, 
Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers,  Avhose  worth  is  more 
than  gold. 

Come,  come  into  the  wood; 

Pierce  into  the  liowers 

Of  these  gentle  flowers, 

Which  not  in  solitude 

Dwell,  but  with  each  other  keep  society; 

And,  with  a  simple  piety. 

Are  ready  to  be  woven  into  garlands  for  the  good. 

Or,  upon  summer  earth, 

To  die,  in  virgin  worth. 

Or  to  bo  stnnvn  before  the  bride,  ' 

And  tile  bridegroom,  by  her  side. 

Come  forth  on  Sundays ; 

Come  forth  on  Moiulays  ; 

Come  forth  on  any  day  ; 

Childreu,  come  forth  to  play: — 

Worship  the  God  of  nature  in  your  childhood  ; 

Wor.ship  him  at  your  tasks  with  best  endeavor; 

Worship  him  iu  your  sports;   worship  him  ever; 

Worship  him  in  the  wild  wood  ; 

Worship  him  amid  the  flowers; 

In  the  greenwood  bowers; 

Pluck  the  buttercups,  and  raise 

Your  voices  iu  his  ])raise. 


MY  TREASURES. 

Anonymocs  (British — lOni  Cextcrt). 

Let  me  count  my  treasures,  all  my  soul  holds  dear. 
Given  me  by  dark  spirits  whom  I  used  to  fear: — 
Through  long  days  of  anguish  and  sad  nights  did 

I'ain 
Forge  my  shield  Endurance,  bright  and  free  from 

stain. 
D()ul)t,  in  misty  caverns,  'mid  dark  horrors  songlit, 
Till  my  peerless  jewel,  Faith,  to  me  she  brought. 
Sorrow  (that  I  wearied  should  remain  so  long). 
Wreathed    my   starry   glory,  the   bright  Crown   of 

Song ! 
Strife,  that  racked  my  s])irit  without  hope  or  rest, 
Left  the  Ijlooming  flower,  Patience,  on  my  breast. 
Sufiering,  that  I  dreaded,  ignorant  of  her  charms. 
Laid  the  fair  child,  Pity,  smiling  in  my  arms. 
St)  I  count  my  treasures,  stored  in  days  long  past ; 
Aiul  I  thank  the  givers,  whom  I  know  at  last ! 


ANONYMOUS  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


551 


••  I   WOULD   NOT  LIVE  AL WAY."— Job  vii.  1(5. 

The  Rev.  AVilliam  Augustus  Muhlenberg,  t\  great -grandson 
of  Henry  Melchoir  Muhlenberg,  who  was  the  founder  of  the 
German  Lutheran  Church  in  America,  was  born  in  Philadel- 
l)hia  in  ITIK!,  and  died  in  1S7T.  The  great  charities  of  St.  Luke's 
Hospital  and  St.  Johnland  remain  as  enduring  monuments  of 
his  untiring  energy  and  Christian  sjjirit.  His  "Life  and  Works" 
were  [Miblislied  by  the  Messrs.  Harper  in  ISSO.  We  subjoin  his 
popular  liymn  as  it  appears  in  his  latest  revision. 

I  would  not  live  ahvay :   I  ask  uot  to  stay, 
Where  .storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way : 
Where,  seeking  for  rest,  I  but  hover  around, 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting  is  found ; 
Where  Hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night  of  despair. 
And  Joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad  ray, 
Save  the  gloom  of  the  plumage  that  bears  him  away. 

1  would  not  live  alway — tlius  fettered  by  sin, 
Temptation  without,  and  corruption  within  ; 
In  a  moment  of  strength  if  I  sever  the  chain. 
Scarce  the  victory's  mine  ere  I'm  captive  again. 
E'en  the  rapture  of  pardou  is  mingled  with  fears. 
And  my  ciip  of  thanksgiviug  with  penitent  tears. 
The  festival  trump  calls  for  jubilant  songs, 
I5ut  my  spirit  her  own  viiserere  prolongs. 

I  would  not  live  alwaj" :   no,  welcome  the  tomb; 
Immortality's   lamp   burns   there   bright   'mid   the 

gloom. 
There   too  is   the  pillow    where   Christ  bowed  his 

head — 
Oh,  soft  be  mj'  slumbers  on  that  holj'  bed  ! 
And  then  the  glad  morn  soon  to  follow  that  night, 
When  the  sunrise  of  glory  .shall  beam  on  my  sight, 
When  the  full  matiii-song,  as  the  sleepers  arise 
To   shout  in  the  morning,  shall  peal  through  the 

skies. 

Who,  who  would  live  alwa\',  away  from  his  God, 
Away  from  j'ou  heaven,  that  blissful  abode. 
Where  the  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o'er  the  bright 

l)lains. 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns  ; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet. 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet; 
While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly-  roll. 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul  ? 

Tiiat  heavenly  music  I   what  is  it  I  hear  ? 
The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on  my  ear. 
And  see,  soft  unfolding,  those  portals  of  gold. 
The  King  all  arrayed  in  his  beauty  behold  I 


Oil,  give  me — oh,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove ! 
Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  those  mansions  above ; 
Ay,  'tis  now  that  my  soul  on   swift  pinions  would 

soar. 
And  in  ecstasy  bid  earth  adieu  evermore. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

E.  H.  BuRRiNGTON  {BRITISH— 19th  Century). 

Walk  with  the  Beautiful  and  with  the  Grand, 
Let  nothing  on  the  earth  thy  feet  deter; 

Sorrow  may  lead  thee  Aveepiiig  by  the  hand, 
But  give  not  all  thy  bo.som  thoughts  to  her  : 
Walk  with  the  Beautiful 


I  hear  thee  say,  "  The  Beautiful !   what  is  it  ?" 
Oh,  thou  art  darkly  ignorant :   be  sure 

'Tis  no  long  weary  road  its  form  to  visit. 

For  thou  canst  make  it  smile  beside  thy  door; 
Then  love  the  Beautiful. 

A}',  love  it;   'tis  a  sister  that  will  bless. 

And  teacb  thee  patience  when  the  heart  is  lonely  ; 

The  angels  love  it,  for  thej'^  wear  its  dress, 
And  thou  art  made  a  little  lower  only ; 

Then  love  the  Beautiful. 

Some  boast  its  presence  lu  a  Grecian  face, 
Some,  in  a  favorite  warbler  of  the  skies; 

But  be  not  fooled  !   whate'er  thine  eye  may  trace. 
Seeking  the  Beautiful,  it  will  arise  ; 

Then  seek  it  everywhere. 

Thy  bosom  is  its  mint;   the  workmen  are 

Thy  thoughts,  and  they  must  coin  for  thee :  be- 
lieving 
The  Beautiful  exists  in  every  star, 

Tliou  mak'st  it  so,  and  art  thj'self  deceiving 
If  otherwise  thy  faith. 

Dost  thou  see  beauty  in  the  violet's  cup  ? 

I'll  teach  thee  miracles :   walk  on  this  heath, 
And  say  to  the  vefjlecfcd  flowers,  "  Look  up, 

And  be  ye  beautiful !"- — if  thou  hast  faith. 

They  will  obey  thy  word. 

One  thing  I  warn  thee  :   bow  no  knee  to  gold ; 

Less  innocent  it  makes  the  guileless  tongue ; 
It  turns  the  feelings  prematurely  old. 

And  they  who  keep  their  best  aftections  young. 
Best  love  the  Beautiful  I 


552 


CYCLOPEDIA    or  lilUTlSlI  ASD   AMKIUCAN  rOKTliV. 


THE   JOY   OF  IN'COMPLETENESS. 

ANosvMous  (Unknown— I'Jtii  Centi'HV). 

If  all  our  lifi!  W(Mii  oik!  liroad  glaro 

Of  siiiiliy;lit,  clear,  uiicloiuli'd  ; 
If  all  our  puth  were  siiKxitli  aud  fair, 

By  ii«  tU'op  gloom  eiisliroutletl ; — 

If  all  life's  llowers  were  fully  blown 

Without  the  slow  uufokliiig, 
Anil  haitpiness  mayhap  were  thrown 

On  hands  too  weak  for  holding  ; — 

Then  we  shonld  miss  the  twilight  hours. 

The  intermingling  sadness. 
And  pray,  perhaps,  for  storms  and  showers 

To  break  the  constant  gladness. 

If  none  were  sick,  and  none  were  sad. 
What  service  could  we  render  ? 

I  think  if  we  were  always  glad, 
We  hardly  could  bo  tender. 

Did  our  belov($d  never  need 

Our  loving  ministration. 
Life  would  grow  cold,  and  miss,  indeed, 

Its  finest  consolation. 

If  sorrow'  never  smote  the  heart, 
And  every  wish  were  granted, — 

Then  faith  would  die,  and  hope  depart, 
Aud  life  be  disenchanted. 

And  if  in  heaven  is  no  more  night, 
In  heaven  is  no  more  sorrow, — 

Such  unimagined,  pure  delight 

Fresh  grace  from  i)ain  will  borrow. 


UNCROWNED   KINGS. 
Behkelet  Aiken  {British— aboct  ISM). 

O  yo  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 

Made  royal  by  the  brain  and  heart; 

Of  all  earth's  wealth  the  noblest  part. 

Yet  reckoned  nothing  in  the  mart 

Where  men  kimw  naught  but  .sordid  things, — 

All  hail  to  yon,  mo.st  kingly  kings! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 
Whose  breath  aud  words  of  living  llame 
Have  waked  slaved  nations  from  their  shame. 
And  bid  them  rise  in  manhood's  name, — 


Swift  as  the  curved  bow  backward  springs,— 
To  follow  you,  mr)st  kiuglj-  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  Ixit  kingly  kings! 
Whoso  strong  right  arm  hath  oft  been  bared 
Where  fires  of  righteous  battle  glared. 
And  where  all  odds  of  wrong  ye  dared ! — 
To  think  on  you  the  lieart  upspring.s, 
O  yo  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 
Whose  burning  songs,  like  lava  poured. 
Have  smitten  like  a  two-edged  sword 
Sent  forth  by  heaven's  avenging  Lord 
To  purge  the  earth  where  serfdom  clings 
To  all  but  you,  O  kiugly  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 
To  whoso  ecstatic  gaze  alone 
The  beautiful  by  heaven  is  shown. 
And  who  have  made  it  all  your  own  ; 
Your  lavish  hand  around  us  flings 
Earth's  richest  wreaths,  O  noble  kings! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 
The  heart  leaps  Avildly  at  your  thought, 
And  the  brain  fires  as  if  it  caught 
Shreds  of  your  mantle  ;   ye  have  fought 
Not  vainly,  if  your  glory  brings 
A  lingering  light  to  earth,  O  kings! 

O  yo  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings! 
Whose  souls  on  Marah's  fruit  did  sup, 
And  went  in  fiery  chariots  up 
When  each  had  drained  his  hemlock  cup, — 
Ye  friends  of  God,  but  tyrants'  stings. 
Uncrowned,  but  still  the  kingliest  kings! 


WONDERLAND. 

CfiADorK  Newton  (English— 1851). 

Mournfully  listening  to  the  waves'  strange  talk, 
.Vnd  marking,  with  a  sad  and  moistened  eye, 
The  sunnuer  days  sink  down  behind  the  sea, — 
Sink  down  beneath  the  level  brine,  and  fall 
Into  the  ll.ules  of  forgotten  things, — 
A  mighty  longing  stealeth  o'er  the  soul ; 
As  of  a  man  who  pant^-th  to  behold 
His  idol  in  another  land— if  yet 
Her  heart  be  treasured  for  him, — if  her  eyes 
Havt'  yet  the  old  love  in  them.     Even  so, 
Willi  passion  strong  as  love  aud  deep  as  death, 
Yiariicth  the  spirit  after  Wonderland. 


JXOXYMOUS  ASD    MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55:{ 


All,  happy,  happy  hiiul !     Tho  busy  soul 
Calls  up  ill  pictures  of  the  half-shut  eye 
Thy  shores  of  splendor  :   as  .1  fair  bliiui  girl, 
Who  thinks  the  roses  must  be  beautiful, 
But  cannot  see  their  beauty.     OUleii  tones, 
Borne  ou  tho  bosom  of  the  breeze  from  far, — 
Angels  that  came  to  the  young  heart  in  dreams, 
And  then,  like  birds  of  passage,  flew  away, — 
Keturn.     Tho  rugged  steersman  at  the  ^vheel 
Softens  into  a  cloudy  shape.     The  sails 
Move  to  a  music  of  their  own.     Brave  bark. 
Speed  well,  and  bear  ns  unto  Wonderland! 

Leave  far  behind  thee  the  vexed  eartli,  where  men 
Spend    their    daric    days    iu    weaving    their    own 

shrouds ; 
And  Fraud  and  Wrong  are  crowned  kings;  and  Toil 
Hath  chains  for  hire  ;   and  all  creation  groans. 
Crying,  in  its  great  bitterness,  to  God  ; 
And  Love  can  never  speak  the  thing  it  feels. 
Or  save  the  thing  it  loves, — is  snccorless. 
For,  if  one  say  "  I  love  thee,"  what  poor  words 
They  are!    While  they  are  spoken,  the  beloved 
Travelleth,  as  a  doomed  lamb,  the  road  of  death  ; 
And  sorrow  blanches  the  fair  hair,  and  pales 
The  tinted  cheek.     Not  so  in  Wonderland ! 

There  larger  natures  sport  themselves  at  ease 
'Neath  kindlier  suns  that  nurture  fairer  flowers, 
And  richer  harvests  billow  iu  the  vales. 
And  passionate  kisses  fall  on  godlike  brows 
As  summer  rain.     And  never  know  they  there 
The  passion  that  is  desolation's  prey  ; 
The  bitter  tears  begotten  of  farewells ; 
Endless  renunciations,  when  the  heart 
Loseth  the  all  it  lived  for;   vows  forgot, 
('i)ld  looks,  estranged  voices, — all  the  woes 
That  poison  earth's  delight.     For  love  endures, 
Nor  fades,  nor  changes,  iu  the  AVonderlaud. 

Alas  I   the  rugged  steersman  at  the  wheel 
Comes  back  again  to  vision.     The  lioarse  sea 
Speaketh  from  its  great  heart  of  discontent, 
And  in  the  misty  distance  dies  away. 
The  Wonderland! — 'Tis  past  and  gone.     O  soul! 
While  yet  unbodied  thou  didst  summer  there, 
God  saw  thee,  led  thee  forth  from  thy  green  haunts, 
And  bade  thee  know  another  world,  less  fair, 
Less  calm  !     Ambition,  knowledge,  and  desire 
Drove   from    thee   thy   first   worship.      Live    and 

learn  ; 
Believe  and  wait ;   and  it  may  be  that  he 
Will  guide  thee  back  again  to  Wonderland. 


MISCHIEVOUS   WOMAN. 

Hi  "The  Ktthick  SiiEniEUD"  (see  Tage  277). 

Could  this  ill  warld  ha'e  been  contrived 

To  stand  without  mischievous  woman. 
How  peacefii'  bodies  might  ha'e  lived. 

Released  frae  a'  tho  ills  sae  common  ! 
But  since  it  is  the  waefu'  case 

That  man  maun  ha'e  this  teasing  crony. 
Why  sic  a  sweet  bewitching  face  ? 

O  had  she  no  been  made  sae  bonny ! 

I  might  ha'e  roamed  wi'  chcerfn'  mind, 

Nae  sin  or  sorrow  to  betide  nie, 
As  careless  as  the  wandering  wind. 

As  happy  as  the  lamb  beside  me  : 
I  might  ha'e  screwed  my  tunefii'  pegs. 

And  carolled  mountain-airs  fu'  gayly. 
Had  we  but  wanted  a'  the  Megs, 

Wi'  glossy  een  sae  dark  an'  wily. 

I  saw  the  danger,  feared  the  dart. 

The  smile,  the  air,  an'  a'  sae  taking  ; 
Yet  open  laid  my  wareless  heart, 

An'  gat  the  wound  that  keeps  me  waking. 
My  liarp  waves  ou  the  willow  green,— 

Of  wild  witch-notes  it  has  nae  oiiy 
Sin  e'er  I  saw  that  pawky  quean, 

Sae  sweet,  sae  wicked,  an'  sae  bonny! 


THE   WATER-DRINKER. 

Edwakd  Johnson,  M.D.  {London  Metropolitan  Magazine — 1837). 

Oh,  water  for  me !     Bright  water  for  me  ! 

And  wine  for  the  tremulous  debauchee! 

It  cooleth  the  brow,  it  cooleth  the  braiu, 

It  maketh  the  faint  one  strong  again  ; 

It  comes  o'er  the  sense  like  a  breeze  from  the  sea, 

All  freshness,  like  infant  purity. 

Oh,  water,  bright  Avater,  for  me,  for  me ! 

Give  wine,  give  wine  to  the  debancliee ! 

Fill  to  the  brim!     Fill,  till  to  the  brim! 
Let  the  flowing  crystal  kiss  the  rim! 
For  my  hand  is  steady,  my  eye  is  true, 
For  I,  like  tlio  flowers,  drink  naught  but  dew. 
Oh!   water,  bright  water's  a  mine  of  wealth, 
And  the  ores  it  yieldeth  are  vigor  and  health. 
So  water,  pure  water,  for  me,  for  me  ! 
And  wine  for  the  tremulous  debauchee! 


554 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Fill  a<;uiii  to  tlie  brim!   ngniu  tu  the  brim! 
For  water  streugthcueth  life  and  limb  I 
To  the  days  of  the  ag(5d  it  addeth  length, 
To  the  might  of  the  strong  it  addeth  strength. 
It  freshens  the  heart,  it  brightens  the  sight, 
"I'is  like  qnafting  a  gobh't  of  morning  light : — 
So,  water!   I  will  diink  nanght  bnt  thee, 
Thon  parent  of  health  and  energy! 

Wiicn  o'er  the  hills,  like  a  gladsome  bride, 
Morning  walks  forth  in  her  beanty's  pride, 
And,  leading  a  band  of  laughing  hours, 
Brushes  the  dew  from  the  nodding  tlowers, — 
Oh,  cheerily  then  my  voice  is  heard, 
Mingling  with  that  of  the  soaring  bird, 
AVho  flingeth  abroad  his  matins  loud. 
As  he  fresiieus  his  wing  in  the  cold  gray  cloud. 

Bnt  when  evening  has  quitted  her  sheltering  yew. 

Drowsily  flying,  and  weaving  anew 

Her  dusky  meshes  o'er  laud  and  sea — 

How  gently,  O  sleep !   fall  thy  poppies  on  me  ; 

For  I  drink  water,  pure,  cold,  and  bright. 

And  my  dreams  are  of  heaven  the  livelong  night ; 

So,  hurrah  for  thee,  water !  hurrah,  hurrah  ! 

Thou  art  silver  and  gold,  thou  art  ribbon  and  star! 

Hurrah  for  brijiht  water!   hurrah,  hurrah! 


GLENLOGIE. 

Smith's  Scottish  Minsthel  (IStii  C£ntui!v). 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's  ha', 
]}nt  bonnie  Glenlogie's  tlio  llower  o'  them  a'; 
Wi'  his  milk-white  steed,  and  his  bonnie  black  e'e, 
"  Glenlogic,  dear  mitlicr,  Glenlogie  for  nic  !"' 

'•  O  hand  your  tongue,  daughter,  ye'll  get  better  than 

he;" 
"O  say  nae  sae,  mithcr,  for  that  canna  be  ; 
Tiiougli  Douudie  is  richer  and  greater  than  he, 
Vet  if  I  maun  talc  him,  I'll  certainly  dee. 

"Where  will  I  get  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose  and 

slioon, 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again  soon  f 
"  O  here  am  I  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose  and  shoon, 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again  .soon." 

When  ho  gaed  to  Glenlogie, 'twas  '"Wash  and  go 

dine  :" 
'Twas  "  Wash  ye,  my  pretty  boy,  wasli  and  go  dine." 


"  O  'twas  ne'er  my  father's  fashion,  and  it  ne'er  shall 

be  mine. 
To  gar  a  lady's  hasty  errand  Avait  till  I  dine. 

"But  there  is,  Glenlogie,  a  letter  for  thee:" 
The  lirst  line  that  he  read,  a  low  smile  gave  he  ; 
The  next  line  that  he  read,  the  tear  blindit  his  e'e  ; 
But  the  last  line  that  he  read,  he  gart  the  table  flee. 

"  Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,  gar  saddle  the  brown  ; 
Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e'er  rade  frae  a  town." 
Bnt  king  ere  the  horse  was  drawn  and  brought  to 

the  green, 
O  bonnie  Glenlogic  was  twa  mile  his  laue. 

When  he  eamo  to  Glenfeldy's  door,  little  mirth  was 

there  : 
Bonnie  Jean's  mither  was  tearing  her  hair ; 
"  Ye're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  ye're  welcome,"  said  she  ; 
"  Ye're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  your  Jeanie  to  see." 

Palo  and  wan  was  she  when  -Glenlogie  gaed  ben, 
But  red  and  rosy  grew  she  whentj'er  he  sat  down  ; 
She  turned  awa'  her  head,  but  the  smile  was  in  her 

e'e, 
"  O  binna  feared,  mither,  I'll  maybe  no  dee.'' 


THE   PLACE  TO   DIE. 

JIlCHAEL  JosEFH  Barry  (Dubliii  Xutloii,  18-lG). 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  die, 

When  once  the  moment's  past 
In  which  the  dim  and  glazing  eye 

Has  looked  on  earth  its  last  ; 
Whether  beneath  the  sculptured  urn 

Tlie  coffined  form  shall  rest, 
Or,  in  its  nakedness,  return 

Back  to  its  mother's  breast. 

Death  is  a  common  friend  or  foe, 

As  dilfereut  men  may  hold, 
And  at  its  summons  each  must  go, 

The  timid  and  the  b(dd  ; 
But  when  the  spirit,  free  and  warm, 

Deserts  it,  as  it  must, 
What  matter  where  the  lifeless  form 

Dissolves  again  to  dust? 

The  soldier  falls  'mid  cor.ses  piled 

Upon  the  battle  plain. 
Where  reinless  war-steeds  gallop  wild 

Above  the  gorv  slain  : 


ANONYMOUS  AXD  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


555 


But  though  bis  corso  bo  grim  to  sec, 
Hoof- tram  pled  on  the  sod, — 

What  recks  it  when  tbo  spirit  free 
Has  soared  aloft  to  God ! 

The  coward's  dying  eye  may  close 

Upon  bis  downy  bed. 
And  softest  bands  bis  limbs  compose, 

Or  garments  o'er  bim  spread  : 
But  yo  who  shun  the  bloody  fray 

Where  fall  the  mangled  brave. 
Go  strip  bis  coffin-lid  away, 

And  see  bim  in  bis  grave ! 

'Twere  sweet  indeed  to  close  our  eyes 

With  those  we  cherish  near, 
And,  wafted  upward  by  their  sighs. 

Soar  to  some  calmer  sphere  : 
But  "whether  on  the  scatt'old  high, 

Or  in  the  battle's  van. 
The  fittest  place  where  man  can  die 

Is  where  he  dies  for  man. 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

WU.LIA5I  Smith  (England— 1809-1871). 

Ob  !   vex  me  not  with  needless  cry 

Of  what  the  world  may  think  or  claim  : 

Let  the  sweet  life  pass  sweetly  by, 

The  same,  the  same,  and  every  day  the  same. 

Thee,  Xatnre, — thought, — that  burns  in  me 

A  living  and  consuming  flame, — • 
These  must  suffice:   let  the  life  be 

The  same,  the  same,  and  evermore  the  same. 

Here  find  I  task-work,  here  society. 

Thou  art  my  gold,  thou  art  my  fame  : 
Let  the  sweet  life  pass  sweetly  by. 

The  same,  the  same,  and  every  day"  the  same. 


LOVE   AND  ABSENCE. 

From  "  The  Pelican  Papers,"  by  Jame3  Ashcroft  Noble,  Lon- 
don, 1873. 

Let  it  not  grieve  thee,  dear,  to  bear  me  say 
'Tis  false  that  absence  maketb  the  fond  heart 
More  fond  ;   that  when  alone,  and  fur  apart 
From  thee,  I  love  thee  more  from  day  to  day. 
Not  so  ;   for  then  my  heart  would  ever  pray 
For  longer  separation,  that  I  might 
In  absence  from  thee  gain  the  utmost  height 


Of  love  unrealized  ;   nor  would  I  stiiy 
In  my  swift  course,  but  ever  onward  press. 
Until  mine  eager  hand  should  touch  the  goal 
Of  possible  passion.     Did  I  love  thee  less, 
Then  might  I  love  thee  more ;  but  now  my  soul 
Is  filled  throughout  with  perfect  tenderness  ; 
No  part  of  me  thou  bast,  but  the  full  whole. 


DREAMS. 

ANONYMons  (British— 19th  Century). 

Oh,  there's  a  dream  of  early  youth, 

And  it  never  comes  again  : 
'Tis  a  vision  of  light,  of  life,  of  truth, 

That  flits  across  the  brain  : 
And  love  is  the  theme  of  that  early  dream, 

So  wild,  so  warm,  so  new. 
That  in  all  our  after-life,  I  deem, 

That  early  dream  we  rue. 

Oh,  there's  a  dream  of  maturer  years, 

More  turbulent  by  far; 
'Tis  a  vision  of  blood  and  of  woman's  tears. 

And  the  theme  of  that  dream  is  war : 
And  we  toil  in  the  field  of  danger  and  death, 

And  we  shout  in  the  battle-array. 
Till  we  find  that  fame  is  a  bodiless  breath 

That  vanishetb  away. 

Oh,  there's  a  dream  of  hoary  age  : 

'Tis  a  vision  of  gold  in  store  ; 
Of  sums  noted  down  on  a  figured  page, 

To  be  counted  o'er  and  o'er: — 
And  we  fondly  trust  in  our  glittering  dust 

As  a  refuge  from  grief  and  pain, — 
Till  our  limbs  are  laid  on  that  cold  bed 

Where  the  wealth  of  the  world  is  in  vain. 

And  is  it  thus  from  man's  birth  to  his  grave, 

In  tiie  path  that  we  all  are  treading? 
Is  there  naught  in  bis  wild  career  to  save 

From  remorse  and  self-npbraiding ! 
Oil  yes  !   there's  a  dream  so  pure,  so  bright. 

That  the  being  to  whom  it  is  given 
Hath  bathed  in  a  sea  of  living  light, 

And  the  theme  of  that  dream  is  heaven. 


EPIGRAM  BY   S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

Swans  sing  before  they  die  :   'twere  no  bad  thing 
Did  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


556 


CYCLOrJ'DIA    OF  JilUTISll  AM)   AMKIUCAN  I'OETltY. 


THE  FIRST  SPRING  DAY. 

John    Toduunter,  Airiioii   <>f  "  Lal'hf.i.la,  and   otiieii    Poems," 
London,  1h7(>. 

lint  Olio  short  week  ago  tlio  trees  were,  bare; 
And  wiuds  were  keen,  ami  violets  pinched  with  frost ; 
Winter  was  with  iis ;  bnt  the  larches  tossed 
Lightly  their  crimson  buds,  and  here  and  there 
Rooks  cawed.     To-day  the  Spring  is  in  the  air 
And  in  the  blood  :  sweet  snn-glcanis  conio  and  go 
Upon  the  hills;  in  lanes  th(^  wild  ilowers  blow, 
And  tender  leaves  are  bnrsting  everywhere. 
About  the  hedge  the  small  birds  peer  and  dart, 
Each  bush  is  full  of  amorous  llutterings 
And  little  rapturous  cries.     The  thrush  apart 
Sits  throned,  and  loud  his  ripe  contralto  rings. 
Music  is  ou  the  wind,— and,  in  my  heart, 
Infinite  love  for  all  created  things ! 


UNBELIEF. 

Anonymous  (Duitisii— IOtii  Century). 

There  is  no  unbelief: 
Whoever  plants  a  seed  beneath  the  sod 
And  waits  to  see  it  push  away  the  clod, — 
He  trusts  in  God. 

Whoever  says,  when  clouds  are  in  the  sky, 

"  Be  patient,  heart ;  liglit  breaketh  by-aud-by," 

Trusts  the  INIost  High. 

Whoever  sees,  'neatli  Winter's  field  of  snow. 
The  silent  harvest  of  the  future  grow, — 
God's  power  must  know. 

Whoever  lies  down  on  his  couch  to  sleep, 
■  Content  to  lock  each  sense  in  sliinibcr  deep. 
Knows  God  will  keep. 

Whoever  says,  "To-morrow,"  "The  l^nknown," 
"The  Future,"  trusts  that  Power  alone, 
He  dares  disown. 

Tlie  heart  that  looks  on  when  the  eyelids  close, 
And  dares  to  live  when  life  has  only  woes, 
God's  comfort  knows. 

There  is  no  unbelief: 

And  day  by  day,  and  night,  unconsciously, 
The  heart  lives  by  that  faith  the  lips  deny — 
God  kuoweth  why! 


ON   A  VIRTUOUS  YOUNG   GENTLEWOMAN 
WHO   DIED   SUDDENLY, 

Tlie^e  lilies,  given  in  pome  collections  .is  anonymonp,  were 
wiiitcn  by  Williiini  Caitwiisht,  born  in  Enj^lnnd  in  IGll,  nnd 
ediiiuicd  at  Oxford.  He  took  orders,  and  in  1G43  became  junior 
l)roctnr  and  reader  in  nietapliysics  at  tlie  L'niversity,  bnt  died 
the  siame  year  of  a  mali^jnant  fever.  A  collected  edition  of  his 
"Comedies,  Traf^i-Comedies,  and  other  Poems,"  ai)pcaved  in 
104",  and  a^aiu  in  1C51.  lie  seems  to  liave  been  a  favorite  with 
his  conlcniijoraries;  and  Ben  Jonson  remarked  of  him,  "My  son 
C'art\vrij,'ht  writes  all  like  a  man."  He  must  have  cultivated 
l)oetry  in  his  youth,  for  he  was  only  twenty -six  at  the  time 
of  the  death  of  Jonson,  whose  loss  he  mourned  in  a  eulogy  of 
which  the  following  lines  are  a  specimen  : 

"  But  thou  still  putfst  true  passion  on  ;  dost  write 
With  the  same  courage  that  tried  captains  light; 
(iiv'st  the  right  blush  and  color  unto  things; 
Low  without  creeping,  high  without  loss  of  wings; 
iSmoolh  yet  not  weak,  and,  by  a  thorough  care, 
Big  without  swelling,  without  painting,  fair." 

When  tlio  old  flaming  Prophet  climbed  the  sky. 
Who  at  one  glimpse  did  vanish,  aud  not  die. 
He  made  more  preface  to  a  death  than  this  : 
So  far  from  sick  she  did  not  breathe  amiss. 
Slie  who  to  Heaven  more  heaven  doth  annex, 
Whoso  lowest  thought  was  above  all  onr  sex, 
Accounted  nothing  death  but  t'  be  reprieved, 
And  died  as  free  from  sickness  as  she  lived. 
Others  are  dragged  away,  or  must  be  driven  ; 
She  onl3'  saw  her  time,  and  stepped  to  Heaven, 
Where  Seraphims  view  all  her  glories  o'er 
As  one  returned,  that  had  been  thei-e  before. 
For  while  she  did  this  lower  Avorld  adorn. 
Her  body  seemed  rather  assumed  than  born  : 
So  rarefied,  advanced,  so  pure  and  whole. 
That  body  might  have  been  another's  soul ; 
And  equally  a  miracle  it  were 
That  she  could  die,  or  that  she  could  live  here. 


THE  WAY. 
William  S.  Shurtleff  (American — 1877). 

Fir.st,  find  thou  Truth,  and  theu- 

Although  she  strays 
From  beaten  paths  of  men 

To  nil  trod  ways — 
Her  leading  follow  straight. 

And  bide  thy  fate  ; 
And  whether  smiles  or  scorn 

Thy  passing  greet, 
Or  find'st  thou  flower  or  thorn 

Beneath  thy  feet, — 
Fare  on  !   nor  fear  thy  fate 

At  Heaven's  irate. 


THOMAS  BABIXGTOX  MACAULAY. 


557 


^TIjomaG  Babington  iUacaulaij. 

One  of  the  most  brilluint  and  estimable  of  EnijlancVs 
men  of  letters,  Macaulay  (1800-1851)),  who  became  Lorcl 
Macaulay  in  1857,  was  born  October  5tli,  at  Rothlcy  Tem- 
ple, in  Lincolnshire.  His  father  was  Zuchary  Macaulay, 
a  Scottish  Presbyterian.  Thomas  was  educated  at  Trin- 
ity College,  Cambridge,  and  in  1819  gained  the  Chan- 
cellor's Medal  for  a  poem  entitled  "Pompeii" — hardly 
above  the  average  of  similar  prize  poems.  He  was  a 
devoted  student,  however,  and  his  improvement  was 
rapid.  He  wrote  the  best  of  his  poems,  "The  Battle  of 
Ivry,"  in  his  twenty-fourth  year;  and  was  only  twenty- 
five  when  he  contributed  his  brilliant  article  on  Milton 
to  the  Edinhitrgh  Jieview.  It  was  the  first  of  a  series  of 
remarkable  papers  on  distinguished  characters.  Having 
been  admitted  to  the  Bar,  in  1830  he  became  a  Member 
of  Parliament.  His  speeches,  which  are  very  able,  were 
carefully  studied,  and  usually  committed  to  memory, 
which  was  an  easy  task  to  him. 

In  183-1  he  proceeded  to  India,  as  legal  adviser  to  the 
Supreme  Council  of  Calcutta.  He  returned  to  England 
in  1838;  represented  Edinburgh  in  Parliament  up  to  the 
year  1847;  held  seats  in  the  Cabinet;  and  in  1849  pub- 
lished the  first  two  volumes  of  his  great  "History  of 
England."  It  commanded  a  larger  and  more  rapid  sale, 
both  in  England  and  America,  than  any  historical  work 
known  to  the  trade.  His  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome"  had 
appeared  in  1843;  eighteen  thousand  copies  were  sold  in 
ten  years.  It  was  his  last  attempt  at  poetry.  "Like  a 
wise  gamester,"  he  writes,  "I  shall  leave  oflT  while  I  am 
a  winner,  and  not  cry  'Double  or  Quits.'"  In  the  ex- 
tract which  we  give  from  the  "Lay  of  Horatius,'"  thirty- 
one  of  the  stanzas  are  omitted.  Wordsworth  denied 
that  the  "Lays"  were  poetry  at  all;  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
in  a  letter  asking  Macaulay  to  lend  him  money,  wrote 
him  that  he  lamented  that  his  "verses  wanted  the  true 
poetical  aroma  which  breathes  from  Spenser's  'Faery 
Queene.' "  L^pon  which  Macaulay  sajs :  "I  am  much 
pleased  with  him  for  having  the  spirit  to  tell  me,  in  a 
begging  letter,  bow  little  he  likes  my  poetry." 

Great  as  he  was  in  literary  execution,  Macaulay,  in  one 
of  his  letters,  remarks  :  "  I  never  read  again  the  most 
popular  passages  of  my  own  works  without  painfully 
feeling  how  far  my  execution  has  fallen  short  of  the 
standard  which  is  in  mj-  mind."  It  was  as  an  essayist 
and  a  writer  of  history  that  his  contemi)orary  laurels 
were  gained.  His  poetry  is  quite  overshadowed  by  his 
prose ;  but  had  he  been  unknown  as  a  prose  writer,  he 
would  have  enjoyed  no  ordinary  fame  as  a  poet.  His 
memory  was  wonderfully  quick  and  tenacious,  and  liis 
conversational  powers  were  the  wonder  of  his  hearers. 
He  has  been  accused  of  talking  too  much ;  and  Sydney 
Smith  once  said  of  him  :  "  He  is  certainly  more  agreeable 
since  his  return  from  India.  Ilis  enemies  might  perhaps 
have  said  before  (though  I  never  did  so)  that  he  talked 
rather  too  much ;  but  now  he  has  occasional  flashes  of 
silence  that  make  his  conversation  perfectly  delightful." 

Take  him  for  all  in  all,  Macaulay  was  one  of  the  noblest 
characters  in  English  literature;  generous  to  the  needy, 
warm  in  the  family  affections,  self-sacrificing  and  mag- 
nanimous, irreproachable  in  his  habits  and  his  life.     He 


was  never  married.  His  mortal  remains  were  deposited 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  Poets'  Corner,  his  favorite 
haunt.  An  interesting  "Life"  of  him,  by  his  nephew, 
G.  O.  Trevelyan,  who  has  also  edited  a  volume  of  selec- 
tions from  his  writings,  appeared  in  1877. 


FROM  THE   LAY  OF   "HORATIUS." 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clnsinm 

By  the  Xine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  gieat  hou.se  of  Tarqnin 

Should  sufler  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting-day ; 
And  bade  his  me.ssengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 

To  snunuon  his  array. 

East  and  west,  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower,  and  town,  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  fal.se  Etrn.scan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home. 
When  Por.sena  of  Clusinni 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place  ; 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain  ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet. 

Which,  liid  by  heeeli  and  pine. 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine. 

There  he  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Por.sena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand  : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirtj'^ 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er. 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  : 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena  ; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  heaven  ; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clnsinm's  royal  dome  ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 


558 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  JIRITISII  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ami  uow  Imth  every  city 

Sent  np  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thoiisaiul, 

Tiio  horse  arc  tlionsauds  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  .Sutriuiu 

Is  met  the  great  array, 
A  proud  uiau  was  Lars  Torscna 

Upon  the  tryst iug-day. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpcian, 

Could  the  wau  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Eed  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  city. 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bauds : 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dove-cote, 

In  Crnstnmeriiim  stands. 
Verbcnna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  jdain; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all  ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns. 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River  Gate  ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess. 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost. 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town."' 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear : 
"To  arms!  to  arms!  Sir  Consul  ; 

Lars  Porscna  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  lixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

llise  fast  along  the  sky. 


And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud. 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trnmjiet's  war-note  proud. 

The  trampling  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  ami  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  staudard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wTOUght  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?" 

Then  out  spake  bravo  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  gate  : 
"  To  every  mau  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  mau  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds. 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul,  . 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
Ill  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?" 

Tlieii  out  spake  Spnrins  Lartins; 

A  Kamnian  proud  was  he  : 
"Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee !" 


THOMAS  BJniXGTOX  MAC  AULA!'. 


55'J 


And  out  spake  strong  Hermiuius; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  lie  : 
'•  I  will  abide  on  tliy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  tliee." 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold. 
Nor  sou  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party  ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  State  : 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 
Then  lands  werQ  fairly  portioned  ; 

Then  spoils  Avere  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Xow,  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe  ; 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above. 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army. 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  wailike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread. 
Rolled  slowly  toward  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent. 

And  looked  npon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose ; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array  ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  wav. 


Herrainius  smote  down  Aruns ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail." 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes  : — 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor. 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose ! 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  tlie  city  ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead  ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred. 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
W^here,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied. 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  totteriug 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  I" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
**  Back,  Lartius!    back,  Horminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  I" 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius; 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  theii"  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 


560 


CYCLOl'JUHA    OF  JtlUTlSJI  AM)  AMERICAN  rOETRV. 


But  when  they  tin-ucil  their  faces, 

And  on  tlio  farther  sliore 
Saw  brave  Iloratiiis  stand  alone, 

They  wonhl  have  crossed  once  more. 

But  with  a  ciasli  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  : 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Kose  from  the  walls  of  Rome 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  fust  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard. 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane ; 
And  burst  the  curb  and  bouuded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free  ; 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier. 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  iu  mind  ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him!"  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  liy  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"O  Tiber!    Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !" 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  l)y  his  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

I'lnngcd  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 


But  friends  and  foes  iu  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  ho  sank : 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain  ; 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimyiei-, 

In  such  an  evil  case. 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place. 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  np  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within. 
And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

l!;ire  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him!"  quoth  fal.se  Sextus; 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !" 
"Heaven  help  him!"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  .shore  ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  ho  feels  the  bottom  ; 

Now  ou  dry  earth  he  stands  ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands  ; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping. 

And  uoisc  of  weeping  loud. 
He  enters  thi'ough  the  River  Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land 

That  was  of  public  right 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  tliis  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 


THOMAS  ILIIJIXGTON  MACAULAY. 


561 


THE   BATTLE   OF  NASEBY. 

BY  OBADIAH  BIXD-THEIR-KINGS-IX-CITAINS-AND-THEIU- 
NOBLKS-Wrril-LlNKS-OF-IUOX,  SKUGEANT  IN  IKETON'S- 
liEdlMEXT. 

Ob,  ■wlicreloic  couic  ye  forth,  in  tiiuiiipli  from  the 
North, 
With  your  hands  and  your  feet  aud  your  raimeut 
all  red  ? 
And  wherefore  dotli  your  rout  send  forth  a  joj'ous 
shout  '1 
Aud  whence   bo  the   grapes  of  the   wine -press 
which  ye  tread  ? 
Oh,  evil  was  the  root,  aud  bitter  was  the  fruit, 
And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that 
we  trod  ; 
For  we  trampled  on  the  throug  of  the  haughty  aud 
the  strong 
"Who  sat  in  the  high  i^laces,  and  slew  the  saiuts 
of  God. 
It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of  June 
That  wo  saw  their  banners  dance,  and  their  cui- 
rasses shine, 
And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his  long 
essenced  hair, 
And  Astley  and  Sir  Marmaduke  aud  Enpert  of 
the  Ehine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  aud  his 
sword, 
The  General  rode  along  us  to  form  us  to  the  fight, 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  aud  swelled 
iuto  a  shout,  [ri"lit. 

Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's 
And  hark !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line ! 
For  God,  for  the  Cause,  for  the  Church,  for  the  Laws ! 
For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the 
Rhine! 
The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and 
his  drums. 
His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  Whitehall ; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flauks:  grasp  your  pikes, 
close  your  ranks ; 
For  Rupert  never  conies  but  to  conquer  or  to  fiill. 

They  are  here ;  they  rush  on  ;  we  are  broken  ;  we  are 

gone ! 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the 

blast :  [right ! 

0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might ;   O  Lord,  defend  the 

Stand  back  to  back  iu  God's  name,  aud  fight  it 

to  the  last. 

36 


Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound  ;  the  centre  hath  given 
ground  : 
Hark,  hark  !  what  means  the  trampling  of  horse- 
men on  our  rear  ? 
Whoso  banner  do  I  see,  boys?     'Tis  he,  thank  God, 
'tis  he,  boys ! 
Stand  up  another  minute :  brave  Oliver  is  here. 
Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row, 
Like  a  wliirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on 
the  dikes. 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the  Ac- 
cursed, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his 
pikes. 

Fast,  fiist  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to 
hide 
Their  coward  heads  predestined  to  rot  on  Tem- 
ple Bar ; 
And  he — he  turns, he  flies;  shame  on  those  cruel  eyes. 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look 
on  war. 
Ho !  comrades,  scour  the  plain  ;  and,  ere  ye  strip  the 
slain, 
First   give    another  stab,  to   make  your   search 
secure. 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their  broad- 
pieces  and  lockets, 
The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the  poor. 
Fools !    your  doublets  shone   with   gold,  and  your 
hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 
W^hen  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans 
to-day  ; 
Ami  to-morrow  shall  the  fox,  from  her  chambers  in 
the  rocks, 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues  that  late  mocked  at  heaven 
and  hell  and  fate, 
Aud  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with  your 
blades, 
Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and  your 
oaths, 
Your  stage-plaj's  and  your  sonnets,  your  diamonds 
and  your  spades  ? 
Down,  down,  forever  down  with  the  mitre  and  the 
crown, 
With  the  Belial  of  the  Court,  and  the  Mammon 
of  the  Pope : 
There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls;  there  is  wail  iu  Dur- 
ham's stalls ; 
The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom  ;   the  bishop  rends 
his  cope. 


562 


CYCLOrJElJlA    OF  JUUTJSJI  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  sho  of  the  seven  bills  shall  iiioiirn  her  chil- 
dren's ills, 
And  treniblo  when   she   tliinks   on   tlic   edge   of 
England's  sword  ; 
And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder  when 
they  hear 
What  the   hand  of  God  hath   wrought  for  the 
Houses  and  the  Word.' 

'  Sir  Thomas  Fiiirfrtx  (1C12-1C71),  who  commauded  the  army 
i)f  the  P.irlhitnent  during  Eiigliind's  Civil  Wars,  was  the  true 
liero  of  the  Battle  of  Is'aseby.  His  gallant  charge  at  the  head 
of  Ihe  right  wing  of  liis  army  insured  the  success  of  Cromwell's 
division.  George  Villiers,  the  Duke  of  Uuckingham  (1G'27-16SS), 
author  of  "The  Rehearsal,"  and  other  dramatic  ])ieces,  who 
married  Fairfax's  daughter  Mary,  was  one  of  the  wildest  of  the 
gay  and  dissolute  courtiers  of  the  period  ;  but  that  he  ai>i)reci- 
ated  the  noble  qualities  of  his  father-in-law  is  evident  from  the 
following  eulogistic  lines: 

KriTAPII   OX    FAini'AX  BY  THE    DUKIC   OF   I5UCKINGIIAM. 
1. 
Under  this  stone  doth  lie 
One  born  for  victory, — 
Fah'fax  the  valiant,  and  the  only  lie 
Who  ere  for  that  alone  a  concjueror  would  be. 


Both  sexes'  virtues  were  in  him  combined : 
He  had  the  fierceness  of  the  manliest  mind, 
And  all  the  meekness  too  of  womankind. 


He  never  knew  what  envy  was,  nor  hate; 

His  soul  was  filled  with  worth  and  honesty, 
And  with  another  thing  besides,  quite  out  of  date. 

Called  modesty. 


When  all  the  nation  he  had  won. 

And  with  expense  of  blood  had  bought 

Store  great  enough,  he  thought, 
Of  fame  and  of  renown,^ 
He  then  his  arms  laid  down. 

With  full  as  little  pride 

As  if  he'd  been  the  other,  conqnered  side, 
Or  one  of  them  could  be  that  were  undone. 


He  neither  wealth  nor  places  sought: 
For  others,  not  himself,  he  fought; 

He  was  content  to  know 

(For  he  had  found  it  so) 
That  when  he  pleased  to  ccniqiier  he  was  able. 
And  left  the  spoil  and  plunder  to  the  rabble. 

vni. 
He  might  have  been  a  king. 

But  that  he  undeistood 
How  much  it  is  a  meaner  thing 

To  be  unjustly  great  than  honorably  good. 


This  from  the  world  did  admiration  draw, 
And  from  his  friends  both  love  and  awe. 
Remembering  what  he  did  in  fight  before. 
Nay,  his  foes  loved  him  too. 
As  they  were  bound  to  do. 
Because  lie  was  resolved  to  fight  no  more. 


So,  blessed  of  all  he  died,  but  far  more  blessed  were  we 

If  we  were  sure  to  live  till  we  could  see 

A  man  as  great  iu  war,  as  just  in  peace  as  he. 


THE   AKMATJA. 

Attend,  all  yi;  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's 

l>rais(! : 
I  tell  of  the  tlirice  famous  deeds  slie   wrought   in 

aneient  days, 
^\'hl•ll   tliat  great  lleet  invineible  against  her  bore, 

ill  vain,  [Spain. 

Tlic  ricln'st  spoils  of  Mexico,  the  stoutest  hearts  of 

It  was  about  the  lovely  close  of  a  warm  summer 

day. 
There   came   a  gallant  merchant -ship  full  sail  to 

I'lymouth  Bay ; — 
Her  crew  had  seen  Castile's  black  fleet,  beyond  An- 

rigny's  isle, 
At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves,  lie  heaving  many 

a  mile. 
At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van,  by  God's  especial 

grace, 
And  the  tall  Piiita,  till  the  noon,  had  held  her  close 

iu  chase. 
Forthwith  a  guard,  at  every  gun,  was  placed  along 

the  wall;  [ty  hall  ; 

The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof  of  Edgecomb's  lof- 
Mauy  a  light  fishiug-bark  put  out  to  pry  along  the 

coast ; 
And  with  loo.se  rein  aiul  bloody  spur  rode  inland 

many  a  post. 

With  his  white  hair  unbonneted  the  stout  old  sher- 
iff comes, 

Ik'liind  him  march  the  halberdiers,  before  him  sound 
the  drums  : 

His  yeomen  round  the  market-cross  make  clear  an 
ample  space, 

For  there  behooves  him  to  set  up  the  standard  of 
her  Grace  : 

And  haughtily  the  trumpets  peal,  and  gayly  dance 
the  bells, 

As  slow  upon  flic  laboring  wind  the  royal  bla/.nn 
swells. 

Look  how  the  Lion  of  the  sea  lifts  up  his  ancient 
(■io\\  1),  [down  ! 

And  luuhineatli  his  deadly  paw  treads  the  gay  lilies 

So  stalked  he  when  he  turned  to  flight,  on  that 
famed  Picard  flehl. 

liolieiaiirs  Illume,  and  Genoa's  bow,  and  Caesar's 
eagle  shield  : 

So  glared  he  when,  at  Agincourt,  in  wratii  Ik^  turn- 
ed to  bay. 

And  crushed  and  torn,  beneath  his  claws,  the  prince- 
Iv  hunters  lay. 


THOMAS  BABIXaiOX  MAC  ALL  J  Y. 


563 


IIo!  strike  the  flagstaff  deeji,  sir  kuigbt !  ho!  scat- 
ter flowers,  fair  maids ! 

IIo,  gunners!  fire  a  loud  salute  I  ho.  gallants  !  draw 
your  blades  I 

Thou  sun,  shine  on  her  joyously  !  ye  breezes,  waft 
her  wide ! 

Our  glorious  Sempeij  Eadem  !  the  banner  of  our 
pride ! 

The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurled  that  banner's 
massy  fold — 

The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kissed  that  haughty 
scroll  of  gold  : 

^'ight  sank  upon  the  dusky  beach,  and  on  the  pur- 
ple sea : 

Such  night  in  England  ne'er  hath  been,  nor  e'er 
again  shall  be. 

From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,  from  Lynn  to 
Milford  Bay, 

That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright  and  busy  as 
the  day  ; 

For  swift  to  east,  and  swift  to  west,  the  ghastly 
war-flame  spread  ; 

High  on  St.  Michael'.s  Mount  it  shone  :  it  shone  on 
Beachy  Head  : 

Far  on  the  deej)  the  Spaniard  saw,  along  each  south- 
ern shire, 

Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range,  those  twinkling 
points  of  fire. 

The  fisher  left  his  skiif  to  rock  on  Tamar's  glitter- 
ing waves. 

The  rugged  miners  poured  to  war  from  Mendip's 
sunless  caves ; 

O'er  Longleat's  towers,  o'er  Cranbourue's  oaks,  the 
fiery  herald  flew. 

And  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stoueheuge,  the  rang- 
ers of  Beaulieu  : 

Right  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night  rang  out 
from  Bristol  town  ; 

And,  ere  the  day,  three  hundred  horse  had  met  on 
Clifton  Down. 

The  sentinel  on  Whitehall  gate  looked  forth  into 
the  night, 

And  saw  o'erhanging  Richmond  Hill  the  streak  of 
blood-red  light ; 

Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar  the  death-like 
silence  broke,  [woke. 

And  with  one  start,  and  with  one  cry,  the  royal  city 

At  once,  on  all  her  stately  gates,  arose  the  answer- 
ing fires  ; 

At  once  the  wild  alarum  clashed  from  all  her  reeling 
spires ; 


From  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower  pealed  loud  the 

voice  of  fear, 
And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames  sent  back  a 

louder  cheer : 
And  from  the  farthest  wards  was  heard  the  rush 

of  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  broad  streams  of  pikes  and  flags  rushed 

down  each  roaring  street : 
And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still 

the  din,  [spurring  in  ; 

As  fast  from  every  village  round  the  horse  came 
And  eastward  straight  from  wild  Bhickheath  the 

warlike  errand  went. 
And  roused  in  many  an   ancient  hall  the   gallant 

squires  of  Kent. 
Southward  from  SuiTey's  pleasant  hills  flew  those 

bright  couriers  forth  : 
High   on   bleak   Hampstead's   swarthy   moor   they 

started  for  tlie  North ; 
And   on    and    on,  without    a    pause,  untired    they 

bounded  still ; 
All  night  from  tower  to  tower  they  sprang,  they 

sprang  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Till  the  proud  Peak  unfurled  the  flag  o'er  Darwin's 

rockj'  dales  ;  [of  Wales  ; 

Till,  like  volcanoes,  flared  to  heaven  the  stormy  hills 
Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze  on  Malvern's 

lonely  height ; 
Till  streamed  in  crimson  on  the  wind  the  Wrekiu's 

crest  of  light ; 
Till,  broad  and  fierce,  the  star  came  forth  on  Ely's 

stately  fane. 
And  town   and   hamlet   rose  in  arms   o'er  all   the 

boundless  plain  ; 
Till  Belvoii-'s  lordly  terraces  the  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 
And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide  vale 

of  Trent ; 
Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burned  on  Gaunt's 

embattled  pile, 
And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers 

of  Carlisle. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   IVRY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom   all 

glories  are ! 
And  glory  to   our  sovereign  liege.  King  Henry  of 

Navarre  I  [dance. 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the 
Through  thy  cornfields  green  and  sunny  vines,  0 

pleasant  land  of  France  ! 


564 


CYCLOVJiDIA    OF  JiUlTISIl  AM)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  thou,  Rocliellc,  our  own  Roclielle,  proud  city  of 
tlie  Maters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  tliy  mourn- 
ing daughters. 

As  thou  wert  eonstant  in  our  ills,  1)c  Joyous  in  our 

Joy, 

For  told,  and  stift',  and  still  are  they  who  wrought 
thy  walls  annoy. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the 
chance  of  war ; 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre ! 

Oh,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn 

of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long 

array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  reljel  peers. 
And  Appeuzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flem- 
ish spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses 

of  our  la  ml ! 
And  dark  jMayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon 

in  his  hand  ; 
And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's 

empurpled  flood,  [blood; 

And  good  Coligui's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the 

fate  of  war,  [vane. 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Na- 

Tlie  King  is  conio  to  marshal  ns,  in  all  his  armor 

dressed ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his 

gallant  crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye ; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  liigli. 
Right   graciously  he  smiled  on   us.  as    rolled   from 

wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  in   deafening  shout,  "God  save 

our  lord  the  King  I" 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he 

may, — 
For  never  saw  I  jn'omise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray — 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amid  the 

raidvs  of  war;  [varre." 

And  be  your  oridanime  to-day  the  helmet  of  Na- 

Hnrrah !  the  foes  are  moving!  hark  to  the  mingled 
din 

Of  tife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roar- 
ing culveriii  ! 


The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St.  Audrd's 

]iiaiii,  [niayne. 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Al- 
Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 

France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now — upon  them  with 

tli(!  lance! 
A   tiiousand  spurs  are   striking   deep,  a   thousand 

spears  iu  rest ; 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  Ix-liind  the 

snow-white  crest ; 
And  iu  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like 

a  guiding  star,  [Navarre. 

Amid  the   tliickest    carnage  blazed  tlie   helmet  of 

Now, God  l)t'  i)raiscd,  tlie  day  is  ours  !  Mayenne  hatli 

turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  cpiarter ;  the  Flemish  Count 

is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 

Biscay  gale ; 
Tbe  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags, 

and  cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along 

our  van, 
"  Remember    .St.  Bartholomew !"  was    passed    from 

man  to  man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  then,  "No  Frenchman 

is  my  foe  ; 
Down,  down   with   every   foreigner;    but   let   your 

brethren  go !" 
Oh!   was  there  ever  such  a  knight  iu  friendship  or 

in  war,  [Navarre! 

As  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  ;  ho  !   matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 

shall  return. 
Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity*  thy  Mexican  ])istoles, 
Tiiat  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  nuiss  for  thy  poor 

spearmen's  souls ! 
Ho!    gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your 

arms  be  bright  ! 
Ho!   burgliers   of   St.  G«5in5vicve,  keep   watch    and 

Avard  to-night ! 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hatli 

raised  the  slave. 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor 

of  tlie  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  nann-,  from  whom  all  glories 

are ; 
And  glory  to   our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry   of 

Navarre! 


sin  HENRY  TAT  LOB. 


505 


Sir  Cjcnnj  (taiilor. 


Taylor  (1800-18..)  was  a  native  of  the  Countj-  of  Dur- 
ham, Enghincl.  In  1827  appeared  his  play  of  "  Isaac  Coni- 
nenus,"  wliich,  says  Southey,  "  met  with  few  readers,  and 
was  hardly  lieard  of."  In  183-1  his  great  dramatic  poem 
of  "  Philip  Van  Artevelde  "  gave  him  at  once  an  assured 
rank  in  English  literature.  It  has  gone  through  eight 
editions.  Some  of  his  other  works  are  "  Edwin  the  Fair," 
a  historical  drama,  1842;  "The  Eve  of  the  Conquest, 
and  other  Poems,"  lSi7;  "Notes  from  Life,"  1847;  "A 
Sicilian  Summer,  and  Minor  Poems,"  1868.  A  baronetcy 
was  bestowed  on  him,  and  he  was  known  as  Sir  Henrj' 
Taylor.  Crabb  Robinson  says  of  him:  "His  manners  are 
shy,  and  he  is  more  a  man  of  letters  than  of  the  world." 


IN   EEMEMBRANCE    OF    THE    HON.  EDWARD 
ERNEST   YILLIERS. 
I. 
A  grace  tbongli  nielanclioly,  manly  too, 
Moulded  Lis  being  :   pensive,  grave,  serene, 
O'er  his  habitual  bearing  and  his  inieu 
Unceasing  pain,  by  patience  iTempered,  threw- 
A  shade  of  sweet  austerity.     But  seen 
In  hapiiier  hours  and  by  the  friendly  few, 
That  curtain  of  the  spirit  was  withdrawn, 
And  fancy  light  and  playful  as  a  fawn. 
And  reason  imped  with  inqnisitiou  keen. 
Knowledge  long  sought  with  ardor  ever  new, 
And  wit  love-kindled,  showed  iu  colors  true 
What  genial  joys  with  sufferings  can  cousist. 
Then  did  all  sternness  melt  as  melts  a  mist 
Touched  by  the  brightness  of  the  golden  dawn. 
Aerial  heights  disclosing,  A-alleys  green, 
And  sunlights  thrown  the  woodland  tufts  between, 
And  flowers  and  spangles  of  the  dewy  lawn. 


And  even  the  stranger,  though  he  saw  not  these. 

Saw  what  would  not  be  willingly  jiassed  by. 

In  his  deportment,  even  when  cold  and  shy, 

Was  seen  a  clear  collectedness  and  ease, 

A  simple  grace  and  gentle  dignity, 

That  failed  not  at  the  first  accost  to  please ; 

And  as  reserve  relented  by  degrees. 

So  winning  was  his  aspect  and  address. 

His  smile  so  rich  in  sad  felicities. 

Accordant  to  a  voice  which  charmed  no  less. 

That  who  hut  saw  him  once  remembered  long, 

And  some  in  whom  such  images  are  strong 

Have  hoarded  the  impression  iu  their  heart 

Fancy's  fond  dreams  and  Memory's  joys  among, 

Like  some  loved  relic  of  romantic  song, 

Or  cherished  masterpiece  of  ancient  art. 


His  life  was  private;  safely  led,  aloof 

From  the  loiul  world,  which  yet  he  understood 

Largely  and  wisely,  as  no  worldling  could. 

For  he  by  privilege  of  his  nature  proof 

Against  false  glitter,  from  beneath  the  roof 

Of  privacy,  as  from  a  cave,  surveyed 

With  steadfast  eye  its  flickering  light  and  shade. 

And  gently  judged  for  evil  and  for  good. 

But  while  he  mixed  not  for  his  own  behoof 

In  public  strife,  his  spirit  glowed  with  zeal. 

Not  shorn  of  action  for  the  public  weal, — 

For  truth  and  justice  as  its  warp  and  woof. 

For  freedom  as  its  signature  and  seal. 

His  life  thus  sacred  from  the  world,  discharged 

From  vain  ambition  and  inordinate  care. 

In  virtue  exercised,  by  reverence  rare 

Lifted,  and  by  humility  enlarged. 

Became  a  temple  and  a  place  of  j)rayer. 

In  latter  years  he  walked  not  singly  there  ; 

For  one  was  with  him,  ready  at  all  hours 

His  griefs,  his  joys,  his  inmost  thoughts  to  share, 

Who  buoyantly  his  burdens  helped  to  bear, 

And  decked  his  altars  daily  with  fresh  flowers. 


But  farther  may  we  pass  not :   for  the  ground 

Is  holier  than  the  Muse  herself  may  tread ; 

Nor  would  I  it  should  echo  to  a  sound 

Less  solemn  than  the  service  for  the  dead. 

Mine  is  inferior  matter, — my  own  loss, — 

The  loss  of  dear  delights  forever  fled. 

Of  reason's  converse  by  affection  fed. 

Of  wisdom,  counsel,  solace,  that  across 

Life's  dreariest  tracts  a  tender  radiance  shed. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  though  younger,  yet  my  guide; 

How  much  b}'  thy  unerring  insight  clear 

I  shaped  my  way  of  life  for  many  a  year. 

What  thoughtful  friendship  on  thy  death-bed  died  I 

Friend  of  my  youth,  while  thou  wast  by  my  side 

Autumnal  days  still  breathed  a  vernal  breath  ; 

How  like  a  charm  thy  life  to  me  supplied 

All  waste  and  injury  of  time  and  tide. 

How  like  a  disenchantment  was  thy  death  ! 


WHAT  MAKES  A  HERO? 

What  makes  a  hero  ? — not  success,  not  fame, 
Inebriate  merchants,  and  the  loud  acclaim 
Of  glutted  avarice — caps  tossed  up  in  air. 
Or  pen  of  journalist,  with  flourish  fair, 


566 


CYCLOrj:DIA    OF  liltlTISU  jyv  AilERICAX  FOETIiY. 


Bells  pealed,  stars,  ribbons,  and  a  tit.nlar  name — 

These,  tIion<;li  his  rightful  tribute,  ho  can  spare; 
His  rightful  tribute,  not  his  end  or  aim. 

Or  true  reward  ;  for  never  yet  did  these 
Refresh  the  soul,  or  set  the  heart  at  ease. 
What  makes  a  hero? — an  heioio  mind. 
Expressed  in  action,  in  endurance  pioved  ; 
And  if  there  bo  i)re-oniiiu'nco  of  right, 
Derived  through  pain,Avell  suO'ered,  to  the  height 
Of  rank  heroic,  'tis  to  bear  unmoved, 
Not  toil,  not  risk,  not  rago  of  sea  or  wind, 
Not  the  brute  fury  of  barl)ariiiMs  blind,— 
But  worse — ingratitude  and  jioisonous  darts, 
Launched  by  the  country  he  had  served  and  loved; 
This,  with  a  free,  unclouded  spirit  piire. 
This  in  the  strength  of  silence  to  endure, 
A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparts, 
lieyond  the  gauds  and  trappings  of  renown  ; 
This  is  the  hei'o's  complement  and  crown  ; 
This  missed,  one  struggle  had  been  wanting  still — 
One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic  will, 
One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "PHILIP  VAX  ARTEVELDE." 

Adriana.  Oh,  Artevelde  ; 
"What  can  have  made  you  so  mysterious  ?       [soon 
What  change  hath  come  since  morning  ?     Oh  !  how 
The  words  and  looks  which  seemed  all  confidence, 
To  me  at  least — how  soon  are  they  recalled  ! 
Bnt  let  them  be — it  matters  not ;   I,  too, 
Will  cast  no  look  behind — Oh,  if  I  should, 
My  heart  would  never  hold  its  wretchedness. 

Artereldc.  My  gentle  Adriana,  you  run  wild 
In  false  conjectures;    hear  me  to  the  end. 
If  hitherto  we  have  not  said  we  loved. 
Yet  hath  the  heart  of  each  declared  its  love 
By  all  the  tokens  wherein  lovo  delights. 
We  heretofore  have  trusted  in  each  other, 
Too  wholly  have  we  trusted  to  have  need 
Of  words  or  vows,  iiledges  or  protestations. 
Let  not  such  trust  be  hastily  dissolved. 

Adri.  I  trusted  not.     I  hojted  that  I  was  loved, 
IIoi)cd  and  despaired,  doubted  and  hoped  again. 
Till  this  day,  wlien  I  first  I)reatlied  freelier. 
Daring  to  trust — and  now — O  God,  my  heart ! 
It  was  not  made  to  bear  this  agony — 
Tell  me  you  love  me,  or  you  love  mo  not. 

Artev.  I  love  thee,  dearest,  with  as  large  a  love 
As  e'er  was  compassed  in  the  breast  of  man. 
Hide  then  those  tears,  bclov<^d,  where  thou  wilt. 
Ami  find  a  resting-place  for  that  so  wild 


And  troubled  lieart  of  thine  ;  sustain  it  here, 
And  bo  its  flood  of  passion  wept  away. 

^tdri.  What  was  it  that  you  said  then  ?     If  you 

love, 

Why  have  you  thus  tormented  me? 

Aricv.  Be  calm  ; 
And  let  me  warn  thee,  ere  thy  choice  bo  fixed. 
What  fate  thou  may'st  be  wedded  to  with  me. 
Thou  hast  beheld  me  living  heretofore 
As  one  retired  in  staid  tranquillity : 
The  dweller  in  the  mountains,  on  whose  ear 
The  accustomed  cataract  thunders  unobserved ; 
The  seaman  who  sleeps  sound  upon  the  deck. 
Nor  hears  tlic  loud  lamenting  of  the  blast. 
Nor  heeds  the  Aveltering  of  the  plangent  wave, — 
Tliese  have  not  lived  more  undisturbed  than  I : 
But  build  not  upon  this;   the  swollen  stream 
May  shake  the  cottage  of  the  mountaineer. 
And  drive  him  forth  ;  the  seaman  roused,  at  length 
Leaps  from  his  slumber  on  the  wave-washed  deck  ;  — 
And  now  the  time  comes  fast  when  here  in  Ghent 
He  who  would  live  Ijxempt  from  injuries 
Of  armdd  men,  must  be  himself  in  arms. 
This  time  is  near  for  all, — nearer  for  me  : 
I  will  not  wait  upon  necessity. 
And  leave  myself  no  choice  of  vantage  ground, 
But  rather  meet  the  times  where  best  I  may, 
And  mould  and  fashion  them  as  best  I  can. 
Reflect,  then,  that  I  soon  may  be  embarked 
In  all  the  hazards  of  these  troublesome  times, 
And  in  your  own  free  choice  take  or  resign  me. 

Adri.  Oh,  Artevelde,  my  choice  is  free  no  more. 
Be  mine,  all  mine,  let  good  or  ill  betide. 
In  war  or  jieace,  in  sickness  or  in  health. 
In  trouble  and  in  danger  and.  di.stres8. 
Through  time  and  through  eternity  I'll  love  thee ; 
In  youth  and  age,  in  life  and  death  I'll  love  thee, 
Here  and  hereafter,  with  all  my  soul  and  strength. 
So  God  accept  me  as  I  never  cease 
Finm  loving  and  adoring  thee  next  him  : 
And  oh,  nniy  ho  pardon  mo  if  so  betrayed 
By  mortal  frailty  as  to  love  thee  more. 

Artcr.  I  fear,  my  Adriana,  'tis  a  rash 
And  passionate  resolve  that  thou  hast  made; 
But  how  should  J  admonish  thee,  mj'self 
So  great  a  winner  by  thy  desperate  play? 
Heaven  is  o'er  all,  and  unto  Heaven  I  leave  it. 
That  which  hath   made   me  weak  shall  make  me 

strong, 
Weak  to  resist,  strong  to  requite  thy  love; 
Au<l  if  some  tax  thou  payest  for  that  love. 
Thou  slialt  receive  it  back  from  Love's  exchequer. 
Now  must  I  go ;  I'm  waited  for  ere  this. 


SIR  HEXnY  TAYLOR. 


5G7 


AdrL  Upon  this  finger  bo  the  first  tax  raised. 

[Djrtirs  off  a  rintj,  which  she  f/ives  him. 
Now  wbut  shall  I  receive? 

xlrfev.  The  like  from  miue. 
I  had  forgot — I  have  it  not  to-day  : 
But  iu  its  stead  wear  this  around  thy  neck. 
And  on  thy  lips  this  impress.     Now,  good-night. 


GEEATXESS  AND  SUCCESS. 

From  "  riiiLip  Van  Abtevelde." 
He  was  one 
Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  betimes, 
Whose  story  is  a  fragment  known  to  few. 
Then  comes  the  man  who  has  the  luck  to  live. 
And  he's  a  i)rodigy.     Compute  the  chances, 
And  deem  there's  ne'er  a  one  iu  dangerous  times 
Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than  him 
A  thousand,  men  more  gloriously  endowed 
Have  fallen  upon  the  course ;   a  thousand  others 
Have  had  their  fortunes  foundered  by  a  chance, 
While  lighter  harks  pushed  past  them  ;  to  whom  add 
A  smaller  tall\*  of  the  siugular  few, 
Who,  gifted  with  iiredomiuating  powers, 
Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep  the  jieace, — 
The  world  knows  uothiug  of  its  greatest  men  I 


ARTEVELDE'S    SOLILOQUY. 
From  "  Philip  Van  Artevelde." 
To  bring  a  cloud,  upon  the  summer  day 
Of  one  so  happy  and  so  beautiful, — 
It  is  a  hard  condition.     For  myself, 
I  know  not  that  the  circumstance  of  life 
In  all  its  changes  can  so  far  aiHict  me, 
As  makes  anticipation  much  worth  while. 
But  she  is  youuger, — of  a  sex  beside 
Whose  spirits  are  to  ours  as  flame  to  fire, 
More  sudden  and  more  perishable  too  ; 
So  that  the  gust  wherewith  the  one  is  kindled 
Extinguishes  the  other.     Oh, -she  is  fair! 
As  fair  as  heaven  to  look  upon  !   as  fair 
As  ever  vision  of  the  Virgin  blessed 
That  weary  pilgrim,  resting  at  the  fount 
Beneath  the  palm,  and  dreaming  to  the  tune 
Of  flowing  waters,  duped  his  soul  withal. 
It  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage. 
To  rest  beside  the  fount  beneath  the  tree, 
Beholding  there  no  vision,  but  a  maid 
Whose  form  was  light  and  graceful  as  the  palm, 
Whose  heart  was  pure  and  jocund  as  the  fount, 
And  spread  a  freshness  and  a  verdui-e  round. 
This  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage, 


And  loth  I  am  to  take  my  staff  again. 

Say  that  I  fall  not  in  this  enterprise — 

Still  must  my  life  be  full  of  hazardous  turns, 

And.  they  that  house  with  me  must  ever  live 

In  imminent  peril  of  some  evil  fate. 

— Make  fast  the  doors ;   heap  wood  upon  the  fire  ; 

Draw  in  your  stools,  and  pass  the  goblet  round. 

And  be  the  prattling  voice  of  children  heard. 

Now  let  us  make  good  cheer;    but  what  is  this? 

Do  I  not  see,  or  do  I  dream  I  see, 

A  form  that  midmost  in  the  circle  sits 

Half  visible,  his  face  deformed  with  scars. 

And  foul  with  blood  ? — Oh  yes,  I  know  it — there 

Sits  Danger,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hearth. 


ARTEVELDE   AND  ELENA. 
From  "  Philip  Vax  Artevelde." 
Elena.  I  cannot — no — 
I  cannot  give  you  what  you've  had  so  long; 
Nor  need  I  tell  you  what  you  know  so  well. 
I  must  be  gone. 

Artev.  Nay,  sweetest,  why  these  tears? 
Elena.  No,  let  me  go — I  cannot  tell — no — no  ; 
I  want  to  be  alone. 

Oh,  Artevelde,  for  God's  love  let  me  go!  [Exit. 

Artev.  {after  a  pause).  The  night  is  f;xr  advanced 
upon  the  morrow. 

— Yes,  I  have  wasted  half  a  summer's  night. 
Was  it  well  spent  ?     Successfullj'  it  Avas. 
How  little  flattering  is  a  woman's  love ! 
Worth  to  the  heart,  come  how  it  may,  a  world  ; 
Worth  to  men's  measures  of  their  own  deserts, 
If  weighed  in  wisdom's  balance,  merely  nothing. 
The  few  hours  left  are  precious — who  is  there  ? 
Ho !  Nieuverkerchen ! — when  we  think  upon  it. 
How  little  flattering  is  a  woman's  love ! 
Given  commonly  to  whosoe'er  is  nearest. 
And  propped  with  most  advantage  ;  outward  grace 
Nor  inward  light  is  needful;   day  by  day 
Men  wantiug  both  are  mated  with  the  best 
And  loftiest  of  God's  feminine  creation, 
Whose  love  takes  no  distinction  but  of  gender. 
And  ridicules  the  very  name  of  choice. 
Ho  !   Nieuverkerchen  ! — what,  then,  do  we  sleep  ? 
Are  none  of  you  awake  ? — and  as  for  me, 
The  world  says  Philip  is  a  famous  man — 
What  is  there  woman  will  not  love,  so  taught  ? 
Ho !  EUert !  by  your  leave  though,  you  must  wake. 

\^Enter  an  officer. 
Have  me  a  gallows  built  upon  the  mount, 
And  let  Van  Kortz  be  hung  at  break  of  day. 


568 


CTCLOrJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ularia  iJanc  (Jctusburti)  Jlctcljcr. 

Miss  Jcwsbiiry  (1800-18!{;5)  was  ii  native  of  Warwick- 
shire, En<;iaiul.  Slie  was  married  (18:j:i)  to  the  Kev.  Wil- 
liam Fletcher,  missionary  to  India,  and  died  soon  after 
arriving  in  Bombay.  She  wrote"  Lays  of  Leisure  Hours" 
and  "Letters  to  the  Young."  Her  poetical  vein  was  del- 
icate and  genuine.  She  was  an  amiable,  aceomi)lished 
woman.  

BIRTII-DAY   BALLAD. 

Thou  art  pluckiug  spring  roses,  Genie, 

And  a  little  red  rose  art  thou  I 
Thou  hast  uufolded  to-day,  Genie, 

Auother  bright  leaf,  I  trow  : 
But  the  roses  Avill  live  and  die,  Genie, 

Manj'  and  many  a  time, 
Ero  thou  hast  unfolded  quite,  Geuie — 

Growu  iuto  inaideu  prime. 

Thou  art  looking  uow  at  the  birds,  Genie; 

But,  ob!  do  not  wisb  their  -wing! 
That  would  ouly  tempt  the  fowler.  Genie : 

Stay  thou  on  earth  and  sing; 
Stay  in  the  uursing  uest.  Genie ; 

Be  not  soon  thence  beguiled, 
Tliou  wilt  ne'er  find  a  second,  Genie, 

Never  bo  twice  a  child. 

Thou  art  building  towers  of  pebbles.  Genie, 

Pile  them  up  brave  and  high, 
And  leave  them  to  follow  a  bee.  Genie, 

As  he  waudereth  singing  by ; 
But  if  thy  towers  fall  down,  Genie, 

And  if  the  brown  bee  is  lost. 
Never  weep,  for  thou  nnist  learn,  Geuie, 

How  soon  life's  schemes  are  crossed. 

Thy  band  is  in  a  bright  boy's.  Genie, 

And  he  calls  thee  his  sweet  Avee  wife. 
But  let  not  thy  little  heart  think,  Geuie, 

Childhood  the  prophet  of  life; 
It  may  be  life's  minstrel,  Genie, 

And  sing  sweet  songs  and  clear, 
But  minstrel  and  prophet  uow.  Genie, 

Are  not  united  here. 

What  will  thy  future  liito  bo,  Geuie, 

Alas!  sh.all  I  live  to  see? 
For  thou  art  scarcely  a  sapling,  Genie, 

And  I  am  a  moss-grown  tree : 
I  am  shedding  life's  leaves  fast.  Genie, 

Thou  art  in  blossom  sweet; 
But  think  of  the  grave  betimes,  Geuie, 

Where  young  and  old  oft  meet. 


iJamcs  (J^orbou  I3rooks. 


Brooks  (1801-1841),  the  son  of  a  Revolutionary  officer, 
was  a  native  of  Claveraek,  N.  Y.,  on  the  Hudson.  He 
was  graduated  at  Union  College  in  1819,  studied  law,  and 
began  to  write  poetry  under  tlic  signature  of  "Florio." 
He  removed  in  lH:i:j  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where  he 
became  connected  as  editor  with  various  journals.  In 
ls:jS  he  married  Mary  Elizabeth  Akin,  of  Poughkecpsie, 
N.  Y.,  who  wrote  under  the  signature  of  "Noi-na,"  and 
shared  the  poetical  gift,  as  the  following  lines  from  her 
pen  attest : 

rSALM  CXXXVII. 

"Come,  sweep  the  harp!   one  tlirillinp;  rush 

Of  all  lliat  warmed  its  chords  to  soiig, 
And  then  the  strains  forever  hash 

That  oft  have  breathed  its  wires  along ! 
The  ray  is  quenched  that  lit  our  mirtli, 

The  shrine  is  gone  that  claimed  the  prayer, 
And  exiles  o'er  the  distant  earth, — 

llow  can  wc  wake  the  carol  there  ? 

"  One  sigh,  my  harp,  and  then  to  sleep  ! 

For  all  that  loved  thy  song  have  flown: 
Why  shouldst  thou  lonely  vigils  kce)), 

Forsaken,  broken,  and  alone? 
Let  this  sad  murmur  be  thy  last, 

Nor  e'er  again  in  music  swell ; 
Thine  hours  of  joyousness  are  past, 

And  thus  we  sever: — fare  thee  well!" 

In  1829  the  Messrs.  Harper  published  "The  Rivals  of 
Este,  and  other  Poems,"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooks.  In 
1830  husband  and  wife  removed  to  Winchester,  Va.,  to 
take  charge  of  a  newspaper;  but  in  1839  they  took  up 
their  residence  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  where  ISIr.  Brooks  died. 
He  was  esteemed  for  his  many  good  qualities,  and  held 
a  high  social  position,  though  hardlj'  favored  by  fortune 
in  his  various  editorial  enterprises. 


GREECE :— 1822. 

Laud  of  the  brave !  where  lie  inurned 

The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay. 
In  whom  the  fire  of  valor  burned 

And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray ; — 
Land  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  at  Tiiormopyho  of  yore. 
When  death  lii.s  purple  garment  threw 

On  Ilelle's  consecrated  shore; — 

Land  of  the  Muse !    within  thy  bowers 

Her  soul-entrancing  echoes  rang, 
Wiiile  on  their  coui'se  the  rapid  hours 

Paused  at  the  melody  she  sang, — ■ 
Till  every  grove  and  every  hill, 

And  every  stream  that  llowed  along. 
From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 

Thg  winning  harmony  of  song ! 


JAMES   GORDON  BBOOES.—MES.  ARCHER  {WIGLEY)    CLIVE. 


WJ 


Land  of  dead  heroes!   living  slaves! 

Shall  glory  gild  thy  clime  no  more  ? 
Her  banner  float  above  thy  waves, 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before  ? 
Hath  not  remembrance  then  a  charm 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain, 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm, 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  ? 

No!   coward  souls!   the  light  which  shone 

On  Leuctra's  war-empurpled  day, 
The  light  which  beamed  on  Marathon, 

Hath  lost  its  splendor,  ceased  to  play : 
And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now. 

With  helmet  shattered,  spear  in  rust : 
Thy  honor  but  a  dream — and  thou 

Despised,  degraded — in  the  dust ! 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit,  that  of  old 

Dashed  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume, 
When  the  loud  chant  of  triumph  told 

How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom  ? — 
The  bold  three  hundred^where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  battle's  gory  breast  ? 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay 

Where  death  has  hushed  them  iuto  rest. 

Yet,  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glorj-  shines  of  ages  fled ; 
And  fame  her  light  is  pouring  still, 

Not  on  the  living,  but  the  dead ! 
But  'tis  the  dim  sepulchral  light 

Which  sheds  a  faint  and  feeble  ray. 
As  moonbeams  on  the  brow  of  night. 

When  temi^ests  sweep  ujjon  their  Avay. 

Greece!  yet  awake  thee  from  thy  trance! 

Behold,  thy  banner  waves  afar ; 
Behold,  the  glittering  weapons  glance 

Along  the  gleaming  front  of  war! 
A  gallant  chief,  of  high  emprise, 

Is  urging  foremost  in  the  field, 
Who  calls  upon  thee,  Greece,  to  rise 

In  might,  in  mnjesty  revealed. 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  hero  calls — • 

la  vain  he  sounds  the  trumpet  loud! 
His  banner  totters — see !  it  fulls 

In  ruin,- freedom's  battle-shroud! 
Thy  children  have  no  soul  to  dare 

Such  deeds  as  glorified  their  sires ; 
Their  valor's  but  a  meteor's  glare 

Which  flames  a  moment,  and  expires. 


Lost  land!  where  genius  made  his  reign, 

And  reared  his  golden  arch  on  high, — 
Where  science  raised  her  sacred  fane. 

Its  summits  peering  to  the  sky, — 
Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 

Of  ignorance  hath  brooded  long, 
And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleej) 

The  sons  of  science  and  of  song. 

Thy  sun  hath  set — the  evening  storm 

Hath  passed  in  giant  fury  by. 
To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form, 

And  sjiread  its  pall  upon  the  sky! 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem. 

And  Freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece  ! 


Miss  Wigley  (lSOl-1873),  author  of  the  novel  of  "  Paul 
FerroU"  (1855),  was  a  native  of  England.  She  became 
Mrs.  Cltve,  and  liublished,  under  the  signature  of  V, 
poems  which  were  collected  in  a  volume  iu  187:2.  While 
sitting  before  the  fire  at  Whitfield  her  dress  caught,  and, 
before  help  could  be  rendered,  she  was  so  burnt  that 
she  died  of  her  injuries  in  a  few  hours.  Her  poems  were 
highly  praised  by  Lockhart.  Bat  he  could  not  accord 
his  approval  to  the  "spirit  whicli  animates"  the  follow- 
ing lines.  Is  not  the  spirit,  however,  that  of  one  confi- 
dent of  the  future?  The  lines  are  remarkable  as  forc- 
shadowiug  the  actual  manner  of  her  death. 


THE   WISH. 

Forbid,  O  Fate !  forbid  that  I 

Should  linger  long  before  I  die ! 

Ah !  let  me  not,  sad  day  by  day, 

Upon  a  dying  bed  decay  ; — 

And  lose  my  love,  my  hope,  my  strength, 

All  save  the  baser  part  of  man  ; 
Concentring  every  wish,  at  length, — 

To  die  as  slowly  as  I  can! 

*  *  7f  if  *  * 

I'd  die  iu  battle,  love,  or  glee. 
With  spirit  wild  and  body  free  : 
AVith  all  my  wit,  my  soul,  my  heart, 
Burning  away  in  every  part  :— 
That  so  more  meetly  I  might  fly 
Into  mine  Immortality  : 
Like  comets,  when  their  race  is  run, 
That  end  by  rushing  on  the  sun ! 


570 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


lUilliam  llVilson. 


Wilson  (ISOl-lstiO)  was  a  native  of  Crieff,  Scotland. 
While  yet  a  child,  he  lost  his  father,  a  respectable  mer- 
chant, and  thenceforward  was  obliged  to  rely  chicJly  on 
his  own  efforts  for  education  and  advancement,  lie  be- 
came an  editor  at  twenty-two;  moved  to  Edinburgh,  and 
wrote  for  the  leading  periodicals.  In  1833  he  emigrated 
to  the  United  States,  settled  at  Poughkeepsic,  and  estab- 
lished himself  in  the  bookselling  and  publishing  busi- 
ness. It  was  not  till  after  his  death  that  his  poems  were 
collected  and  published.  General  James  Grant  Wilson, 
of  New  York,  born  (1832)  in  Edinburgh,  author  of  a 
"  Life  of  Ilallcck"  and  other  works,  also  editor  of  "The 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland"  (Harper  it  Brothers),  in 
two  elegant  voluracs,  was  his  son. 


SABBATH  MORNING  IN  THE  WOODS. 

O  ble.ss(5cl  morn  !   whose  ruddy  beam 
Of  gladness  mantles  fount  and  stream, 
And  over  all  created  things 
A  golden  robo  of  glory  flings ! 

On  every  tendril,  leaf,  and  spray, 

A  diamond  glistens  in  the  ray. 

And  from  a  tbou.sand  tbroats  a  shout 

Of  adoration  gusbes  out ; 

A  glad  but  sweet  prelusive  psalm 

Which  breaks  the  hallowed  morning's  calm. 

Each  wimpling  brook,  each  winding  rill 
That  sings  and  murmurs  on  at  will, 
Seems  vocal  with  the  blessed  refrain, 
'■The  Lord  has  come  to  life  again!" 

And  from  each  wild  flower  on  the  wold, 
In  purple,  sapphire,  snow-,  or  gold, 
Pink,  amethyst,  or  azure  hue, 
Beauteous  of  tint  and  bright  with  dew, 
There  breathes  an  incense  offering,  borne 
Upon  the  wakening  breath  of  morn 
To  the  Creator,  all  divine, — 
Meet  sacrifice  for  such  a  shrine ! 

Far  down  those  lofty  forest  aisles, 
Where  twilight's  S(»lemn  hush  prevails. 
The  wind  its  balmy  censer  swings, — 
Like  odors  from  an  angel's  wings, 
W^ho,  passing  swift  to  earth,  had  riven 
Their  fragrance  from  the  bowers  of  heaven ! 

And  through  each  .<;ylvan  tangled  hall, 
Where  slanting  bars  of  sunlight  fall, 


Faint  sounds  of  hallelujahs  sweet 
The  trancdd  ear  would  seem  to  greet, 
As  if  the  holy  seraphim 
Were  choiring  here  their  matin  hymn. 

f}()d  of  all  nature!   here  I  feel 

Thy  awful  ])resence,  as  I  kneel, 

In  humble  heart-abasement  meet, 

Thus  lowly  at  thy  mercy-seat! — 

And  while  I  tremble,  I  adore, 

Like  him  by  Bethel's  stone  of  yore  ; — 

For  thus  thy  vouchsafed  presence  given 

Hath  nuido  this  place  the  Gate  of  Heaven ! 


Corii  Kinloclj. 


William  Penney  (1801-1872)  was  a  native  of  Glasgow, 
the  son  of  a  respectable  merchant.  Educated  at  the 
University  he  studied  law,  and  in  1858  was  appointed  a 
judge  of  the  Court  of  Session,  taking  the  title  of  Lord 
Kinloch.  In  publishing  his  "  Devout  Thoughts  "  (1.S03), 
he  remarks  :  "  I  offer  this  volume  as  a  collection  of 
thoughts  rather  than  poems.  The  object  is  not  an  ex- 
hibition of  poetic  fancy,  but  an  expression  of  Christian 
life." 


THE   STAR  IN  THE   EAST. 

I  sought  for  wisdom  in  the  morning  time. 
When  the  sun  cleared  the  hills;  and  strove  to  climb 
Where  I  could  farther  see  ;  but  all  in  vain 
The  efforts  made!  'twas  but  unwearying  strain 
At  truth,  nor  had  of  knowledge  save  the  pain. 

There  ro.sc  a  star  in  the  East  before  'twas  night. 
And  spoke  of  God ;  but  only  spoke  of  might 
And  height  and  distance ;  in  a  gathering  mist 
I  lost  the  star:   I  could  not  but  persist 
To  seek,  but  how  to  fmd  it,  nothing  wist. 

I  journeyed  long  and  darkly  ;   but  at  last 
The  star  appeared;   and  now  its  beams  were  cast 
On  a  poor  stable,  w  here,  in  swaddling  bands, 
An  infant  lay  in  virgin  mother's  hands; 
Fixed  there  it  stood,  and  fixed  for  me  still  staud.s. 

I  found  wboro  wi.sdom  dwelt;    and  in  my  joy 
Brought  forth  my  gifts:  gold,  though  it  held  alloy, 
Which  dimmed  its  worth  ;   incense  from  forth  a 

breast 
Warm  with  new  love;    myrrh,  through   all  life 

pos.scssed, 
Fragrant  to  make  the  couch  of  earth's  last  rest. 


SAMUEL   CARTER  HALL.— JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 


Samuel  (Eartcr  tlall. 

A  native  of  England,  Hall  (ISOl-lS. .)  was  editor  of  the 
London  Art  Journal,  vmA  of  several  ilhistrated  works  of 
a  high  cliaracter:  "The  Boolv  of  Gems,"  "The  Book  of 
British  Ballads,"  etc.  He  has  also  written,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  in  behalf  of  the  temperance  and  other  great 
reforms.  The  poem  we  quote  is  from  "Hereafter,"  pro- 
duced in  his  eightieth  year,  and  prefoced  with  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  the  "Life  of  the  Prince  Consort" 
by  Theodore  Martin  : 

"Death  iu  his  view  was  but  the  portal  to  a  further  life,  in 
which  he  might  hope  for  a  coutiuuaiice,  under  happier  condi- 
tions, of  all  that  was  best  iu  himself  and  iu  those  he  loved,  uii- 
clogged  by  the  weaknesses,  and  unsaddened  by  the  failures,  the 
misunderstandings,  and  the  sorrows  of  earthly  existence." 

Hall  was  married  in  1S24  to  Miss  Fielding,  a  native  of 
Wexford,  Ireland  (1804),  who,  as  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  won 
reputation  by  her  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish  Life," 
and  other  successful  works. 


NATURES   CREED. 

Science  may  sneer  at  Faith  ;   and  Reason  frown  ; 

May  prove  there  are  no  souls — to  live  or  die ! 
May  scorn  and  scout  the  creed  they  argue  down, 

And  give  the  Great  Omnipotent  the  lie : — 

They  limit  Him — who  made  all  worlds — to  acts 
That  Science  calls  "'  the  possible ;"  and  thus, 

Bounding  the  Infinite  by  rules  and  facts, 
Explain  the  "fable  of  the  soul"  to  us. 

Ten  thousand  thousaiul  things  exist,  we  know. 
By  Science  tested  and  by  Reason  tried, 

"With  no  conclusive  issue  :   save  to  show- 
How  much  we  need  a  better  light  and  guide ! 

Can  Science  gauge  the  influence  that  draws 
The  needle  to  the  magnet  ?     Can  it  see 

The  perfume  of  the  rose?  or  measure  laws 
By  which  the  flower  gives  honey  to  the  bee  ? 

In  spite  of  Science  and  its  five  poor  tests, 
It  may  be  but  a  part  of  "  Nature's "  plan 

To  people  other  spheres  with  other  guests. 
Ascending  (as  descending)  up  from  man. 

And  beings  not  of  earth,  or  mortal  birth. 
The  first-born  of  Creation,  may  have  been, — 

And  may  be — ministers  of  love  to  earth — 
"A  cloud  of  witnesses,"  though  yet  unseen: 

And  those  we  call  "the  dead"  (who  are  not  dead — 
Death  was  their  herald  to  Celestial  Life !) 


ilay  soothe  the  aching  licart,  and  weary  head. 
In  pain,  iu  toil,  iu  sorrow,  and  in  strife. 

That  is  the  pith  of  every  natural  creed, — 
(Instinctive  teachings  of  au  after-state 

"When  from  earth-manacles  the  soul  is  freed !) — 
Poor  sceptics  strive  in  vaiu  to  dissipate ! 

And  there  are  manj-  ways  to  Heaven  that  lead  : 
Woe  to  the  "prophets,"  foul  and  false,  who  teach 

The  narrow,  cruel,  cold,  and  selfish  creed, 

That  there  are  souls  His  voice  can  never  reach. 

In  tortuous,  tangled  paths  we  tread  ;   but  trust 
One  Guide  to  lead  us  forth  aud  set  us  free  ; 

Give  ns.  Lord  God  All  Mighty  and  All  Just ! 
The  Faith  that  is  but  Confidence  iu  thee ! 


ilolju  (jcunj  ^"croman. 

The  son  of  a  banker,  Newman  (1801-18. .)  was  a  native 
of  Loudon.  He  graduated  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  in 
1820.  Seceding  from  the  Established  Church,  he  became 
a  priest  of  the  Oratory  of  St.  Philip  Xeri,  and  in  1878  was 
made  a  Cardinal.  His  collected  Avorks  form  twenty-two 
volumes.  His  poems  appeared  in  1868,  under  the  title  of 
"Verses  on  various  Occasions."  They  are  mostly  on 
religious  topics,  though  some  are  playful  in  tone.  His 
brother,  Francis  William  Newman,  born  in  180.5,  resigned 
an  Oxford  fellowship  because  he  could  not  subscribe  the 
Thirty-uiue  Articles  for  his  Master's  degree.  His  ethi- 
cal and  theological  writings  have  been  very  numerous, 
and  his  religious  faith  would  seem  to  be  that  of  a  pure 
theism,  free  from  the  adulteration  of  any  historical  creed. 
The  two  brothers  appear  to  have  been  diametrically  op- 
posed in  their  religious  notions. 


FLOWERS  WITHOUT  FRUIT. 

Prune  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts  control 
That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng ; 

They  will  condense  within  thy  soul, 
And  change  to  purpose  strong. 

But  he  who  lets  his  feelings  run 

In  soft  luxurious  flow. 
Shrinks  when  hard  service  must  be  done, 

And  faints  at  everj'  woe. 

Faith's  meanest  deed  more  fiivor  bears. 
Where  hearts  and  wills  are  weighed. 

Than  brightest  transports,  choicest  prayers, 
Which  bloom  their  hour  aud  fade. 


572 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  JililTISU  AND  AMERICAN  VOETUY. 


A  VOICE   FROM  AFAR. 

Woop  not  ft)!'  nic ; — 
Bo  l)litli()  as  wont,  iior  tiiigo  -with  gloom 
The  stream  of  lovo  that  circles  home, 

Light  hearts  and  free! 
Joy  ill  the  gifts  Heaven's  bounty  lends; 
Nor  miss  my  face,  dear  friends! 

I  still  am  near; — 
Watching  the  smiles  I  prized  on  earth, 
Your  converse  mild,  your  blameless  mirth; 

Now  too  I  hear 
Of  Avhispcred  sounds  the  tale  complete, 
Low  prayers,  and  musings  sweet. 

A  sea  before 
The  Throne  is  spread ; — its  pure  still  glass 
Pictures  all  earth-scenes  as  they  pass. 

We,  on  its  shore. 
Share,  in  the  bosom  of  our  rest, 
God's  knowledge,  and  are  blessed. 


GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

My  oldest  friend,  mine  from  the  hour 
When  iirst  I  drew  my  breath ; 

My  faithful  friend,  that  shall  bo  mine. 
Unfailing,  till  my  death  ; — 

Thou  hast  been  ever  at  my  side: 

My  Maker  to  thy  trust 
Consigned  my  soul,  what  time  he  framed 

The  infant  child  of  dust. 

No  beating  heart  in  lioly  prayer. 

No  faith,  informed  aright. 
Gave  me  to  Joseph's  tutelage, 

Or  Michael's  conquering  might. 

Nor  patron  saint,  nor  Mary's  love, 

The  dearest  and  the  best. 
Has  known  my  being,  as  thou  hast  known. 

And  blessed  as  thou  hast  blessed. 

Thou  wast  my  sponsor  at  the  font ; 

And  thou,  each  budding  year. 
Didst  wliisper  elements  of  truth 

Into  my  childish  ear. 

And  when,  ere  boyhood  yet  was  gone, 
My  rebel  spirit  fell, 


Ah !   thou  didst  see,  and  shudder  too. 
Yet  bear  each  deed  of  hell. 

And  (lieu  in  turn,  when  judgments  came. 

And  scared  me  back  again. 
Thy  quick  soft  breath  was  near  to  soothe, 

And  hallow  every  pain. 

Oh !   who  of  all  thy  toils  and  cares 

Can  tell  the  tale  complete. 
To  place  me  under  Mary's  smile, 

And  Peter's  royal  feet. 

And  thou  wilt  hang  about  my  bed 

When  life  is  ebbing  low ; 
Of  doubt,  impatience,  and  of  gloom, 

The  jealous  sleejiless  foe. 

Jline,  ^vllon  I  stand  before  the  Judge; 

And  mine,  if  spared  to  stay 
Within  the  golden  furnace,  till 

My  sin  is  burned  away. 

And  mine,  oh  brother  of  my  soul. 
When  my  release  shall  come; 

Thy  gentle  arms  shall  lift  me  then, 
Thy  wings  shall  waft  mo  home. 


(!:bttiarLi  (Uoatc  JJinlaicij. 

AMERICAN. 

Phikncy  (180:2-18:28)  was  born  in  London  while  his 
father  was  American  Connnissioner  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James.  He  entered  the  navy  as  a  midshipman,  but  af- 
terward became  a  lawyer.  A  volume  of  his  poems  was 
published  in  Baltimore  in  182.5,  and  a  second  edition  in 
1838. 


A  HEALTH. 

I  till  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone  ; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 
Like  those  of  morning  birds. 

And  something  more  than  melody 
Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 


EDWARD   COATE  PINKNEY.— ROBERT  MACXISU. 


573 


The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  tlicy, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burcTenccT  hee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Aftections  are  as  tlionglits  to  licr, 

The  measures  of  her  hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  iu  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memorj'  such  as  mine  of  her 

So  very  much  endears. 
When  death  is  uigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone  ; 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  ])aragon. 
Her  health !   and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame. 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 


SONG:   WE    BREAK  THE   GLASS. 

W^e  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain. 
Lest  future  iiledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane ; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feeling  out  for  thee. 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 
• 
But  still  the  old  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
Aud  still  uuhappy  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain. 
And  still  it  looks  as  ■when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  birds. 
On  that  soft  chain  of  spokeu  flowers. 

And  airy  gems,  thy  words. 


Uobcrt  ilTacnislj. 


Macnish  (180;M8o7)  was  a  native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland. 
He  studied  medicine,  and  when  eighteen  received  the  de- 
gree of  Master  of  Surgcrj'.  He  manifested  marked  tal- 
ents for  literary  pursuits ;  contributing  some  graceful 
poems  to  Blackwood' s  3Iagazine,  also  the  striking  storj' 
of  "The  Metempsychosis"  (1825).  He  was  the  author 
of  "The  Anatomy  of  Drunkenness,"  "The  Philosophy 
of  Sleep,"  and  other  approved  works.  After  eighteen 
months  of  country  practice  in  Caithness,  where  his  health 
failed, he  went  abroad  and  spent  a  year  in  Paris;  attended 
the  lectures  of  Bi'oussais  and  Dupuytren,  met  Cuvler,  and 
became  acquainted  with  Gait,  the  phrenologist.  On  his 
return  to  Scotland  he  settled  in  Glasgow, but  died  young, 
beloved  and  lamented.  His  literary  writings  were  collect- 
ed, and  published  in  a  volume  by  his  friend,  D.  M.  Moir. 


MY  LITTLE   SISTER. 

Thy  memory  as  a  spell 

Of  love  comes  o'er  my  mind ; 
As  dew  upon  the  purple  bell. 

As  perfume  ou  the  wind ; 
As  music  ou  the  sea. 

As  sunshine  ou  the  river. 
So  hath  it  always  beeu  to  me, 

So  shall  it  be  forever. 

I  hear  thy  voice  iu  dreams 

Upon  me  softly  call. 
Like  echo  of  the  mountain  streams 

Iu  sportive  water-fall. 
I  see  thy  form  as  when 

Thou  wert  a  living  thing, 
And  blossomed  iu  the  eyes  of  men 

Like  any  flower  of  spring. 

Thy  soul  to  heaven  hath  fled. 

From  earthly  thraldom  free ; 
Yet  'tis  uot  as  the  dead 

That  thou  appear'st  to  me. 
In  slumber  I  behold 

Thy  form,  as  when  ou  earth ; 
Thy  locks  of  -waving  gold. 

Thy  sapphire  eye  of  mirth. 

I  hear,  iu  solitude. 

The  prattle,  kind  and  free, 
Tbon  utteredst  in  joyful  mood 

While  .seated  ou  my  knee. 
So  strong  each  vision  seems. 

My  spirit  that  doth  fill, 
I  think  not  they  are  dreams. 

But  that  thou  livest  still. 


574 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  JilllTlHIl  AND  AMERICAN  rOETUY. 


llVmtljrop  fllaclauortl)  JJraci). 

Tlic  son  of  a  scrgeunt-iit-law,  rrat'd  (lSO:i-lS:ji)),  a  na- 
tive of  London,  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cainbridg'c.  lie  studied  for  tlie  Bar,  but  enter- 
ed political  life,  and  became  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  Wliilc  at  Eton,  in  conjunction  witii  Moul- 
trie, William  Sidney  Walker,  Cliauneey  Hare  Townsliend, 
and  others,  he  edited  that  remarkably  clever  college 
magazine,  T/ie  Etonian,  of  which  Praed  was  the  life.  His 
poems  are  what  have  been  styled  vers  de  societe ;  but  they 
are  sprightly,  original,  and  witty,  and  have  had  hosts  of 
imitators.  His  charades,  too,  are  the  best  of  their  kind. 
On  the  maternal  side  Praed  was  related  to  tlie  well- 
known  Wintlirop  family  of  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


MY  LITTLE   COUSINS. 

"E  voi  ridete?— Certe  Kidiamo." — Cost  fax  tutte. 

Laiigli  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  i)ursuc, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair, 

And  every  month  is  May : 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Old  Time  will  lling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes ; 
The  voice,  whose  every  word  is  song, 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  cha.se  their  rest  away  : 
T()-morrf)W  you'll  be  slied<ling  tears — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Oh  yes ;   if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, 
If  friend.ship  is  an  empty  sound, 

And  love  an  idle  dream, — 
If  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 

Too  soon  on  life's  long  waj', 
At  least  he'll  run  with  you  a  league; — 

Laugh  on,  laugii  on,  to-daj' ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart ; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight, 

Ami  dearer  to  the  heart ; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  aiul  gay: 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 


O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept, 

With  less  of  grief  thau  joy  ! 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept  ; 

I  am  no  more  a  boy ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  'tis  true. 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray ; 
But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face. 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  (Mice  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now  ; 
But  never  mind  how  I  behave  ! 

Don't  interrupt  your  play  ; 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 


WHERE  IS  MISS  MYETLE  ? 

Air  :  "  Sweet  Kitty  Clover." 

Where  is  Miss  Myrtle  ?  can  any  one  tell  ? 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
She  flirts  with  another,  I  know  very  well ; 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
She  flies  to  the  window  when  Arundel  rings, — 
She's  all  over  smiles  when  Lord  Archibald  sings, — 
It's  plain  that  her  Cupid  has  two  pair  of  wings  : 

Where  is  she  goue,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
Her  love  and  my  love  are  diftereut  things ; 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 

I  brought  her,  one  morning,  a  rose  for  her  brow; 

Where  is  she  gone,  Avhere  is  she  gone  ? 
She  told  me  such  horrors  were  never  worn  now  : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
But  I  saw  her  at  night  with  a  rose  in  her  hair. 
And  I  guess  who  it  came  from — of  course  I  don't 

care. 
We  all  know  that  girls  are  as  false  as  they're  fair; 

Where  is  she  goue,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
I'm  sure  tlio  lieutenant's  a  horrible  bear : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 

W^hencver  wo  go  on  the  Downs  for  a  ride, — 

Wliere  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
She  looks  for  another  to  trot  by  her  side : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
And  whenever  I  take  her  down-stairs  from  a  ball. 
She  nods  to  some  puppy  to  put  on  her  shawl : 
I'm  a  peaceable  man,  and  I  don't  like  a  brawl ; — 
Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 


jriXTBEOP  MACKWORTU  PRAED. 


575 


But  I'd  give  a  trifle  to  horsewliip  them  all ; 
Aud  I — am  left  all  alone  ! 

She  tells  me  her  iiiotluT  belongs  to  the  sect 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
Which  holds  that  all  waltzing  is  quite  incorrect : 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
But  a  fire's  in  my  heart,  aud  a  fire's  in  my  hraiu, 
When  she  waltzes  away  with  Sir  Phelim  O'Shaue ; 
I  don't  think  I  ever  can  ask  her  again  ; 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
Aud,  Lord !    since   the    summer   she's   grown  very 
plain  ; 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 

She  said  that  she  liked  nie  a  twelvemonth  ago  ; 

Where  is  she  gone,  Avhere  is  she  gone  ? 
And  how  should  I  guess  that  she'd  torture  me  so  ? 

And  I — am  left  all  alone ! 
Some  day  she'll  find  out  it  was  uot  very  wise 
To  laugh  at  the  breath  of  a  true  lover's  sighs  ; 
After  all,  Fanny  Myrtle  is  uot  such  a  prize : 

Where  is  she  gone,  where  is  she  gone? 
Louisa  Dalrymple  has  exquisite  eyes ; 

And  I'll — be  uo  louffer  alone ! 


TELL   HIM   I  LOVE   HIM  YET. 

Tell  him  I  love  him  yet,  as  in  that  joyous  time  ; 
Tell  him   I   ne'er  forget,  though   memory   now  be 

crime  ; 
Tell  him,  when  sad  moonlight  is  over  earth  and  sea, 
I  dream  of  him  by  night, — he  must  not  dream  of  me  ! 

Tell  him  to  go  where  Fame  looks  proud)}'  on  the 

brave  ; 
Tell  him  to  win  a  name  by  deeds  on  land  and  Avave  ; 
Green,  green  upon  his  brow  the  laurel-wreafh  shall 

be  ; 
Although  the  laurel  now  may  not  be  shared  with  me. 

Tell  him  to  smile  again  in  pleasure's  dazzling  throng. 
To  wear  another's  chain,  to  praise  another's  song: 
Before  the  loveliest  there,  I'd  have  him  bend  the 

knee, 
Aud  breathe  to  her  the  prayer  he  used  to  breathe 

to  mc. 

And  tell  him,  day  by  day  life  looks  to  me  more  dim ; 
I  falter  when  I  pray,  although  I  pray  for  him. 
And  bid  him,  when  I  die,  come  to  our  favorite  tree ; 
I  shall  not  hear  him  sigh, — then  let  him  sigh  for  me ! 


APRIL-FOOLS. 

This  day,  beyond  all  contradiction. 

This  day  is  all  thine  own.  Queen  Fiction  ! 

And  thou  art  building  castles  boundless 

Of  groundless  joys,  and  griefs  as  groundless ; 

Assuring  beauties  that  the  border 

Of  their  new  dress  is  out  of  order. 

And  school-boys  that  their  shoes  waut  tying, 

And  babies  that  their  dolls  are  dying. 

Lend  me — lend  me  some  disguise ; 

I  will  toll  prodigious  lies ; 

All  who  care  for  what  I  say, 

Shall  be  April-fools  to-day  ! 

First  I  relate  how  all  the  natiou 
Is  ruined  by  Emancipation  ; 
How  honest  men  are  sadly  thwarted. 
How  beads  and  fagots  are  imported, 
How  every  parish  church  looks  thinner. 
How  Peel  has  asked  the  Pope  to  dinner ; 
Aud  how  the  Duke,  who  fought  the  duel. 
Keeps  good  King  George  on  water-gruel. 
Then  I  waken  doubts  and  fears 
In  the  Commons  and  the  Peers ; 
If  they  care  for  what  I  say. 
They  are  April-fools  to-day  ! 

Xext  I  anuonuce  to  hall  and  hovel 
Lord  Asterisk's  unwritten  uovel  ; 
It's  full  of  wit,  and  full  of  fashion. 
And  full  of  taste,  and  full  of  passion  ; 
It  tells  some  very  curious  histories. 
Elucidates  some  charmiug  mysteries. 
And  mingles  sketches  of  society 
AVith  precepts  of  the  soundest  piety. 
TIius  I  babble  to  the  host 
Who  adore  the  Monuiir/  Post; 
If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 
They  are  April-fools  to-day  ! 

Then  to  the  artist  of  my  raiment 

I  hint  his  bankers  have  stopped  payment ; 

And  just  suggest  to  Ladj'  Locket 

That  somebody  has  picked  her  pocket ; 

And  scare  Sir  Thomas  from  the  City 

By  murmuring,  in  a  tone  of  pity. 

That  I  am  sure  I  saw  my  Lady 

Drive  through  the  Park  with  Captain  Grady. 

Off  my  troubled  victims  go. 

Very  pale  and  very  low; 

If  they  care  for  what  I  say, 

They  are  April-fools  to-day ! 


576 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  JiniTISH  AND  AMEUICAN  POETRY. 


I've  sent  the  learndcl  Doctor  Trepan 
To  feel  Sir  Hubert's  broken  knee-pan  : 
'Twill  ront  the  Doctor's  seven  senses 
To  liiid  Sir  Hnbert  charging  fences! 
I've  sent  a  sallow  parclinient-scraiter 
To  put  Miss  Ti  iin's  last  will  on  paper ; 
He'll  sec  her,  silent  as  a  nmnimy, 
At  whist,  with  her  two  nniiils  antl  tliinnny. 

Man  of  bi'ief,  and  man  of  pill, 

Thej'  will  take  it  very  ill ; 

If  they  care  for  what  I  say. 

They  are  April-fools  to-day ! 

And  to  the  Avorld  I  publish  gayly 
That  all  things  are  improving  daily; 
That  suns  grow  warmer,  streamlets  clearer, 
And  faith  more  warm,  and  love  siucerer; 
That  children  grow  extremely  clever, 
That  sin  is  seldom  known,  or  never; 
That  gas,  and  steam,  and  education, 
Are  killing  sorrow  and  starvation ! 
Pleasant  visions! — but  alas, 
How  those  pleasant  visions  pass ! 
If  you  caro  for  what  I  say. 
You're  an  April-fool  to-day  ! 

Last,  to  myself,  when  night  comes  round  me, 
And  the  soft  chain  of  thought  has  bouud  me, 
I  Avhisper,  "  Sir,  your  eyes  are  killing; 
You  owe  no  mortal  man  a  shilling  ; 
You  never  cringe  for  Star  or  Garter; 
You're  much  too  wise  to  be  a  martyr; 
And,  since  you  must  be  food  for  vermin, 
You  don't  feel  much  desire  for  ermine!" 

Wisdom  is  a  mine,  no  doubt. 

If  one  can  but  find  it  out ; 

But,  whate'er  I  think  or  say, 

I'm  au  April-fool  to-day ! 


GOOD-MGIIT. 

Good-night  to  thee,  lady  ! — though  manj- 

Have  joined  in  the  dance  to-night. 
Thy  form  was  the  fairest  of  any, 

Where  all  was  seducing  and  Ijright ; 
Thj-  smile  was  the  softest  and  dearest, 

Thy  form  the  most  sylph-like  of  all. 
And  thy  voice  the  most  gladsome  and  clearest 

Tliat  e'er  held  a  partner  in  thrall. 

Good-night  to  thee,  lady! — 'tis  over — 

The  waltz — the  quadrille,  and  the  song — 


The  whispered  farewell  of  the  lover. 

The  heartless  adieu  of  the  throng ; 
The  heart  that  was  throbbing  with  pleasure. 

Tile  eyelid  tliat  longed  for  repose — 
Tht(  beaux  that  were  dreaming  of  treasure, 

The  girls  that  were  dreaming  of  beaux. 

'Tis  over — the  lights  are  all  dying, 

The  coaches  all  driving  away ; 
And  many  a  fair  one  is  sighing, 

And  many  a  false  one  is  gay ; 
And  beauty  counts  over  her  numbers 

Of  conquests,  as  homeward  she  drives — 
And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  slumbers, 

And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  wives. 

And  I,  while  my  cab  iu  the  shower 

Is  waiting,  the  last  at  the  door, 
Am  looking  all  round  for  the  flower 

That  fell  from  your  wreath  on  the  floor. 
I'll  keep  it — if  but  to  remiud  me, 

Though  withered  and  faded  its  hue — 
Wherever  next  season  may  find  me — 

Of  England — of  Almack's — and  you  ! 

There  are  tones  that  will  haunt  ns,  though  lonely 

Our  path  be  o'er  mountain  or  sea; 
There  are  looks  that  will  part  from  us  only 

When  memory  ceases  to  be ; 
There  are  hopes  which  our  burden  can  lighten, 

Though  toilsome  and  steep  be  the  way ; 
And  dreams  that,  like  moonlight,  can  brighten. 

With  a  light  that  is  clearer  than  day. 

There  arc  names  that  we  cherish,  though  nameless 

For  aye  on  the  lip  they  may  be  ; 
There  are  hearts  that,  though  fettered,  are  tameless, 

And  thoughts  unexpressed,  but  still  free ! 
And  s(Tme  are  too  grave  for  a  rover, 

And  some  for  a  husband  too  light. 
— The  ball  and  my  dream  are  all  over — 

Good-night  to  thee,  lady!   good-night! 


CHARADE. 

CAMP-BELL. 

Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come  ; 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thundering  drum 

Are  calling  thco  to  die  ; 
Fight,  as  thy  father  fought ; 

Fall,  as  thy  father  fell ; 


WINTHROP  MACKWOETH  PEAED.—LETITIA   ELIZABETH  LANBO.y. 


577 


Thy  task  is  taught,  thj'  shroud  is  wrought — 
So,  forward  !   and  farewell! 

Toll  yo  my  Second,  toll  ; 

Fling-  high  the  llanibean's  light  ; 
And  i<iug  the  hyuiu  for  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  night ; 
The  helm  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  bo  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed 

Now  take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  yo  my  Whole,  go,  call — 

The  Lord  of  lute  and  lay, 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day  : 
Ay,  call  him  by  his  name  ; 

No  litter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  Hame  of  a  soldier's  fame, 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 


I   REMEMBER,  I   REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

IIow  my  childhood  fleeted  by,— 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July; 
On  my  brow,  love,  on  my  brow,  love. 

There  are  no  signs  of  care  ; 
But  my  pleasures  are  not  now,  love. 

What  childhood's  pleasures  were. 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers, 

Were  blithe  as  blithe  conld  be; 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers 

Were  coronals  for  me  : 
(iems  to-night,  love — gems  to-night,  love, 

Are  gleaming  iu  my  hair ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love. 

As  childhood's  roses  Avere. 

I  was  singing — I  was  singing, 

And  my  songs  were  idle  words ; 
But  from  my  heart  was  springing 

Wild  music  like  a  bird's  : 
Now  I  sing,  love — now  I  sing,  love, 

A  fine  Italian  air  ; 
But  it's  not  so  glad  a  thing,  love. 

As  childhood's  ballads  were! 

I  was  merry — I  was  merry, 
When  my  little  lovers  came, 
37 


With  a  lilj',  or  a  cherry, 

Or  a  new  invented  game; 
Now  I've  you,  love — now  I've  yon,  love. 

To  kneel  before  mo  there  ; 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,  love, 

As  childhood's  lovers  were  I 


£ctitia  (UrnabctI)  Canbon. 

Miss  Landon,  the  claiighter  of  an  army  agent,  was  born 
in  Chelsea,  England,  in  1803,  and  died  in  1838.  She  began 
to  write  verses  at  an  early  age,  and,  iinder  the  signature 
of  L.  E.  L.,  contributed  largelj'  to  the  London  Literary 
Gazette.  Her  father  died,  and  she  supported  herself  and 
some  of  her  relatives  by  her  pen.  In  1838  she  was  mar- 
ried to  George  Maclean,  Governor  of  Cape  Coast  Castle, 
and  sailed  for  her  new  home.  There,  in  October  of  the 
same  year,  she  died  from  an  over-dose  of  prussic  acid, 
which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  for  an  hysterical 
affection.  Her  poems,  popular  in  tlieir  day,  show,  with 
some  flashes  of  genius,  the  "fatal  facility"  which  rests 
in  mediocrity.  Perhaps  she  could  not  afford  to  blot,  so 
long  as  her  most  trifling  productions  brought  the  much- 
needed  money.  Her  "Poetical  Sketches"  appeared  in 
1831;  "The  Improvisatriee,  and  other  Poems,"  in  18;24. 
Her  "Life  and  Literary  Remains"  were  published  hj' 
Laman  Blanchard  in  1841.  Her  collected  poems,  edited 
by  W.  B.  Scott,  ajipcarcd  in  1873.  She  wrote  several 
novels,  the  rcjjutation  of  which  was  ephemeral. 


SUCCESS   ALONE   SEEN. 

Few  know  of  life's  beginnings — men  behold 

The  goal  achieved ; — the  warrior,  when  bis  sword 

Flashes  red  triumph  in  the  noonday  sun  ; 

The  poet,  when  his  lyre  hangs  on  the  palm  ; 

The  statesman,  when  the  crowd  proclaim  his  voice, 

And  mould  opinion,  on  his  gifted  tongue  : 

They  count  not  life's  first  steps,  and  never  think 

Upon  the  many  miserable  hours 

When  hope  deferred  was  sickness  to  the  heart. 

They  reckon  not  the  battle  and  the  march. 

The  long  privations  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 

They  never  see  the  banner  till  unfurled. 

What  are  to  them  the  solitary  nights 

Passed,  pale  and  anxious,  by  the  sickly  lamp. 

Till  the  young  poet  wins  the  woild  at  last 

To  listen  to  the  runsic  long  his  own  ? 

The  crowd  attend  the  statesman's  fiery  mind 

That  makes  their  destiny ;  but  they  do  not  trace 

Its  struggle,  or  its  long  expectancy. 

Hard  arc  life's  early  steps;   and,  but  that  youth 

Is  buoyant,  confident,  and  strong  in  hope. 

Men  would  behold  its  threshold,  and  despair. 


578 


CYCLOPJKDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


DEATH  AND  THE   YOUTH. 

"Not  yet, — the  flowers  are  in  my  path, 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky ; 
Not  yet, — my  heart  is  full  of  hope, 

I  cannot  bear  to  dio. 

"Not  yet, — I  never  knew  till  now 
How  precious  life  could  be  ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  love,  O  Death ! 
I  cannot  come  with  thee!" 

But  Love  and  Hope,  enchanted  tAvain, 
Passed  in  their  falsehood  by; 

Death  came  again,  and  then  he  said, 
"I'm  ready  now  to  die!" 


vllbcrt  Norton  (Srecnc. 


Greeue  (180:^-1808)  was  a  native  of  Providence,  R.  I., 
and  graduated  at  Brown  University.  He  became  a  law- 
yer, and  filled  various  municiiial  offices.  He  was  the  au- 
thor of"  The  Baron's  Last  Banquet,"  quite  a  spirited  bal- 
lad, and  of  several  fugitive  poems,  not  yet  collected  iu  a 
volume. 


OLD  GRIMES. 

Old  Grimes  is  dead ;   that  good  old  man 

We  never  shall  see  more; 
He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat, 

All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true ; 
His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray. 

He  wore  it  iu  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  w  ith  pity  burned ; 

The  large  round  head  upou  his  cane 
From  ivory  Avas  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all; 

He  knew  no  base  design  ; 
His  eyes  Avere  dark,  and  rather  small ; 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind. 

In  friendship  he  was  true ; 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind. 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 


Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes, 

He  passed  securely  o'er, 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 
Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown  ; 

He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest. 
The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert; 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  rnftles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse. 

Was  sociable  and  gay ; 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze. 
He  did  not  bring  to  view, — 

Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days, 
As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 
In  trust  to  fortune's  chances ; 

But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 
Iu  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares, 

His  peaceful  moments  ran  ; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 


(!3corgc  Pcnison  JJrcnticc. 

AMERICAN. 

Prentice  (1802-1870)  was  a  native  of  Preston,  Conn., 
and  graduated  at  Brown  University  in  1823.  From  1828 
to  18:30  he  was  editor  of  the  New  England  'Wickhj  Review. 
In  1831  he  became  editor  of  the  Louisville  {Ky .)  Journal, 
and  retained  that  position  until  his  death.  He  was  quite 
celebrated  for  his  editorial  witticisms. 


TO   AN  ABSENT  WIFE. 

'Tis  morn ;   the  sea-breeze  seems  to  bring 
Joy.  health,  and  freshness  on  its  wing ; 
Bright  flowers,  to  me  all  strange  and  new. 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew  ; 


GEORGE  DEXISOX  PREXTICE. 


579 


Ami  perfumes  vise  from  many  a  grove 
As  iuceuse  to  the  clouds  that  move 
Like  spirits  o'er  yon  welkin  clear; 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  not  here. 

'Tis  noon  ;   a  calm,  unbroken  sleep 
Is  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep ; 
A  soft  haze,  like  a  fairy  dream, 
Is  floating  over  hill  and  stream; 
And  many  a  broad  magnolia  flower 
Within  its  shadowy  woodland  bower 
Is  gleaming  like  a  lovely  star; 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  afar. 

'Tis  eve;   on  earth  the  sunset  skies 
Are  painting  their  own  Eden  dj'es ; 
The  stars  come  down,  and  trembling  glow 
Like  blossoms  in  the  waves  below ; 
And,  like  some  unseen  sprite,  the  breeze 
Seems  lingering  "mid  the  orange-trees, 
Breathing  in  music  round  the  spot; 
But  I  am  sad — I  see  thee  not. 

'Tis  midnight:   with  a  soothing  spell 
The  far  tones  of  the  ocean  swell, 
Soft  as  a  mother's  cadence  mild. 
Low  bending  o'er  her  sleeping  child ; 
And  on  each  wandering  breeze  are  heard 
The  rich  notes  of  the  mocking-bird 
In  many  a  wild  and  wondrous  lay; 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  away. 

I  sink  in  dreams,  low,  sweet,  and  clear ; 
Thy  own  dear  voice  is  in  my  ear; 
Around  my  cheek  thy  tres.ses  twine, 
Thy  own  loved  hand  is  clasped  in  mine. 
Thy  own  soft  lip  to  mine  is  pressed, 
Thy  bead  is  pillowed  on  my  breast. 
Oil!    I  have  all  my  heart  holds  dear; 
And  I  am  happy, — thou  art  here. 


LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 

Historic  mount!   baptized  in  flame  and  blood. 

Thy  name  is  as  iinmortal  as  the  rocks 

That  crown  thy  thunder-scarred  but  royal  brow, 

Thou  liftest  np  thy  aged  head  in  pride 

In  the  cool  atmosphere,  but  higher  still 

Within  the  calm  and  solemn  atmosphere 

Of  an  immortal  fame.     From  thy  sublime 

And  awful  summit  I  can  gaze  afar 

Upon  inuumerous  lesser  i»inuacles. 


And  oh!  my  winged  spirit  loves  to  fly, 

Like  a  strong  eagle,  'mid  their  up-piled  crags. 

But  most  on  thee,  imperial  mount,  my  soul 

Is  chained  as  by  a  spell  of  power. — I  gaze 

Where  Death  held  erst  high  carnival.     The  waves 

Of  the  mysterious  death-river  moaned ; 

The  tramp,  the  shout,  the  fearful  thunder-roar 

Of  red-breathed  cannon,  and  the  wailing  cry 

Of  myriad  victims,  filled  the  air.     The  smoke 

Of  battle  closed  above  the  charging  hosts, 

And,  when  it  passed,  the  grand  old  flag  no  more 

Waved  in  the  light  of  heaven.     The  soil  was  wet 

And  miry  with  the  life-blood  of  the  brave. 

As  with  a  drenching  rain  ;   and  you  broad  stream, 

The  noble  and  majestic  Tennessee, 

Kan  reddened  toward  the  deep. 

But  thou,  O  bleak 
And  rocky  mountain,  wast  the  theatre 
Of  a  yet  fiercer  struggle.     On  thy  height, 
Where  now  I  sit, — a  proud  and  gallant  host, 
The  chivalry  and  glory  of  the  South, 
Stood  np  awaiting  battle.     Sombre  clouds, 
Floating  afar  beneath  them,  shut  from  view 
The  stern  and  silent  foe,  whose  storied  flag 
Bore  on  its  folds  our  country's  monarch-bird, 
Whose  talons  grasp  the  thunder-bolt.     L"p,  np 
Thy  rugged  sides  they  came  with  measured  tramp, 
L'nheralded  by  bugle,  drum,  or  shout ; 
And  though  the  clouds  closed  round  them  with  the 

gloom 
Of  double  night,  they  paused  not  in  their  march 
Till  sword  and  plume  and  bayonet  emerged 
Above  the  spectral  shades  that  circled  round 
Thy  awful  breast.     Then  suddenly  a  storm 
Of  flame  and  lead  and  iron  downward  burst 
From  this  tall  pinnacle,  like  winter  hail. 
Long,  fierce,  and  bloody  was  the  strife, — alas ! 
The  noble  flag,  our  country's  hope  and  pride, 
Sank  down  beneath  the  surfiice  of  the  clouds. 
As  sinks  the  pennon  of  a  shipwrecked  bark 
Beneath  a  stormy  sea,  and  naught  was  heard 
Save  the  wild  cries  and  moans  of  stricken  men, 
And  the  swift  rush  of  fleeing  warriors  down 
Thy  rugged  steeps. 

But  soon  the  trumpet-voice 
Of  the  bold  chieftain  of  the  routed  host 
Resounded  through  the  atmosphere,  and  pierced 
The  clouds  that  hung  around  thee.    With  high  words 
He  quickly  summoned  his  brave  soldiery  back 
To  the  renewal  of  the  deadly  fight : 
Again  their  stern  and  measured  tramp  was  heanl 
Bj'  the  flushed  Southrons,  as  it  echoed  np 
Thy  bald,  majestic  cliflfs.     Again  they  burst, 


580 


CYCLOI'JUJIA    or  BlllTISll  ASD  AMElllCAX  rUETRY. 


Like  spirits  of  ilostnictioii,  through  the  clouds, 
And  'raid  a  thousand  hurtling  missiles  swept 
Their  foes  before  them  as  tlie  whirlwind  sweeps 
The  strong  oaks  of  the  forest.     A'ietory 
I'erchcd  with  her  sister-eagle  on  tiie  scorched 
And  torn  and  blackened  banner. 

Awful  ni<imit ! 
The  stains  of  blood  have  faded  from  thy  roeks; 
The  cries  of  mortal  agony  have  ceased 
To  echo  from  thy  hollow  elifl's,  the  smoke 
Of  battle  long  since  melted  into  air. 
And  yet  thou  art  unchanged.     Ay,  tliou  wilt  lift 
In  majesty  thy  walls  above  the  storm, 
Mocking  the  generations  as  they  pass; 
And  ])ilgrims  of  the  far-oft'  centuries 
Will  sometimes  linger  in  their  wanderings, 
To  ponder,  with  a  deep  and  sacred  awe, 
The  lejiend  of  the  fisht  above  the  clouds. 


iUvG.  Couisa  Jane  ilall. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Hall  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  1802. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  James  Park,  who  estab- 
lislied  a  nourishing  school  for  yomig  ladies  in  Boston. 
She  married  the  Rev.  Dr.  Edward  B.  Hall,  of  Providence, 
K.  I.  She  was  the  author  of  "Miriam,"  a  dramatic 
poem,  illustrative  of  the  early  conflicts  of  the  Ciiristian 
Church;  "Joanna  of  Naples,"  a  historical  tale;  and 
other  works.  But  her"AVaking  Dreams"  will  probably 
outlive  her  longer  productions. 


GROW  NOT   OLD. 

Nevei,  my  heart,  wilt  thou  grow  old  I 
My  hair  is  white,  my  blood  runs  cold, 
And  one  by  one  my  ])owers  depart ; 
But  youth  sits  smiling  in  my  heart. 

Downliill  the  path  of  age  ?     Oii  no! 
Up,  up,  with  patient  steps  I  go  ; 
I  watch  the  skies  fast  brightening  there, 
I  breathe  a  sweeter,  purer  air. 

Beside  my  roa<l  small  tasks  spring  up, 
Though  but  to  hand  the  cooling  cup, 
Speak  the  true  word  of  hearty  cheer. 
Tell  the  lone  soul  that  God  is  near. 

Beat  on,  my  lu'.-ut,  and  grow  not  old! 
And  when  thy  pulses  all  are  t<dd, 
Let  me,  though  working,  loving  still. 
Kneel  as  I  meet  mv  Father's  will. 


WAKING   DRKAMS. 

Of  idle  hopes  and  fancies  wild, 
O  Faflier,  dispossess  tiiy  child  ; 
Teach  me  tiiat  wasted  thouglit  is  sin, 
Teach  mo  to  rule  this  world  within. 

Wiiilo  waking  dreams  the  mind  control, 
Tiiere  is  no  growth  in  this  poor  soul ; 
And  visions  hold  me  back  from  deed.s, 
And  earth  is  dear,  and  heaven  recedes. 

Oh,  with  one  flash  of  heavenly  light 
Eouse  me,  although  with  pain  and  fright! 
Show  me  the  sin  of  wasted  powers, 
Scourge  me  from  useless,  dreaming  hours. 


(Lljomas  3irb. 


Aird  (1803-1870)  was  a  native  of  the  village  of  Bowdcn. 
Scotland.  He  went  through  a  course  of  study  at  the 
University  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Wilson,  Moir,  and  other  literarj-  men.  He  wrote 
for  Markwood' s  Miujaziiie,  and  became  editor  of  the  Dum- 
fries Herald.  In  1848  lie  collected  and  ])ublished  his 
jioenis  ;  of  which  a  new  edition  appeared  in  1850,  and  a 
fifth  edition  in  1878. 


THE   SWALLOW. 

The  little  comer's  coming,  the  comer  o'er  the  sea. 
The  comer  of  tiie  summer,  all  the  sunny  days  to  be  : 
How  plea,sant,  through  tlie  pleasant  sleep,  thj'  early 

twitter  heard — 
O  swallow  by  the  lattice  !  glad  days  be  thy  reward  ! 

Thine  be  sweet  morning,  with  the  bee  that's  out  for 
honey-dew. 

And  glowing  be  the  noontide,  for  the  grasshopper 
and  yon ; 

And  mellow  shine,  o'er  day's  decline,  the  sun  toliglit 
tiuMi  home — 

What  can  molest  thy  airy  nest  ?  Sleep  till  the  mor- 
row come. 

The  river  blue  tiiat  lapses  through  the  valley,  hears 
thee  sing. 

And  murmurs  much  beneath  the  touch  of  thy  light, 
dipjting  wing ; 

The  thunder-cloud,  over  us  bowed,  in  deeper  gloom 
is  seen. 

When  fpiick  relieved  it  glances  to  thy  bosom's  sil- 
very sheen. 


It IC HARD  HENGIST  HORNE.—LAMAN  BLAXCHARD. 


581 


Tlio  silent  Power  that  brings  tlieo  back,  with  lead- 
ing-strings of  love, 

To  haunts  where  liist  the  snmnier  sun  fell  on  thee 
from  above, 

Shall  bind  thee  more  to  come  aye  to  the  mnsic  of 
onr  leaves ; 

For  here  thy  young,  where  thou  bast  sprung,  shall 
"lad  thee  in  our  eaves. 


UidjavLi  ijcnoiist  Cjornc. 

Home,  born  in  London  in  1803,  was  educated  at  Sand- 
hurst College.  He  entered  the  Mexican  navy  as  a  mid- 
shipman in  the  war  against  Spain,  and  when  peace  came 
returned  to  England,  and  devoted  himself  to  literature. 
He  is  the  author  of  three  tragedies,  of  which  he  regarded 
"Gregorj^  the  Seventh"  as  his  best;  has  written  stories 
for  children,  disquisitions,  ballads  and  romances,  biog- 
raphies and  essays.  His  most  successful  work,  "  Orion, 
an  Epic  Poem"  (L843),  had  reached  a  ninth  edition  in 
1874.  The  price  of  the  first  edition  was  placed  at  a  far- 
thing, "  as  a  sarcasm  upon  the  low  estimation  into  which 
epic  poetry  has  follen."  Three  large  editions  were  sold 
at  a  farthing  a  cojiy ;  the  fourth  was  raised  to  a  shilling, 
and  the  fifth  to  half  a  crown.  In  his  "Literati"  Poe 
gives  an  elaborate  and  eulogistic  review  of  "Orion." 
The  poem  contains  some  heautiful  passages,  but  lacks 
the  liumnn,  normal  interest  which  a  successful  epic  must 
have. 


M  O  E  N I  N  G . 


From  "Okios." 


O'er  meadows  green  or  solitary  lawn, 
When  birds  appear  earth's  sole  inhabitants, 
The  long,  clear  shadows  of  the  morning  dift'er 
From  those  of  eve,  which  are  more  soft  and  vague, 
Suggestive  of  past  days  and  mellowed  grief. 
The  lights  of  morning,  even  as  her  shades. 
Are  architectural,  and  pre-eminent 
In  quiet  freshness,  'mid  the  pause  that  holds 
Prelusive  energies.     All  life  awakes : 
Morn  comes  at  first  with  Avhite,  uncertain  light ; 
Then  takes  a  faint  red,  like  an  opening  bud 
Seen  through  gray  mist ;  the  mist  clears  off;  the  sky 
Unfolds;    grows  ruddy;   fakes  a  crimson  flush; 
Puts  forth  bright  sprigs  of  gold, — which  soon  ex- 
panding 
In  saffron,  thence  pure  golden  shines  the  morn  ; 
Uplifts  its  clear,  bright  fabric  of  white  clouds, 
All  tinted,  like  a  shell  of  polished  pearl. 
With  varied  glancings,  violet  gleam  and  blush  ; 
Embraces  nature ;   and  then  passes  on, 
Leaving  the  sun  to  perfect  his  great  work. 


SUMMER  NOOX. 

From  "  Orion." 
There  was  a  slumbrous  silence  in  the  air. 
By  noontide's  sultry  murmurs  from  without 
Made  more  oblivious.     Not  a  pipe  was  heard 
From  field  or  wood ;   but  the  grave  beetle's  drone 
Passed  near  the  entrance:   once  the  cuckoo  called 
O'er  distant  meads,  and  once  a  horn  began 
Melodious  plaint,  then  died  away.     A  sound 
Of  murmurous  music  yet  was  in  the  breeze, 
For  silver  gnats  that  harp  on  glassy  strings, 
And  rise  and  fall  in  sparkling  clouds,  su.staiued 
Their  dizzy  dances  o'er  the  seething  meads. 


Caman  BlaudjavL). 


Samuel  Laman  Blanchard  (1803-1845)  was  a  native  of 
Great  Yarmouth,  Englimd.    His  father,  a  painter  and  gla- 
zier, gave  him  a  good  classical  education,  but  could  not 
afford  to  send  him  to  college.     Laman  had  a  week's  ex- 
perience on  the  stage,  and  was  disenchanted  of  his  theat^ 
rieal  aspirations.     He  then  thought  of  joining  Lord  By- 
ron in  Greece,  in  company  with  Jerrold.     This  plan  was 
abandoned,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  he  married.     He 
engaged  editorially  in  literature  and  politics;  was  con- 
nected successively  with  the  MonOihj  Magazine,  La  Belle 
Assemblee,  the   True  Sun,  the   Court  Jorirnnl,  Ainsworth's 
Magazine,  and  the  Examiner.    In  1828  he  published  "  Lyr- 
ic OflFerings,"  a  volume  cordially  praised  by  Lord  Lytton, 
then  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  and  editing  the  New 
Monihbj  Magazine ;  who  called  attention  to  "the  follow- 
ing exquisite  lines"  iu  a  sonnet  on  Noon  : 
"  This  is  sweet, 
To  see  the  heavens  all  opeu,  and  the.  hood 
Of  cryntal  Xoon  flung  back .'  the  eaith  meanwhile 
Filling  her  veins  with  sunshine— vital  blood 
Of  all  that,  now  from  her  full  breast  doth  smile 
(Casting  no  shadow)  on  that  pleasant  flood 
Of  light,  where  every  viote  is  some  small  minstreVs  isle." 

Lamau  Blanchard  died  by  his  own  hand,  while  he  was  in 
a  state  of  great  nervous  excitement,  bordering  on  insan- 
ity. Six  months  before,  he  had  expressed  his  horror  of 
suicide.  " How  dreadful,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  for  the 
children  !  If  nothing  else  would  deter  me,  that  would." 
In  184G  appeared  "Sketches  from  Life,  by  the  late  La- 
man Blanchard:  with  a  Memoir  of  tiie  Author  by  Sir 
Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  Bart.;"  who  says  of  Blanchard  : 
"He  was  thoroughly  honest,  true,  and  genuine;  ever 
readj'  to  confer  a  kindness ;  and  of  a  grateful  disposi- 
tion, which  exaggerated  into  obligation  the  most  com- 
monplace returns  to  his  own  ati'uctionate  feelings  and 
ready  friendship." 

THE  ELOQUENT   PASTOR  DEAD. 

He  taught  the  cheerfulness  that  still  is  ours, 
The  sweetness  that  still  lurks  in  human  powers: 
If  heaven  be  full  of  stars,  the  earth  has  flowers ! 


582 


CYCLOrjWlA    OF  BRITISU  AND  AMERIVAX  rUETRY, 


His  ^vas  tbe  searcliiiig  tbouglit,  the  glowing  niiud; 
Tlio  gentle  will  to  otiiers'  soon  resigned  ; 
But,  nioio  than  all,  the  feeliiij»  just  and  kind. 

His  pleasures  were  as  melodies  iVoni  reeds — ■ 
Sweet  books,  deej)  musie,  and  unsellish  deeds, 
Finding  immortal  llowers  in  luinian   weeds. 

Triio  to  his  kind,  nor  of  himself  afraid. 

He  deemed  tliat  love  of  Ood  was  best  arrayed 

In  love  of  all  the  things  that  God  has  made. 

He  deemed  man's  life  no  feverish  dream  of  care, 

But  a  high  jiathway  into  freer  air. 

Lit  nj)  with  golden  hopes  and  duties  fair. 

He  showed  liow  wisdom  turns  its  hours  to  years, 
Feeding  the  heart  on  joys  instead  of  fears, 
And  worships  God  in  smiles,  and  not  in  tears. 

His  thoughts  were  as  a  pyramid  np-piled. 

On  whose  far  top  an  angel  stood  and  smiled — 

Yet  in  his  heart  was  he  a  simple  child. 


THE   BHID-CATCHER. 

Gently,  gently  yet,  yonng  stranger, 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  heel! 
Ere  the  bird  perceives  its  danger, 

On  it  slyly  steal. 
Silence!     Ah!   your  scheme  is  failing! 

No  ;   pursue  your  pretty  prey ; 
See,  your  shadow  on  the  paling 
Startles  it  away. 

Caution!   now  you're  nearer  creeping; 

Nearer  yet — how  still  it  seems! 
Sure,  the  winged  creature's  sleeping 

Wrapped  in  forest-dreams ! 
Golden  sights  that  bird  is  seeing — 

Nest  of  green  or  mossy  bough  ; 
Not  a  thought  it  has  of  ileeing ; 
Yes,  you'll  catch  it  now. 

How  your  eyes  begin  to  twinkle ! 
Silence,  and  you'll  scarcely  fail ; 
Now  stoop  down  and  softly  sprinkle 

Salt  upon  its  tail. 
Yes,  you  have  it  in  your  tether, 

Never  more  to  skim  the  skies ; 
Lodge  the  salt  on  that  long  feather : 
Hu!    it  Hies!   it  flies! 


Hear  it,  hark  !  among  the  bushes. 

Laughing  at  your  idle  lures! 
Boy,  the  self-samo  feeling  gushes 

Through  my  heart  and  yours. 
Baflled  spoilsman,  childish  ^Icntor, 

How  have  I  been — hapless  fault  I — 
Led,  like  you,  my  hopes  to  centre 
On  a  grain  of  salt! 

On  what  captures  I've  been  counting. 

Stooping  here  and  creei)ing  there. 
All  to  see  my  bright  hopes  mounting 

High  into  the  air! 
Thus  Lave  children  of  all  ages. 
Seeing  bliss  before  them  fly. 
Found  their  hearts  but  empty  cages, 
And  their  hopes — on  high  ! 


SONNET:   HIDDEN  JOYS. 

Pleasures  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures  seem: 
There's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the  ground 
But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence  or  of  sound, 
Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer  dream. 
The  very  meanest  things  are  made  supreme 
With  innate  ecstasy.     No  grain  of  sand 
But  moves  a  bright  and  million-peopled  land. 
And  hath  its  Eden,  and  its  Eves,  I  deem. 
For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a  curious  eye 
Hath  lent  me,  to  behold  the  hearts  of  things. 
And  touched  mine  ear  with  power.    Thus  far  or  nigh, 
Jlinute  or  mighty,  lixed,  or  free  with  wings. 
Delight  from  many  a  nameless  covert  sly 
Peeps  sparkling,  and  in  tones  familiar  sings. 


SONNET:   WISHES   OF   YOUTH. 

Gayly  and  greenly  let  my  seasons  run  : 

And  should  the  war-winds  of  the  world  uproot 

The  sanctities  of  life,  and  its  sweet  fruit 

Cast  forth  as  fuel  for  the  fiery  sun, — 

The  dews  bo  turned  to  ice, — fair  days  begun 

In  peace  wear  out  iu  pain,  and  sounds  that  suit 

Despair  and  discord  keep  Hope's  harp-string  mute, 

Still  let  me  live  as  Love  and  Life  were  one: 

Still  let  me  turn  on  earth  a-  childlike  gaze, 

And  trust  the  whispered  charities  that  bring 

Tidings  of  human  truth;    with  inward  praise 

Watch  the  weak  motion  of  each  comniou  thing. 

And  find  it  glorious — still  let  me  raise 

On  wintry  wrecks  an  altar  to  the  Spring. 


SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN.— DOUGLAS  JEEIiOLD. 


583 


5aral)  €)dtn  llUjitmau. 

AMERICAN. 

The  maiden  name  of  :Mrs.  Whitman  (1803-18TS)  was 
Power,  and  !^he  was  a  native  of  Providence,  R.  I.  In 
1828  she  married  John  Winslow  Whitman,  a  Boston  law- 
yer, who  died  in  1833,  after  wliich  she  resided  in  Provi- 
dence. For  a  short  period  during  her  widowhood  she 
was  betrothed  (1848)  to  Poe,  the  poet,  and  one  of  his 
most  impassioned  poems  is  addressed  to  her.  In  1853 
she  published  "  Hours  of  Life,  and  other  Poems  ;"  and  in 
1859,  "Edgar  Poe  and  His  Critics."  Among  the  many 
obvious  allusions  to  Poe  in  her  poems  is  the  following : 

"Oh!   when  thy  faults  are  all  forgiven, 

Wheu  nil  my  sins  are  purijed  away, 
May  our  freed  spirits  meet  iu  heaven, 

Where  darkness  melts  to  perfect  day! 
There  may  thy  woudrous  harp  awake, 

And  there  my  rnusonied  soul  with  thee 
Behold  the  eternal  morning  break 

Iu  glory  o'er  the  jasper  sea." 

"  Both  the  verse  and  prose  of  Mrs.  Whitman,"  says  Mr. 
George  W.  Curtis,  "have  a  distinctive  attraction  from 
the  same  pure  and  fresh  earnestness,  combined  witli 
sweet  and  grave  restraint,  which  was  the  basis  of  her 
character."  A  complete  edition  of  her  poems,  revised 
in  the  last  year  of  her  life,  was  publislied  in  Boston  in 
1879.  The  pieces  which  we  quote  have  an  obvious  ref- 
erence to  Poe. 


THE   LAST  FLO'WERS. 

Dost  tliou  remember  that  autumnal  day 

AYlieu  by  the  Seekouk's  lonely  wave  we  stood, 

And  marked  tbe  languor  of  reiiose  that  lay, 
Softer  than  sleep,  on  valley,  wave,  and  wood  ? 

A  trance  of  boly  sadness  seemed  to  lull 
Tbe  cbarmdd  eartb  and  circumambient  air, 

And  tbe  low  murmur  of  tbe  leaves  seemed  full 
Of  a  resigued  and  passionless  despair. 

Thougli  tbe  warm  breatb  of  Summer  lingered  still 
Iu  tbe  lone  paths  wbere  late  ber  footsteps  jiassed, 

Tbe  pallid  star-flowers  on  tbe  purple  bill 

Sigbcd  dreamily,  "We  are  tbe  last — tbe  last!" 

I  stood  beside  tbee,  and  a  dream  of  beaven 

Around  me  like  a  golden  balo  fell ! 
Tbeu  the  brigbt  veil  of  fantasy  was  riven, 

And  my  lips  murmured,  "Faro  tbee  well!  fare- 
well!" 

I  dared  not  listen  to  thy  words,  nor  tni-u 
To  meet  tbe  mystic  language  of  tbine  eyes ; 

I  only  feJt  tbeir  power,  and  iu  tbe  urn 

Of  memory  treasured  their  sweet  rhapsodies. 


We  i)arted  then,  forever — and  tbe  hours 

Of  that  brigbt  day  were  gathered  to  tbe  past — 

But,  tbrongb  long,  wintry  nights,  I  beard  the  flowers 
Sigh  dreamily,  "  \Vc  are  the  last! — the  last!" 


SONNETS  :   TO  E.  A.  P.' 
I. 

When  first  I  looked  into  thy  glorions  eyes, 
And  saw,  with  their  unearthly  beauty  pained, 
Heaven  deepening  within  heaven,  like  the  skies 
Of  auturau  nights  without  a  shadow  stained, — 
I  stood  as  one  whom  some  strange  dream  inthralls; 
For,  far  away,  iu  some  lost  life  divine, 
Some  land  which  every  glorious  dream  recalls, 
A  spirit  looked  ou  me  with  eyes  like  tbine. 
E'en  now,  though  death  has  veiled  tbeir  starry  light, 
Aud  closed  tbeir  lids  in  bis  relentless  uigbt — 
As  some  strange  dream,  remembered  in  a  dream. 
Again  I  see  in  sleep  their  tender  beam  ; 
Unfading  hopes  their  cloudless  azure  fill, 
Heaveu  deepening  within  heaven,  serene  aud  still. 


If  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love, 
In  its  earth-solitude  grew  dark  with  fear, 
Lest  the  high  Sun  of  Heaven  itself  should  prove 
Powerless  to  save  from  that  iibantasmal  sphere 
Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered — if  tbe  flowers 
That  pressed  around  thy  feet  seemed  but  to  bloom 
In  lone  Getbsemanes,  through  starless  hours, 
When  all  who  loved  bad  left  tbee  to  thy  doom : — 
Oh,  yet  believe  that  iu  that  hollow  vale 
Wbere  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 
To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain, — 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  and  its  heaven  forego 
Till  God's  great  love  on  both  one  hope,  one  Heaven, 
bestow. 


Dou(\IiaG  Jcrrolb. 


Jerrold  (1803-1857)  was  a  native  of  London.  His  early 
days  were  j^assed  in  Sheerness,  where  his  father,  an  actor, 
was  lessee  of  the  theatre.  Before  he  had  completed  his 
tenth  year,  Douglas  served  two  years  at  sea  as  a  midship- 
man. Then  he  removed  with  liis  parents  to  London,  be- 
came apprentice  to  a  printer,  and  gave  everj'  spare  mo- 
ment to  solitary  self-instruction.  He  took  early  to  dra- 
matic writing.  His  nautical  drama,  "  Black-eyed  Susan," 
was  brought  out  at  the  Surrey  Theatre  in  1829,  and  had 
a  run  of  three  hundred  nights,  though  Jerrold  got  from 

»  Edgar  A.  Poe. 


584 


(JYCLOl'AiDIA    OF  JiJUTlSH  AM)  AM  ERIC  AS  rUKTRY. 


it  only  about  £70.  Other  dramas  followed,  abounding 
in  pointed  and  witty  sayings.  lie  contributed  largely  to 
7'««(7(,  and  in  18.i2  became  editor  oi  Lloyd's  WW khj  yews- 
paper  at  a  salary  of  £1000  jier  annum,  lie  died  in  1857, 
after  a  short  illness,  and  a  fund  of  £2000  was  i-aised  by 
his  friends  for  the  beneJit  of  his  family.  Jcrrold's  wit 
was  neat  and  brilliant.  Here  are  specimens:  "Dogma- 
tism is  Ihc  maturity  of  puppyism."  "A  friend  of  an  un- 
fortunate lawyer  met  Jerrold,  and  said  :  '  Have  you  heard 

about  poor  R ?    His  business  is  going  to  the  devil.' 

Jerrold:  '  That's  all  right;  then  he  is  sure  to  get  it  back 
again.'"  "Some  member  of  a  club,  hearing  a  certain 
melody  mentioned,  said  :  '  That  always  carries  me  away 
when  I  hear  it.'  'Can  nobody  whistle  it  V  exclaimed 
Jerrold.''  Though  his  poetical  effusions  are  few  in  num- 
ber, they  are  always  sensible  and  pithy. 


THE   DRUM. 

Yonder  is  a  little  drum,  banging  on  the  wall; 
Dusty  wreatlis  and  tattered  flags  rouud  about  it  fall. 
A  shepherd  youth  on  Cheviot's  hills  watched  the 

sheep  whose  skin 
A  cunning  -workman  wrought,  and  gave  the  little 

drum  its  din ; 
And  happy  was  the  shepherd-boy  while  tending  of 

his  fold. 
Nor  thought  he  there  was  in  the  world  a  spot  like 

Cheviot's  wold. 

And  so  it  was  for  many  a  day;   but  change  with 

time  will  come. 
And  he  (alas  for  him  the  day  !) — he  heard  the  little 

drum. 
"  Follow,"  said  the  drummer-boy,  "  would  you  live 

in  story ! 
For  he  who  strikes  a  foeuian  down  wins  a  wreath 

of  glory." 
"  linb-a-dnb !   and  rnh-a-duh  T   the   drummer  beats 

away — 
The  ebepherd   lets   his  bleating  Hock  on   Cheviot 

wildly  stray. 

On  Egypt's  arid  wastes  of  saiul  the  shepherd  now 

is  lying; 
Around  him  many  a  parching  tongue  for  "water" 

faintly  crying. 
Oh   that   he   were   on   Cheviot's  hills,  with    velvet 

verdure  spread. 
Or  lying  'mid  the  blooming  heatli   where  oft  he 

made  his  bed ; 
Or  could  ho  drink  of  those  sweet  rills  that  trickle 

to  its  vales, 
Or  breathe  once   more  the   balmincss  of  Cheviot's 

luouDtaiu  gales  I 


At  length  upon  his  wearied  eyes  the  nusts  of  slum- 
ber come, 

And  he  is  in  his  home  again,  till  wakened  by  the 
drum. 

"To  arms!  to  arms!"  his  leader  cries;  "the  foe — 
the  foe  is  nigh  I" 

Guns  loudly  roar,  steel  clanks  on  steel,  and  thou- 
sands fall  to  die. 

The  shepherd's  blood  makes  red  the  sand :  "  Oh 
water — give  me  some! 

My  voice  might  meet  a  friendly  ear  but  for  that 
little  drum!" 

'Mid  moaning  men   and  dying  men,  the  drumuier 

kept  his  way. 
And  uuiny  a  one   by  "glory"  lured  abhorred   the 

drum  that  day. 
'•  Iluh-a-duh!  and  rub-a-dub .'"  the  drumuier  beat 

aloud — - 
The  .shepherd  died  ;  and,  ere  the  morn,  the  hot  sand 

was  his  shroud. 
And  this  is  "glory?"     Yes;   and  still  will  man  the 

tempter  follow. 
Nor  learu  that  glory,  like  its  drum,  is  but  a  sound, 

and  hidlow. 


Uobcrt  Stcpljcn  l^fti^l^'ci"- 

Hawker  (1803-1875),  a  native  of  Plymouth,  England, 
was  for  more  than  forty  years  Vicar  of  Morwenstow,  Corn- 
wall. He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  as  early  as  1821 
published  a  collection  of  poems  anonymously,  uuder  the 
title  of  "Tendrils,  by  Reuben."  He  was  twice  married. 
The  evening  before  his  death  lie  was  received  into  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church.  A  collection  of  his  poems  was 
published  by  Kcgan,  Paul  &  Co.,  London,  1879.  There 
is  much  in  it  that  is  commonplace  ;  but  the  "Song  of 
the  Cornish  Men  "  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  little  lyrics 
in  the  language. 


SOXG  OF  THE   CORNISH  MEN. 

With  the  exception  of  the  choral  hues, 

"And  shiill  Trelawiiy  die? 
Here's  twciitj'  thousand  Cornish  men 
Will  know  the  reason  why" — 

mul  which  have  been,  ever  since  the  imprisonment  by  James  II. 
of  the  seven  bishops,  a  ijopnlar  proverb  in  Cornwall,  the  whole 
of  this  song  was  composed  by  Il.nvker  in  lS-25.  It  was  praised 
by  Scott,  Mncanlay,  and  Dickens  under  the  persuasion  that  it 
was  the  ancient  sonjr.  Dickens  afterward  admitted  its  pater- 
nity in  his  "  Household  Words." 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true ! 
King  James'.s  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAfVKER.—CEARLES  SfVJlX. 


585 


Aiul  Lave  tbey  fixed  the  where  aud  -vvheu ' 

Aiul  shall  Trelawiiy  die  1 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  nieii 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! 

Ontspake  their  captain,  brave  and  bold, 

A  naniy  wight  was  he  : 
"  If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawny  free ! 

"  We'll  cross  the  Taniar  land  to  land. 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, — ■ 
With  one  and  all,  and  hand-in-hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

"Aud  when  we  come  to  Loudon  Wall, — 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, — 
Come  forth !  come  forth,  ye  cowards  all. 

To  better  men  than  you  ! 

"  Trelawny  he's  iu  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawuy  he  may  die ; 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold. 

Will  know  the  reason  why !"' 


'ARE  THEY  NOT  ALL  MINISTERING  SPIRITS  ?" 

We  see  them  not — we  cannot  hear 

The  music  of  their  wing — 
Yet  know  we  that  they  sojourn  near, — 

The  Angels  of  the  Spring ! 

They  glide  along  this  lovely  ground. 
When  the  tirst  violet  grows  ; — • 

Their  graceful  hands  have  just  unbound 
The  zone  of  yonder  rose. 

I  gather  it  for  thy  dear  breast. 

From  stain  and  shadow  free; 
That  which  an  Angel's  touch  hath  blessed 

Is  meet,  my  love,  for  thee ! 


€l)arlcs  Sumin. 


A  native  of  Manchester,  England,  and  carrying  on 
business  there  as  an  engraver,  Swain  (1803-187-4)  wrote 
verses  for  the  Literary  Gazette  and  other  journals.  If  his 
lyrical  fligiits  were  not  high,  they  were  short  and  grace- 
lul.  He  publislicd  "Metrical  Essays"  (1827);  "The 
>[ind,  and  other  Poems"  (1831);  "Dramatic  Chapters, 
Pnems,  and  Songs"  (1.847);  "English  Melodies"  (1841)); 
"  Songs  aud  Ballads"  (1868). 


WHAT  IT   IS  TO   LOVE. 

Love?     I  will  tell  thee  what  it  is  to  love  I  " 
It  is  to  build  with  human  thoughts  a  shrine. 
Where  hope  sits  brooding  like  a  beauteous  dove  ; 
AVhere  time  seems  young — and  life  a  thing  divine. 
All  tastes,  all  pleasures,  all  desii'es  combine 
To  consecrate  this  sanctuary  of  bliss. 
Above,  the  stars  in  shroudless  beanty  shine  ; 
Around,  the  streams  their  flowery  margins  kiss : 
And  if  there's  heaven  on  earth,  that  heaven  is  surely 
this. 

Yes,  this  is  love — the  steadfast  and  the  true; 
The  immortal  glory  which  hath  never  set  ; 
Tlie  best,  the  brightest  boon  the  heart  e'er  knew  ; 
Of  all  life's  sweets  the  very  sweetest  yet ! 
Oh,  who  can  but  recall  the  eve  they  met, 
To  breathe  in  some  green  walk  their  first  young 

vow, 
Wliile  summer  flowers  with  evening  dews  were 

wet. 
And   winds   sighed   soft   around  the   mouutain's 

brow. 
And  all  was  rapture  then,  which  is  but  memory  now  ! 


THE   BEAUTIFUL  DAY. 

Day  on  the  mountain,  the  beautiful  d;iy! 
Aud  the  torrents  leap  forth  in  the  pride  of  his  ray. 
The  chamois  awakes  from  his  Avild  forest  dream, 
And  bounds  iu  the  gladness  and  life  of  his  beam  ; 
And  the  horn  of  the  hunter  is  sounding, — away ! 
Light,  light  on  the  hills,  'tis  the  beautiful  day  ! 

Day  iu  the  valley, — the  rivulet  rolls 
Cloudless  aud  calm  as  the  home  of  our  souls  ; 
The  harvest  is  waving,  and  fountain  and  flower 
Are  sparkling  and  sweet  as  the  radiant  hour; 
And  the  song  of  the  reapers,  the  Inrk's  sunny  lay, 
Proclaim  through  the  valley,  day,  beautiful  day! 

Oh,  solemn  and  sad  his  far  setting  appear.s, 
When  the  last  ray  declines,  and  the  flowers  are  in 

tears ; 
When  the  shadows  of  eveniug  like  death-banners 

wave, 
And  darkness  encloses  the  world  like  a  grave: 
Yet  the  sun,  like  the  soul,  shall  arise  from  decay, 
Aud  again  light  the  world  with  day,  beautiful  day  I 


586 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOKTJiV. 


(6cralb  (Drifrm. 

fiiifTin  (1803-1(>40),  author  of  tlie  iL-inarkable  novel  of 
"The  Collegians,"  was  a  native  of  Linieriek,  Ireland. 
He  cmii^rated  to  London  in  liis  twentieth  year,  beeame 
II  reporter,  and  then  an  author.  In  l!S:J8  he  joined  the 
Christian  Brotherhood,  a  Koinau  Catholic  institution, 
and  two  years  later  died  of  fever.  He  j,'ave  proof  of  rare 
literary  abilities.  "  The  book  that  above  all  others,"  says 
Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  "speaks  to  nie  of  the  trials, 
the  sutTerinj^s,  the  broken  heart  of  a  man  of  genius,  is 
that  Life  of  Gerald  Griffin,  written  by  a  brother  worthy 
of  him,  which  precedes  the  only  edition  of  his  collected 
Morks." 


SONG. 


A  ])lace  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  tliat  I  claim, 
To  pause  aud  look  back  when  thou  liearcst 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  avoo  thee  nearer, 
Another  may  Avin  and  ^vear; 
I  care  not,  though  he  be  dearer, 
If  I  am  remembei'cd  there. 

Could  I  be  tliy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Couldst  thou  sniilo  on  me, 
I  would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee. 
But  a  cloud  o'er  my  path\yay  is  glooming 
Which  never  must  break  upon  thine, 
And  Heaven,  \vliich  made  thee  all  blooming, 
Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Eemember  mo  not  as  a  lover 

Whose  fond  hopes  are  cro8.sed, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

Tlie  light  it  has  lost: — 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 
She  loves,  yet  never  may  see, 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brotiier, 
Oh,  dearest,  remember  me. 


ADARE.' 

Oh,  sweet  Adare!  oh,  lovely  vale! 

Oh,  soft  retreat  of  sylvan  splendor! 
Nor  summer  sun,  nor  morning  gale 

E'er  hailed  a  scene  more  softly  tender. 


'  This  bcnntifiil  and  interesting  localitj'  is  about  eight  miles 
from  Limerick. 


How  shall  I  tell  the  thousand  charms 
Within  thy  verdant  bosom  dwelling. 

Where,  lulled  in  Nature's  fostering  arni.s, 
Soft  peace  abides  and  joy  excelling  ? 

Y(!  morning  airs,  how  sweet  at  dawn 

The  slumbering  boughs  your  song  awaken, 
While  lingering  o'er  the  silent  lawn, 

With  odor  of  the  harebell  taken ! 
Thou  rising  sun,  how  richly  gleams 

TIjy  smile  from  far  Knockfierna's  moiuitain, 
O'er  waving  woods  and  bounding  streams, 

And  many  a  grove  aud  glancing  fountaiu ! 

In  sweet  Adare,  the  jocund  spring 

His  notes  of  odorous  joy  is  breathing ; 
The  wild  birds  in  the  woodland  sing, 

The  wild  flowers  in  the  vale  are  wreathing. 
There  winds  the  Mague,  as  silver  clear. 

Among  the  elms  so  sweetly  flowing. 
There  fragrant  in  the  early  year. 

Wild  roses  on  the  banks  are  blowing. 

The  wild  duck  seeks  the  sedgy  bank, 

Or  dives  beneath  the  glistening  billow, 
Whei"e  graceful  droop  and  cluster  dank 

The  osier  bright  and  rustling  willow. 
The  hawthorn  scents  the  leafy  dale. 

In  thicket  lone  the  stag  is  belling. 
And  sweet  along  the  echoing  vale 

The  souud  of  vernal  joj^  is  swelliug. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF  MALAHIDE. 

The  joy-bells  are  ringing  in  gay  Malahide ; 
The  fresh  wind  is  singing  along  the  sea-side ; 
Tlie  maids  are  assembling  with  garlands  of  flowers, 
And  the  harp-strings  are  trembling  in  all  the  glad 
bowers. 

Swell, swell  the  gay  measure!  roll  trumpet  and  drum! 
'Mid  greetings  of  pleasure  in  splendor  they  come  I 
Tiie  chancel  is  ready,  the  portal  stands  wide. 
For  the  lord  and  the  huly,  the  bridegroom  and  bride. 

Before  the  high  altar  young  Maud  stauds  arrayed; 
With  accents  that  falter  her  promise  is  made : 
From  father  and  mother  forever  to  part, — 
For  him  and  no  other  to  treasure  her  heart. 

The  words  are  repeated,  the  bridal  is  done , 
The  rite  is  completed,  the  two,  they  are  one; 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.— C II AUXCT  HARE   TOWXSIIEXD. 


587 


Tlio  vow,  it  is  spokeu  all  puro  from  the  heart, 
That  must  uot  be  broken  till  life  shall  dciiart. 

Hark !  'mitl  the  gay  clangor  that  compassed  their  car, 
Loud  accents  in  anger  come  mingling  afar ! 
The  foe's  on  the  border!   his  weapons  resound 
Where  the  lines  in  disorder  unguarded  are  found! 

As  -n'akos  the  good  shepherd,  the  watchful  and  l)()ld, 
When  the  ouuce  or  the  leopard  is  seen  near  the  fold. 
So  rises  already  the  chief  in  his  mail, 
While  the  new-married  lady  looks  fainting  aud  pale. 

"  Sou,  husband,  and  brother!   arise  to  the  strife! 
For  sister  and  mother,  for  children  and  wife! 
O'er  hill  and  o'er  hollow,  o'er  mountain  aud  plain. 
Up,  true  men,  aud  follow!   let  dastards  remain  !" 

Farrah  !   to  the  battle! — they  form  into  line; — 
The  shields,  how  they  rattle  !  the  spears,  how  they 

shine ! 
Soon,  soon  shall  the  foeman  his  treachery  rue: — 
On,  burgher  and  veoman !   to  die  or  to  do ! 


The  eve  is  declining  in  lone  Malahide  ; 
The  maidens  are  twining  fresh  wreaths  for  the  bride; 
She  marks  them  unheeding ;   her  heart  is  afar, 
Where  the  clansmen  are  bleeding  for  her  in  the  war. 

Hark !   loud  from  the  mountain — 'tis  victory's  crj' ! 
O'er  woodland  and  fountain  it  rings  to  the  sky ! 
The  foe  has  retreated!  he  flees  to  the  shore; 
The  sjioiler's  defeated — the  combat  is  o'er! 

With  foreheads  unruffled  the  conquerors  come; — 
But  why  have  they  muffled  the  lance  and  the  drum  ? 
What  form  do  they  carry  aloft  on  his  shield  ? 
And  where  does  lie  tarry,  the  lord  of  the  held  ? 

Ye  saw  him  at  morning — how  gallant  and  gay ! 
In  bridal  adorning,  the  star  of  the  day  : 
Now  weep  for  the  lover — his  triumph  is  sped ; 
His  hope,  it  is  over — the  chieftain  is  dead  ! 

But,  oh  !  for  the  maiden  who  mourns  for  that  chief, 
With  heart  overladen  and  broken  with  grief! 
She  sinks  on  the  meadow — in  one  morning  tide 
A  wife  and  a  widow,  a  maid  and  a  bride ! 

Ye  maidens  attending,  forbear  to  condole! 
Your  comfort  is  rending  the  depths  of  her  soul. 
True — true,  'twas  a  story  for  ages  of  pride, — 
He  died  in  his  glory — but,  oh !   he  has  died ! 


(Eljauncrj  C)arc  (toumsljcuLi. 

A  graduate  of  Cambridge  Universitj',  Eiigliuid,  Towns- 
liend  (1808-1800)  wrote  verses  early  hi  life.  He  studied 
for  the  Chureli,and  his  convictions  took  the  form  of  Uni- 
versalism.  In  1839 he  published  "Facts  in  Mesmerism," 
one  of  the  best  and  most  philosophical  works  on  the 
subject.  In  bis  Preface  he  says:  "I  have  scarcely  con- 
versed with  one  person  of  education  in  Germany  who 
was  not  able  to  detail  to  me  some  interesting  fact  relat- 
ing to  mesmerism  which  had  been  personally  witnessed 
and  authenticated."  In  18.51  appeared  his  "Sermons  in 
Sonnets,  and  other  Poems."  He  made  Charles  Dickens 
his  literary  executor. 


"JUDGE  NOT."— Matt.  vii.  1. 

From  "  Sermons  in  Sonnets." 

Judge  not,  because  thou  canst  not  judge  aright. 
Not  much  thou  kuow'st  thyself;    yet  better  far 
Than  thou  kuow'st  others ! — Language  is  at  war 
With  purposes ;   appearances  must  fight 
'Gainst  real  inward  feelings.     All  is  slight 
To  give  a  i^icture  of  the  things  that  are. 
Feel'st  thou  uot  friends  who  blame  thee  ever  jar 
With  truth,  nor  on  thy  soul's  true  ulcer  bite  ? 
Feel'st  thou  not  utterly  that  nothing  can 
Convey  thy  being  to  another's  breast  ? 
Then  how  shalt  thou  explore  thy  fellow-man  ? 
Rather  let  Christ's  great  wisdom  be  confessed, 
Who   taxed   rash  judgment  as  this   world's  worst 

leaven, 
Aud  the  worst  temper  for  the  courts  of  heaven. 


"  WHAT  GOD   HATH   CLEANSED,  THAT  CALL 
NOT  THOU  COMMON."— Acts  x.  15. 

From  "  Sermons  in  Sonnets." 

Behold  men's  judgments!     Common  and  unclean 
We  call  whatever  with  our  pride  doth  jar, 
Though  from  one  God  and  Father  all  things  are. 
Behold  men's  judgments!     The  deep  truth  unseen. 
Rash  we  decide  what  mere  externals  mean. 
Kuow'st  thou,  while  thy  proud  eye  is  closed  afar. 
In  what  mean  worm  God  may  illume  a  star? 
Kuow'st  thou  where  his  great  Spirit  dwells  serene? 
Thou  dost  not.    What  thy  pride  may  worthless  deem. 
Ay,  tainted  with  pollution,  may  become, 
Raised  from  the  dust,  the  fairest,  loveliest  home, 
Where  radiant  Deity  can  shrine  its  beam  ; 
May  be  redeemed  from  Nature's  common  blot, 
Ay,  though  jierhaps  thy  verj'  self  be  not ! 


588 


cicLUPJCDiA  OF  nnrnan  jxd  amkuicax  roETiiy. 


"HIS   BANNER    OVER   ME   WAS    LOVE." 
Cant.  ii.  4. 

From  "  Seiimoss  in  Sonnets." 

lie  wlio  loves  best  knows  most.    Then  why  slioiild  I 
Let  my  tired  tlioiiylits  so  iar,  so  restless,  run, 
In  quest  of  knowledge  nnderuenth  tlie  sun. 
Or  round  about  the  wide-encireling  sky? 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  read  by  serutiny  ! 
But  touch  mo  ^vith  a  Saviour's  love  divine, 
I  pierce  at  once  to  wisdom's  inner  shrine, 
And  my  soul  seeth  all  tilings  like  an  eye. 
Tlien  have  I  treasures,  •wiiich  to  fence  and  heed 
Makes  Aveakness  bold,  and  folly  Avisdom-strnng, 
As  doves  are  valorous  to  guard  their  young, 
Aud  larks  are  wary  IVoni  their  nests  to  lead. 
Is  there  a  riddle,  and  resolved  you  need  it? 
Love — only  love — and  you  are  sure  to  read  it ! 


••  IX  MY  FATHER'S   HOUSE  ARE  MANY  MAN- 
SIONS."—St.  John  xiv.  2. 

Feom  "  Sehmons  in  Sonnets." 

Ye  orbs  that  tremble  through  infinity. 

And  are  ye,  then,  linked  only  with  our  eyes, 

Dissevered    from    our    thoughts,    our    smiles,    our 

sighs,— 
Our  hopes  aud  dreams  of  being  yet  to  be  ? 
Oh,  if  all  nature  be  a  harmony 
(As  sure  it  is),  why  iu  those  solemn  skies 
Should  ye  our  vision  mock,  like  glittering  lies 
To  man  all  unrelated  ?     Must  I  see 
Your  glories  only  as  a  tinselled  waste  ? 
If  80,  I  half  despise  your  spectacle ! 
But  if  I  deem  that  ye  form  eras  vast, 
And  do,  by  mighty  revolutions,  tell 
Time  to  intelligent  existences, 
Awe-struck,  I  do  assist  at  your  solemnities! 


AN   EVENING   THOUGHT. 

Reflected  in  the  lake,  I  lovo 

To  mark  the  star  of  evening  glow ; 

So  tranquil  in  the  heaven  above. 
So  restless  on  the  wave  below ! 

Thus  heavenly  hope  is  all  serene; 

But  earthly  hope — how  bright  soe'er — 
Still  fluctuates  o'er  this  changing  scene. 

As  false  and  fleeting  as  'tis  fair! 


ON   POETRY. 

With  tiiino  compared,  O  sovereign  Poesy, 
Thy  sister  Arts'  divided  jiowers  how  faint  I 

For  each  combines  her  attriliutes  iu  thee. 

Whose  voice  is  music,  and  whose  words  can  paint. 


MAY. 


From  "The  Months." 

Oh,  dailing  of  the  year, — delicious  May! 
If  poet-love  have  painted  thee  too  bright, 
'Tis  that  men  gaze  on  thee  with  dazzled  sight. 
Brimful  of  ecstasy  !     Thy  true  array 
Lies  beyond  language!     Wiio  would  wish  away 
The  few  soft  tears  that  in  thine  eyes  of  light 
Treudjle ;   or  waving  shades  indefinite 
Which  o'er  thj'  green  and  lustrous  mantle  play  ? 
Who,  that  e'er  wandered  in  thy  hawthorn  glades, 
Or  stood  beneath  thy  orchard's  bloomy  shades, 
But  felt  how  blessed  the  bosom  which  thou  greetest  ?_ 
For  thou  art  Spring  imleed  !  to  thee  belong 
The  earliest  rose,  the  nightingale's  first  song. 
All  first-fruits  of  sweet  tilings  ; — and  first  are  sweet- 
est. 


CONCLUDING   SONNET. 

Man — the  external  world — the  changeful  year — 

Together  make  a  perfect  harmony. 

To  all  the  soul's  great  wards  a  mighty  kej' 

The  Seasons  are,  and  apt  in  their  cancer 

To  stir  and  iiiodnlate  our  Hope  and  Fear, 

And  ever  lift  our  dim  humanity 

Nearer  to  Heaven  !     At  seed-time  anxiously 

Dull  lips  are  moved  in  prayer,  and  harvest  cheer 

Breeds  even  in  cliurls  thanksgiving!     Winter  bare 

Tiiat  shuts  tiie  earth,  doth  open  wide  the  hand 

And  heart  of  man!     The  tempests  of  the  air 

Have  spiritual  missions,  over  sea  and  land 

Moulding  events!     Beneath  the  meanest  clod 

Stirs  Will  and  Wisdom: — everywhere  is  God! 


Uufufi  Paiucs. 

AMERICAN. 

Dawes  (1803-1856)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  one  of  a 
fiimily  of  sixteen.  His  father,  Thomas  Dawes,  was  a 
jiulge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massacliusctts,  and  au- 
tlior  of  a  poem  entitled  "The  Law  given  on  Mount  Si- 
nai."    Rufus  eutcred  Harvard  College  in  1820,  but  left  in 


RUFUS  DAWES.— JAMES  CLARENCE  MAXGAX. 


5«9 


consequence  of  some  boyisli  irreg-iiluriti-.  He  studied 
law,  but  never  practised  liis  profession.  In  1830  lie 
published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  subsequentlj'  "Nix's 
Mate,"  a  novel.  He  was  connected  for  some  years  with 
the  newspaper  press  in  New  York.  He  married  a  sister 
of  C.  P.  Cranch,  the  poet-artist. 


TO   GENEVIEVE. 

I'll  rob  the  hyacinth  and  rose. 

I'll  search  the  cowslip's  fragrant  cell, 
Nor  spare  the  breath  that  daily  blows 

Her  incense  from  the  asphodel. 

And  these  shall  breathe  thy  gentle  uanie,- 
Sweet  Naiad  of  the  sacred  stream, 

Where,  musing,  first  I  caught  the  flame 
That  Passion  kindles  in  his  dream. 

Thy  soul  of  Music  broke  the  spell 

That  bound  my  lyre's  neglected  strings  ; 

Attuned  its  silent  echo's  shell, 
And  loosed  again  his  airy  wings. 

Ah  I   long  had  beauty's  eyes  in  vain 
Diflfused  their  radiant  light  divine  ; 

Alas!   it  never  woke  a  strain. 

Till  inspiration  breathed  from  thine. 

Thus  vainly  did  the  stars  at  uighfc 

O'er  Memnon's  lyre  their  watch  prolong, 

When  naught  but  bright  Aurora's  light 
Could  -wake  its  silence  into  son"-. 


LOVE  UNCHANGEABLE. 

Yes,  still  I  love  thee !     Time,who  sets 

His  signet  on  my  brow, 
And  dims  my  sunken  eye,  forgets 

The  heart  he  could  not  bow ; — 
Where  love  that  cannot  perish  grows 
For  one,  alas!   that  little  knows 

How  love  may  sometimes  last ; 
Like  sunshine  wasting  in  the  skies 

When  cloiuls  are  overcast. 

The  dew-drop  hanging  o'er  the  rose 

Within  its  robe  of  light, 
Can  never  touch  a  leaf  that  blows 

Though  seeming  to  the  sight ; 
And  yet  it  still  will  linger  there 
Like  hopeless  love  without  despair, 


A  snow-drop  in  the  sun! 
A  monicht  finely  exquisite, 
Alas!    but  only  one. 

I  would  not  have  thy  married  heart 

Think  momently  of  mo  ; 
Nor  would  I  tear  the  chords  apart 

That  bind  me  so  to  thee. 
No!  while  my  thoughts  seem  pure  and  mild, 
As  dew  upon  the  roses  wild, 

I  would  not  have  thee  know 
The  stream  that  seems  to  thee  so  still 

Has  such  a  tide  below  ! 

Enough,  that  in  delicious  dreams 

I  see  thee  and  forget : 
Enough,  that  when  the  morning  beams 

I  feel  my  eyelids  wet! 
Yet  could  I  hope,  when  Time  shall  fall 
The  darkness  for  creation's  pall. 

To  meet  thee  and  to  love, — 
I  would  not  shrink  from  aught  below. 

Nor  ask  for  more  above  ! 


i?amcs  Cliarciuc  illangan. 

:srangan  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1803,  and  died  there  in 
1849.  He  had  to  struggle  with  poverty,  and  at  fifteen  got 
a  situation  in  a  scrivener's  office,  wlicre  he  remained  sev- 
en years,  and  then  became  a  solicitor's  clerk  for  three 
years.  His  situation  was  distasteful,  and  he  says:  "In 
seeking  to  escape  from  this  misery,  I  had  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  that  evil  habit  which  has  proved  to  be  my 
ruin."  He  became  an  opium-cater.  In  spite  of  his  wild 
habits,  he  attained  great  proficiency  in  a  knowledge  of 
languages.  He  died  in  a  state  of  destitution  in  a  public 
hospital.  His  translations  from  the  German  were  pub- 
lished in  1845,  under  the  title  of  "  Antholoiria  Germani- 
ca."  An  edition  of  his  poems,  with  a  biograpiiical  intro- 
duction by  Johu  Mitehel.was  published  in  1870,  in  New 
York. 


THE   MARINER'S   BRIDE. 

Look,  mother !   the  mariner's  rowing 

His  galley  adown  the  tide  ; 
I'll  go  where  the  nniriner's  going, 

And  be  the  mariner's  bride! 

I  saw  him  one  day  through  the  wicket, 
I  opened  the  gate,  and  we  met — 
As  a  bird  in  the  fowler's  net. 

Was  I  caught  iu  my  own  green  thicket. 

Oh,  mother,  my  tears  are  flowing, 
I've  lost  my  maidenly  pride — 


590 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  JililTISU  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I'll  go,  if  the  inariner'H  Koii)<», 
And  be  till!  iiiaiiiiei's  Inide! 

Tlii.s  Love,  tlie  tyrant  evinces, 
Alas!  an  (ininiiiotent  luij^lit, 
lie  darkens  tlie  mind  Hive  Niglit ; 

He  treads  on  tlie  necks  of  Princes! 

Oil,  mother,  my  bosom  is  glowing, 
I'll  go,  ■whatever  betide, 

I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 
I'll  be  the  mariners  bride ! 

Yes,  mother!   the  spoiler  has  reft  me 

Of  reasou  and  self-control ; 

Gone,  gone  is  my  wretched  sonl. 
And  only  my  body  is  left  me  ! 
The  Avinds,  <ili,  mother,  are  blowing. 

The  ocean  is  bright  and  wide  ; 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 

And  be  the  mariner's  bride! 


THE  NAMELESS  ONE. 

The  followiiii;  remarkable  lines  are  evidently  antobinrrrnp''!- 
cal  ill  ihfir  lefL-rcnces.  "  Of  Mangan,"  writes  John  Mitchel,  "  it 
may  be  said  that  he  lived  solely  in  his  poetry— all  the  rest  was 
but  a  ghastly  death-iii-lil'e." 

Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  sonl  of  tliee  ! 

Tell  tlioii  tlie  world,  when  my  bones  lie  whitening 

Atiiid  the  last  liomes  of  youth  and  eld, 
Tliat  there  was  once  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 
No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  liow  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-honr, 

How  shone  for  him,  through  his  griefs  and  gloom, 
No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give. 
He  would  have  taught  men,  from  wisdom's  pages, 
The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how,  trampled,  derided,  hated. 

And  worn  by  weakness,  <lisease,  and  wrong, 
He  lied  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song — 


With  song  which  ahvay,  sublime  or  vapid. 
Flowed  like  a  rill  in  the  morning-beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid — 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  this  Nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneatli. 
Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and  tears, 
long 

For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love. 
With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hopes  blasted, 
He  still,  still  strove. 

Till,  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others. 
And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for 
him, 
(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 
His  mind  grew  dim. 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginu  and  Burns, 
And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns  ; — 

But  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness. 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  tinal  wrath, 
Wheu  death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 
Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow. 

And  want  and  sickness,  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow, 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still,  then  ?     Yes!   old  and  hoary 

At  thirty-nine,  frimi  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave 'to,  ye  pitying  uoble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms!     There  let  him  dwell! 
He,  too,  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble, 
Here  and  in  hell. 


FROM  "  SOUL  AND  COUNTRY." 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  naught; 

To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love — 


G.  H.  CALVERT.— T.  L.  BEDDOES.—U.  W.  EMEIISOX. 


591 


A  name  to  vrakeu  liji;htiiing  tlioiight, 
And  fire  tbe  soul  of  liiiu  who  reads, 
This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 

The  luigilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 
Of  Washington  ; 
Truth's  name  alone  shall  man  adore, 
Long  as  the  ^vaves  of  time  shall  roll 
Henceforward  on ! 


(!?corcjc  i)n\x\)  CalDcvt. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Prince  George's  County,  Md.,  Calvert,  born 
1803,  was  a  great-grandson  of  Lord  Baltimore,  and  also 
a  descendant  on  the  mother's  side  from  the  painter  Ru- 
bens. He  was  educated  partly  at  Harvard,  and  parth'  at 
Gottingen,  where  he  acquired  his  taste  for  German  liter- 
ature. He  edited  at  one  time  the  Baltimore  American, 
but  in  181:3  removed  to  Newport,  R.  I.  He  has  published 
'•  Count  Julian,  a  Tragedy,"  "  Ellen,  a  Poem,"  and  is  the 
author  of  numerous  prose  works,  criticisms,  essays,  and 
translations,  showing  extensive  literary  and  philosophi- 
cal culture. 


ON    THE    FIFTY-FIFTH    SONNET    OF    SHAK- 
SPEARE.^ 

The  soul  leaps  up  to  hear  this  mighty  sound 

Of  Shakspeare  triumphing.     With  glistening  eye 

Forward  he  sent  his  spirit  to  espy 

Time's  gratitude,  and  catch  the  far  rebound 

Of  fame  from  worlds  unpeopled  yet;  and,  crowned 

With  brightening  light  through  all  futurity, 

His  image  to  behold  up-reaching  high, 

'Mong  the  world's  benefactors  most  renowned. 

Like  to  the  ecstasy,  by  man  unnamed, 

The  spheral  music  doth  to  gods  impart, 

Was  the  deep  joy  that  thou  hast  here  proclaimed 

Thy  song's  eternal  echo  gave  thj'  heart. 

Oh,  the  world  thanks  thee  that  thou'st  let  ns  see 

Thou  knew'st  how  great  thou  wast,  how  jirized  to  be ! 


(Ll)omas  £orcll  Bc^bocs. 

Beddoes  (1803-1849),  son  of  an  eminent  physician,  and 
nephew  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  was  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  in  his  nineteenth  year  published  "  The  Bride's  Trag- 
edy," of  which  Black woocVx  Magazine  says  :  "  With  all  its 
extravagances,  and  even  sillinesses  and  follies,  it  sliows 
far  more  than  glimpses  of  a  true  poetical  genius."  Bed- 
does  devoted  himself  to  scientific  study  and  foreign  trav- 

»  See  page  30. 


el.  A  collection  of  his  poems,  with  a  memoir,  appeared 
in  1851.  He  died  in  liis  forty-seventh  year,  at  Frankfort, 
from  an  accidental  prick  on  his  finger,  got  while  dissect- 


TO  SEA! 

To  sea!   to  sea!   the  calm  is  o'er. 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  si)ort, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  : 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  mermaids'  i>early  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar: 
To  sea !  to  sea !     The  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea!   to  sea!   our  white-winged  bark 
Shall  billowing  cleave  its  watery  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  caved  Triton's  azure  day. 

Like  mountain  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height ! 

The  anchor  heaves!     The  ship  swings  free! 

Our  sails  swell  full!     To  sea!   to  sea! 


Ualplj   llUallto  (I:m£rson. 

AMERICAN. 

More  generally  known  as  a  free  and  subtle  thinker  and 
an  essayist,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Montaigne, 
than  as  a  writer  of  verse,  Emerson  has  shown  that  the 
poetical  gift  is  his  in  abounding  measure.  He  is  a  true 
artist  in  words,  at  the  same  time  that  lie  disdains  all  the 
arts  that  would  make  style  compensate  for  the  absence 
of  earnest,  profound  thouglit,  presented  with  no  particle 
of  tinsel  or  of  superfluous  drapery.  He  impresses  us 
with  his  absolute  sincerity  in  aiming  less  at  perfect  con- 
sistency' than  at  fidelity  to  his  own  mood ;  his  own  up- 
permost convictions.  His  forte  is  rather  introspective 
than  dramatic.  In  a  letter  to  Henry  Ware  (1838)  he 
wrote :  "  I  could  not  possibly  give  you  one  of  the  '  argu- 
ments'  on  which  any  doctrine  of  mine  stands;  for  I  do 
not  know  what  argumeuts  mean  in  reference  to  any  ex- 
pression of  a  thought.  I  deliglit  in  telling  what  I  think  ; 
but  if  you  ask  me  how  I  dare  say  so,  or  why  it  is  so,  I 
am  the  most  helpless  of  mortals." 

Born  in  Boston  in  1803,  the  son  of  an  excellent  clergy- 
man, Emerson  graduated  at  Harvard,  became  a  minister 
of  a  Unitarian  church,  withdrew  from  it  in  1832,  and, 
after  passing  a  year  or  two  in  Europe,  devoted  himself 
thenceforward  almost  exclusively  to  literature  and  lect- 
uring, residing  most  of  the  time  at  Concord,  Mass.  It  is 
difficult  to  deduce  from  his  writings  his  exact  opinions 
as  to  the  destiny  of  man  after  this  life  ;  but  according  to 
the  declaration  of  his  friend  and  townsman,  A.  B.  Alcott, 
his  views  as  late  as  1879  inclined  to  theism  and  belief  in 
a  conscious  Orderer  of  the  Universe.  His  career  has 
been  that  of  a  pure-hearted,  independent  thinker,  wed- 


592 


CYviJ)i'-i:niA  OF  r.iuTiisii  amj  American  poetry. 


dcd  to  no  system,  modifying  his  opinions  as  new  liglit 
streamed  in,  but  carrying  into  practical  life  the  high  and 
noble  lessons  given  in  his  speculative  nlteranees.  ]Iis 
fame  is  unsurpassed  in  Anu'rii;in  literature,  and  is  likely 
to  go  on  increasing. 

THE   SNOW-STOKM. 

Announccil  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  tlie  snow,  and,  driving  uVr  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  aliglit ;    tlio  wliited  air 
Hides  liills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  fariu-lionso  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  tlie  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  sec  tlie  north  wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnislied  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  iiroportion.     ^Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  ho  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  : 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  t<>  wall, 
Mangre  the  farmer's  sighs;   and,  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  suu  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  T)y  stone. 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work. 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


GOOD-BYE,  PROUD   WORLD! 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !     Pm  going  home  ; 

Thou  art  not  my  friend  ;   I  am  not  thine 
Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam:  — 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Too  long  I  am  tossed  like  the  driven  fnam 
But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Good-byo  to  Flattery's  fawning  face  ; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace  : 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye  ; 
To  supple  office,  low  and  high  ; 
To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 
To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet, 


To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come. 
Good-bye,  proud  wnild,  I'm  going  home. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned. 
Where  arches  green  the  livelong  day 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  <'\  il  men  have  never  trod 
A  spot  tliat  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

Oh,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
1  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and   Uonie  ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines 
Where  the  evening-star  so  holy^  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 
At  the  so^diist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan  ; 
For  what  ai'e  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 


SURSUM  CORDA. 

Seek  not  the  spirit  if  it  hide 

Inexorable  to  thy  zeal  : 

Baby,  do  not  whiiu;  and  chide  : 

Art  thou  not  also  real  ? 

AVliy  shouldst  thou  stoop  to  poor  excuse  ? 

Turn  on  the  accu.ser  roundly  ;   say, 

'•Here  am  I,  here  will  I  remain 

Forever  to  myself  soothfast ; 

Go  thou,  sweet  Heaven,  or  at  thy  pleasure  stay! 

Already  Heaven  with  thee  its  lot  has  cast. 

For  only  it  can  absolutely  deal." 


TO  THE   HUMBLEBEE. 

Fine  humblebee  I   fine  humblebce  ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me  : 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Riipie, 
Far-oil"  heats  through  .seas  to  seek,- 
1   will  follow  thee  alone, 
Tlioii  animated  torrid  zone! 
Zigzag  stcerer,  desert  cheerer. 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines, 
Keep  mo  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  ovei   ■    .iibs  and  vines. 

Flower-bells, 
Honeyed  cells, — 
These  the  tents 
Wiiich  he  freciuents. 


nALPTI  WALDO  EMEESOX. 


593 


Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  domiiiiou  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June, 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
"Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,-- 
AU  -without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind  in  May  days, 

Witli  a  net  of  shining  haze^ 

Silvers  tlie  horizon  v.all, 

Aud  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Eover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone. 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone, 
Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers, 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  -without  bound 
lu  Indian  wildernesses  found. 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  uncleau 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen, 
But  violets  aud  bilberry-bells. 
Maple  sai>,  aud  daflbdils. 
Clover,  catchtly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses  dwelt  among. 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair. 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet. 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 

Leave  the  chaif  a'^      jike  the  wheat. 
When  the  tierce  nortn-westeru  I'ast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  last, — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep. 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  out-sleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 
38 


THE   SOUL'S   PROPHECY. 

All  before  us  lies  the  way  ; 

Give  the  past  uuto  the  Aviud; 
All  before  us  is  the  day, 

Night  and  darkness  are  behind. 

Eden  with  its  angels  bold, 

Love  and  ilowers  and  coolest  sea, 
Is  less  an  ancient  story  told 

Than  a  glowing  prophecy. 

In  the  spirit's  perfect  air, 
»    In  the  jiassious  tame  aud  kind. 
Innocence  from  selfish  care. 
The  real  Eden  Ave  shall  find. 

When  the  soul  to  sin  hath  died, 
True  aud  beautiful  aud  sound. 

Then  all  earth  is  sanctified. 
Up  springs  paradise  around. 

From  the  si^irit-land  afar 

All  disturbing  force  shall  flee ; 

Stir,  nor  toil,  nor  hope  shall  mar 
Its  immortal  unity. 


THE  APOLOGY. 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude. 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen  ; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook  j 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band. 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers  ; 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield. 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


j94 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


HYMN  SUNG  AT  THE  COMPLETION  OF  THE 
CONCORD  MONUMENT,  APRIL  19,  183(5. 

By  the  riule  bridge  that  arched  the  flood. 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embatth'd  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  hoard  round  the  worhl. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone. 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem. 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


illarii  ijotoltt. 


Mary  Howitt,  whose  maiden  name  was  Bolliam,  was 
of  Quaker  descent,  and  born  in  Uttoxcter,  Euiiland,  in 
1804.  In  182.3  slie  was  married  to  William  Ilowitt,  and 
the  same  year  they  published  in  conjunction  "Tlie  For- 
est Minstrel,"  a  series  of  poems.  But  William,  though 
the  author  of  some  clever  verses,  is  known  chiefly  for  his 
prose  writings.  Mar3'  has  shown  genuine  poetical  feel- 
ing and  ability,  especially  in  her  verses  for  childi'cn.  Her 
observation  of  nature  is  accurate  and  intense  ;  and  a  true 
enthusiasm  gives  vitality  to  her  descriptions.  Her  bal- 
lads arc  among  the  best.  That  of  "New-year's-eve"  is 
founded  on  a  prose  story  by  the  Danish  author,  Hans 
Christian  Andersen. 


NEW-YEAR'S-EVE. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 

Wanders  up  and  down  the  street, 
Tlie  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair, 

The  frost  is  at  her  feet. 
The  rows  of  long  dark  liouscs 

Without  look  cold  and  damp, 
By  the  strnggling  of  the  moonbeam, 

By  the  flicker  of  the  lamp. 
The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses, 

The  wind  is  from  the  north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen, 

And  uo  one  looketh  forth. 


Within  those  dark,  damp  houses 

Are  merry  faces  bright, 
And  liappy  hearts  are  watching  out 

The  old  year's  latest  night. 
The  board  is  spread  with  plenty. 

Where  the  smiling  kindred  meet, 
But  the  frost  is  on  the  pavement. 

And  the  beggars  in  the  street. 

With  the  little  box  of  matches 

Slie  could  not  sell  all  day. 
And  the  thin,  thin  tattered  mantle, 

The  wind  blows  every  way. 
She  clingeth  to  the  railing. 

She  shivers  in  the  gloom  : 
There  are  parents  sitting  snugly 

By  fire-light  iu  the  room, — 
And  groups  of  busy  children — 

Withdrawing  just  the  tips 
Of  rosy  fingers  pressed  in  vain 

Against  their  burning  lips, — • 
With  grave  and  earnest  faces, 

Are  whispering  each  other. 
Of  presents  for  the  new  year,  made 

For  father  or  for  mother. 

But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen, 

And  no  one  hears  her  speak ; 
No  breath  of  little  whisperers 

Comes  warmly  to  her  check ; 
No  little  arms  are  round  her, 

Ah  me !   that  there  should  be 
With  so  much  happiness  on  earth, 

So  much  of  misery  ! 
Sure  they  of  many  blessings, 

Should  scatter  blessings  round, 
As  laden  boughs  iu  Autumn  fling 

Their  ripe  fruits  to  the  ground. 
And  the  best  love  man  can  oft'er 

To  the  God  of  love,  be  sure. 
Is  kindness  to  his  little  ones. 

And  bounty  to  his  poor. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 

Goes  coldly  on  her  way  ; 
There's  no  one  looketh  out  at  her. 

There's  no  one  bids  her  stay. 
Her  homo  is  cold  and  desolate. 

No  smile,  uo  food,  uo  fire. 
But  children  clamorous  for  bread, 

And  an  impatient  sire. 
So  .she  sits  down  in  an  angle. 

Where  two  great  hou.ses  meet. 


MJBT  HO  WITT. 


595 


And  sbe  curleth  up  beneatli  Llt, 
For  warmtli,  ber  little  feet. 

Ami  she  looketli  on  the  cold  wall, 
And  on  the  colder  sky, 

And  wonders  if  the  little  stars 
Are  bright  fires  np  on  high. 

Sbe  beard  a  clock  strike  slowly. 

Up  in  a  far  chnrch  tower, 
With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone, 

Telling  the  midnight  hour. 
Then  all  the  bells  together 

Their  merry  ninsic  poured  ; 
Tliey  were  ringing  in  the  feast. 

The  circumcision  of  the  Lord. 
And  she  thought  as  she  sat  lonely, 

And  listened  to  the  chime. 
Of  wondrous  things  that  she  had  loved 

To  hear  in  the  olden  time. 
And  she  remembered  ber  of  tales 

Her  mother  used  to  tell. 
And  of  the  cradle  songs  she  sang 

When  summers  twilight  fell, — 
Of  good  men  and  of  angels, 

Aud  of  the  Holy  Child, 
Who  was  cradled  in  a  manger, 

When  winter  was  most  wild, — 
Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry 

And  desolate  and  lone  ; — 
Aud  she  thought  the  song  had  told 

He  was  ever  with  his  own, 
Aud  all  the  poor  aud  hungry, 

Aud  forsaken  ones  are  his: 
"How  good  of  him  to  look  on  me, 

In  such  a  place  as  this!"' 

Colder  it  grows  aud  colder, 

But  she  does  not  feel  it  now, 
For  the  pressure  at  ber  heart, 

And  the  weight  upou  her  brow. 
But  she  struck  one  little  match 

On  the  wall  so  cold  and  bare, 
That  sbe  might  look  around  ber, 

And  see  if  He  were  there. 
The  single  match  has  kindled; 

And  by  the  light  it  threw, 
It  seemed  to  little  Gretcben, 

The  wall  was  rent  in  two. 
And  she  could  see  the  room  within. 

The  room  all  warm  aud  bright. 
With  the  fire-glow  red  and  dusky, 

And  the  tapers  all  alight. 


And  there  were  kindred  gathered. 

Round  the  table  richly  spread, 
With  heaps  of  goodly  viands, 

Red  wine,  and  pleasant  bread. 
She  could  smell  the  fragrant  savor, 

She  could  bear  what  they  did  say, 
Then  all  was  darkuess  once  again, 

The  match  had  burned  away. 
She  struck  another  hastily. 

And  now  she  seemed  to  see, 
Within  the  same  warm  chamber, 

A  glorious  Christmas-tree : 
The  branches  were  all  laden 

With  such  things  as  children  prize, 
Blight  gift  for  boy  aud  maideu, 

Sbe  saw  them  with  ber  eyes. 
Aud  she  almost  seemed  to  touch  them, 

And  to  join  the  welcome  shout ; 
When  darkness  fell  around  ber. 

For  the  little  match  was  out. 

Another,  yet  auother,  she 

Has  tried, — they  will  uot  light, — 
Till  all  ber  little  store  she  took. 

And  struck  with  all  her  might ; 
Aud  the  whole  miserable  place 

Was  lighted  with  the  glare. 
And  lo,  there  hung  a  little  child 

Before  her  in  the  air! 
There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead, 

Aud  a  spear-wound  in  his  side. 
And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet, 

Aud  in  bis  liauds  spread  wide : — 
And  he  looked  upou  ber  gently, 

Aud  she  felt  that  he  bad  known 
Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow, 

Ay,  equal  to  ber  own. 
Aud  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board. 

And  to  the  Christmas-tree, 
Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said, 

'•  Will  Gretcben  come  with  me  ?" 
The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail, 

She  felt  ber  eyeballs  swim, 
Aud  a  riuging  sound  was  in  her  ears. 

Like  her  dead  mother's  hymn. 
Aud  she  folded  both  her  thin  white  bauds, 

Aud  turned  from  that  bright  board, 
And  from  the  golden  gifts,  aiul  said, 

"  With  thee,  with  thee,  O  Lord  I" 

The  chilly  winter  morning 
Breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies, 


596 


CTCLOPJSDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


On  the  city  wrapped  in  vapor, 

On  the  spot  ■\vhero  Gretchcn  lies. 
The  iiii;lil   \vas  ■wild  and  stormy, 

The  morn  is  cold  and  gray. 
And  good  cluirch  bells  are  ringing 

Christ's  circumcision  day  ; 
And  holy  men  arc  praying 

In  many  a  holy  place ; 
And  little  children's  angels 

Slug  sougs  before  his  face. 

In  her  scant  and  tattered  garment, 

With  her  back  against  the  wall, 
She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid. 

She  answers  not  their  call. 
Tliey  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully, 

They  shuddered  as  they  said, 
'•  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night; 

The  child  is  frozen  dead." 
The  angels  sang  their  greeting. 

For  one  more  redeemed  from  sin  ; 
Men  said,  "  It  Avas  a  bitter  night, — 

Would  no  one  let  her  in?" 
And  they  shuddered  as  they  spoke  of  her, 

And  sighed ;   they  could  not  see 
How-  much  of  happiness  there  was, 

Witli  so  much  misery ! 


THE  FAIRIES   OF  CALDON-LOW. 

"  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  w  hero  have  you  been  from  me  ?" 

"I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  see." 

"And  Avhat  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low  f ' 
"  I  saw  the  glad  snnsliine  come  down. 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"  And  wliat  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-TIill  ?" 
"  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  forn), 

And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  till." 

"Oh,  tfll  me  all,  my  Mary, 
All,  all  that  ever  yon  know  ; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 
Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low." 

"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 
And  listen  mother  of  mine  : 


A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 
And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

"And  th(,'  harp-strings  rang  right  merrily, 

To  their  dancing  feet  so  small; 
But  oh,  the  .sound  of  their  talking 

Was  merrier  far  than  all !" 

"And  what  were  tlic  words,  my  Mary, 

That  you  heard  the  fairies  say  f" 
'•  I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother, 

But  let  me  have  my  way. 

"And  some  they  played  with  the  water. 

And  rolled  it  down  the  hill : 
'And  this,'  they  said,  'shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

'"For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  lirst  of  May, 
And  a  bu.sy  man  shall  the  miller  bo 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

"'O,  tlio  miliar,  how  ho  will  laugh 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  ! 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh. 

Till  the  tears  till  both  of  his  eyes !' 

"And  some,  they  seized  the  little  winds 

That  sounded  over  the  hill, 
And  each  put  a  horn  nnto  his  mouth 

And  blew  it  sharp  and  shrill : 

"'And  there,'  tliej'  said, '  the  merry  winds  go, 

Awaj'  from  every  horn, 
And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn. 

"'O,  the  po(n-  blind  old  widow! 

Though  she  has  been  poor  so  long. 
She'll  be  blithe  enough  when  the  mihlew's  gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong !' 

"And  some  thej'  brought  the  brown  linseed. 
And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low : 

'And  this,'  said  they,  *  by  the  sunrise, 
In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow. 

"  '  O,  the  poor  lame  weaver  ! 

How  he  will  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night !' 


MART  HO  WITT. 


597 


"And  then  up  spoke  a,  brownie, 
With  11  loug  Iteard  on  Lis  cliin  : 

'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 
'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

"  '  I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I  want  to  spin  another — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bod, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother.' 

"And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  ont  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldou-Low 
There  AA'as  no  one  left  but  me. 

"Aud  all  ou  the  top  of  the  Caldou-Low 

The  mists  were  cold  aud  gray, 
And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 

That  round  about  me  lay. 

"  But  comiug  down  from  the  hill-toi), 

I  heard  afar  below 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

Aud  how  the  wheel  did  go. 

"  Aud  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  held, 

And  sure  enough  were  seen 
Tbe  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 

All  standing  stout  aud  green. 

"Aud  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  spruug ; 
And  I  met  the  weaver  at  his  gate 

With  the  good  news  on  his  tougue. 

"  Now  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother. 

And  all  that  I  did  see; 
So,  prithee  make  my  bed,  mother. 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  cau  be !" 


THE   SPIDER  AND  THE   FLY. 

"  Will  you  walk  iuto  my  parlor  ?"  said  a  spider  to 

a  fly; 
"  'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy. 
The  way  into  my  parlor  is  up  a  winding  stair. 
And  I  have  many  pretty  things  to  show  you  when 

you  are  there." 
"Oh  no,  no!"  said  the  little  fly,  "to  ask  me  is  in 

vain. 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair  can  ne'er  come 

down  again." 


"I'm  sure  you  must  be  weary  with  soaring  up  so 
high. 

Will  you  rest  upon  my  pretty  bed  ?"  said  the  spi- 
der to  the  fly. 

"  There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  arouud,  and  the 
sheets  are  fine  aud  thin, 

Aud  if  you'd  like  to  rest  awhile,  I'll  snugly  tuck 
you  in." 

"Oh  no,  no!"  said  the  little  fly;  "for  Fve  heard  it 
often  said. 

They  never,  never  wake  again  who  sleep  upon  your 
bed." 

Said  the  cunning  spider  to  the  fly,  "  Dear  friend, 
what  shall  I  do, 

To  prove  the  warm  affection  I  have  always  felt  for 
you? 

I  have  within  my  pautry  good  store  of  all  that's  nice  ; 

I'm  sure  you  are  very  welcome,  will  you  please  to 
take  a  slice  f 

"  Oh  no,  no!"  said  the  little  fly,  "kiud  sir,  that  can- 
not be ; 

I've  heard  what's  in  your  pautry,  and  I  do  not  wish 
to  see." 

"Sweet  creature,"  said  the  sj)ider,  "you  are  witty 
aud  you're  Avise  ; 

How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings,  how  brilliant 
are  your  eyes ! 

I've  a  pretty  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlor 
shelf. 

If  you'll  just  step  in  a  moment,  dear,  you  shall  be- 
hold yourself." 

"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "  for  what  you're 
pleased  to  say, 

And  bidding  you  good-morning  now,  I'll  call  anotlier 
day." 

The  spider  turned  him  round  about,  aud  went  into 

his  den. 
For  well  he  knew  the  sillj'  fly  would  soon  come 

back  again ; 
So  he  wove  a  strong  aud  subtle  web,  in  a  little 

corner  sly. 
And  set  his  little  table  ready  to  dine  upon  the  fly. 
Tlien  be  went  out  the  door  again,  and  merrily  did 

sing, 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  fly,  with  the  pearl  and 

silver  wing ; 
Your  robes  are  green  aud  purple,  there's  a  crest  upon 

your  head ; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  while  mine 

are  dull  as  lead." 


598 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Alas,  alas!   how  very  soon  this  silly  litth;  fly, 

HoariDj;  his  ^vily, flattering  words,  came  slowly  flit- 
ting liy  ; 

With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  near  and 
nearer  drew, 

Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and 
purple  hue  ; 

Thinking  only  of  her  crested  head;  poor  foolish 
thing!     At  last 

I'l)  jumped  the  cunning  spider,  and  fiercely  held 
her  fast. 

He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair  unto  his  dis- 
mal den. 

Within  his  little  parlor,and  she  ne'ercamc  out  again! 

And  now,  dear  little  children,  who  may  this  story 

read. 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you  ne'er  give 

heed ; — 
I'uto  every  evil  counsellor  close  heart,  and  ear,  and 

eye. 
And  take  a  lesson  from  this  tale  of  the  spider  aud 

the  fly ! 


CORNFIELDS. 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown. 

Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down. 

Oh  then  what  jt)y  to  walk  at  will 

Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill! 

Wliat  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 
And  see  all  round  on  sunlit  slopes 

The  piled-up  stacks  of  corn  ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore ! 

I  feel  the  day— I  see  the  field. 
The  (juivering  of  the  leaves. 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Binding  the  yellow  sheaves; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one, 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke, — 

And  Boaz  looking  on ; 
And  Kuth,  the  Moabitess  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 


Again  I  see  a  little  child. 
His  mother's  sole  delight, — 

God's  living  gift  of  love  unto 
The  kind  good  Shnnamite, — 

To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield. 

And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills. 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see, — 
And  the  dear  Saviour  take  his  way 
"Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath-duy. 

O  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 
How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 

The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 
To  me  are  like  a  dream  : 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 

Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  nie  there. 


i'rancis  illaljomj  (Jatljcr  Proiit). 

Mahony  (1S04-1S()())  better  known  by  bis  nom  de  plume 
of  Father  Prout,  came  of  a  respectable  middle-class  Cork 
f;iniil3',  and  was  educated  at  St.  Acheul,  the  college  of  tbe 
Jesuits  at  Amiens.  Here  he  was  taught  to  write  and  con- 
verse fluently  in  Latin.  He  studied  also  at  Rome,  and 
took  priest's  orders.  About  1834  he  became  one  of  the 
writers  for  Fraser^s  Jfagaziiie,  to  which  he  contributed  the 
"Prout  Papers,"  remarkable  for  their  drollery  and  for 
tiie  evidences  of  great  facility  in  Latin  and  Greek  compo- 
sition. Amidst  all  his  convivialities  he  preserved  a  rever- 
ence for  religion,  and  manifested  great  goodness  of  heart. 
One  of  his  biograpliers  describes  him  as  "a  scholar,  a 
wit,  a  madcap  jiriest,  a  skilled  theologian,  a  gossiping 
old  man,  a  companion  of  wild  roisterers,  and  a  rollick- 
inij,  hard-drinking  Irishman."  For  the  last  eight  years 
of  his  life  he  resided  chiefly  in  Paris  as  a  correspondent 
of  London  papers. 

POETICAL   EPISTLE    FROM    FATHER   PROUT 
TO  BOZ  (CHARLES  DICKENS). 

A  rhyme,  a  rhyme 

From  a  distant  clime — 
From  the  Gulf  of  the  Genoese : 

O'er  the  rugged  scalps 

Of  the  Julian  Alps, 
Dear  Boz.  I  send  you  these, 

To  light  the  wick 

Your  candlestick 
Holds  up,  or  should  you  list, 

To  usher  in 

The  yarn  yon  spin 
Concernins;  Oliver  Twist. 


FBANCIS  MA  ROSY  {FATHER  I'liOUT). 


599 


Immeuse  applause 
You've  gaiued,  O  Boz  ! 

Through  Coutiueiital  Europe; 
You've  luado  rickwick 
fficjimeuick  : 

Of  fame  you  have  a  sure  hope : 
For  here  jour  books 
Are  thought,  gadzooks ! 

A  greater  luxe  thau  auy 
That  have  issued  yet, 
Hot-pressed  or  wet, 

From  the  press  of  Galiguaui. 

Write  ou,  young  sage  I 

Still  o'er  the  page 
Pour  forth  the  Hood  of  faucy  ; 

Divinely  droll 

Wave  o'er  the  soul 
Wit's  wand  of  neeronianc}'. 

Behold !    e'eu  now 

Around  your  brow 
The  undying  laurel  thickens! 

For  Swift  or  Sterne 

Might  live — and  learn 
A  thing  or  two  from  Dickens. 
Genoa,  Decenibei-  14th,  1S37. 


THE   BELLS   OF   SHANDON. 

"  S:ibbata  pango, 
Fnuera  ])hiiigo, 
Soleiniiia  claiij^o." 

ItiHcription  on  an  Old  Bell. 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 
I  often  think  of  those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  the  days  of  child- 
hood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  i)onder  Avhere'er  I  wander. 
And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon  that  sound  so  grand  on 
Tlie  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

Eve  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine  ; 
Wliile  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
P.ut  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory  dwelling  on  each  jiroud  swelling 
Of  thj'  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon  sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasanl  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


I've  heard  bells  tolling  old  Adrian's  Mole  in. 
Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican  ; 
And  cymbals  glorious  swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame. 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly  : 
Oh,  the  bells  of  Shandon  sound  far  more  grand  ou 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a    bell  in   Moscow;    while    on   tower  and 

kiosk  O 
In  Saint  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets. 
And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summits  of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  theai ; 
But  there's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me  : 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon  that  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


POPULAR  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  BONAPARTE. 

AFTER   BfiRAXGER. 

They'll  talk  of  him  for  years  to  come 

In  cottage  chronicle  and  tale  ; 
When  for  aught  else  renown  is  dumb, 

His  legend  shall  prevail ! 
Then  in  the  hamlet's  honored  chair 

Shall  sit  some  ag<5d  dame, 
Teaching  to  lowly  clown  and  villager 

That  narrative  of  fame. 
'Tis  true,  they'll  say,  his  gorgeous  throne 
France  bled  to  raise  ; 

But  he  was  all  our  own! 
Mother,  say  something  in  his  praise — 

Oh  speak  of  him  always ! 

"I  saw  him  pass:   his  was  a  host: 

Countless  beyond  your  young  imaginings  — 
My  children,  he  could  boast 

A  train  of  conquered  kings! 
And  when  he  came  this  road, 

'Twas  on  ray  bridal  day, 
He  wore — for  near  to  him  I  stood — 

Cocked  hat  and  surcoat  gray. 
I  bhished  ;   he  said,   'Be  of  good  cheer! 
Courage,  my  dear  !' 

That  was  his  very  word." — 
Mother!   oh  then  this  really  occurred, 

And  you  his  voice  could  liear! 


600 


CYCLOPJiUIA    OF  BRITISH  AMJ  AMERICAN  i'OETRY. 


"  A  year  rolled  on ;  when  uext  at  Paris  I, 
Loue  womau  that  I  ain, 
Saw  Li  in  pass  by, 
Girt  with  his  peers,  to  knei'l  at  Notre  Dame, 
I  knew  by  merry  chime  and  signal  gun, 
God  granted  him  a  son, 
Aud  oh  !    I  wept  for  joy  ! 
For  why  not  weep  when  warrior-men  did, 
Who  gazed  njjon  that  sight  so  splendid, 

And  blessed  the  imperial  boy? 
Never  did  noonday  sun  shine  out  so  bright ! 

Oh,  what  a  sight !" — 
Mother !   for  you  that  must  have  been 
A  glorious  scene ! 

"  But  when  all  Europe's  gathered  strength 
Burst  o'er  the  French  frontier  at  length, 

'Twill  scarcely  be  believed 
What  wonders,  single-handed,  he  achieved. 

Such  general  never  lived ! 
One  evening  on  my  threshold  stood 
A  guest — 'twas  he !     Of  warriors  few 
He  had  a  toil-worn  retinue. 
He  flung  himself  into  this  chair  of  wood, 
Muttering,  meantime,  with  fearful  air, 
'Quelle  guerre!   oh,  quelle  guerre!'" 
Mother,  and  did  our  emperor  sit  there. 
Upon  that  very  chair  ? 

"He  said, 'Give  me  some  food.' 

Brown  loaf  I  gave,  and  homely  wine, 
And  made  the  kindling  lire-blocks  shine. 
To  dry  his  cloak,  with  wet  bedewed. 
Soon  by  the  bonnie  blaze  ho  slept; 
Then,  waking,  chid  me  (for  I  wept): 
'  Courage  !'  ho  cried, '  I'll  strike  for  all 
lender  the  sacred  wall 
Of  France's  noble  capital !' 
Those  were  his  words :   I've  treasured  up 
With  pride  that  same  wine-cup, 
And  for  its  weight  in  gold 
It  never  shall  be  sold !" 
Mother  !   on  that  proud  relic  let  us  gaze — 
Oh  keep  that  cup  always! 

"But,  through  some  fatal  witchery, 

He  whom  a  Pope  had  crowned  and  blessed. 
Perished,  my  sons,  by  foulest  treachery ! 

Cast  on  an  isle  far  in  the  lonely  West. 
Long  time  sad  rumors  were  afloat — 

The  fatal  tidings  we  wonld  spurn, 
Still  hoping  from  that  isle  remote 

Once  more  our  hero  would  return. 


But  when  the  dark  announcement  drew 

Tears  from  the  virtuous  and  the  brave — 
When  the  sad  whisper  proved  too  true, 
A  Hood  of  grief  I  to  his  memory  gave. 
Peace  to  tiie  glorious  dead!" — 
Mother!   may  God  his  fnilest  blessing  shed 
Upon  your  ag(5d  head ! 


Samuel  (6rcg. 


Greg  (1S04-187G)  was  a  native  of  Manchester,  England. 
He  was  a  classmate  of  the  Rev.  James  Marlineau  at  tlie 
school  of  Dr.  Lant  Carpenter  in  Bristol  (1819).  Failhig 
of  success  as  a  cotton-mill  manager,  he  withdrew  from 
business,  and  led  a  life  of  retirement,  which  in  his  latter 
years  Mas  somewhat  darkened  by  disease.  His  broth- 
er, William  Rathbonc  Greg  (born  1809),  author  of  "The 
Creed  of  Christendom,"  etc.,  writes  of  him:  "It  may  be 
truly  said  that  during  all  the  later  portion  of  his  life  he 
was  manifestly  ripening  for  the  skies."  After  iiis  death, 
a  selection  from  his  papers  was  published  (1877)  under 
the  title  of  "A  Layman's  Legacy  in  Prose  and  Verse." 


PAIN. 


Awful  power!   whose  birthplace  lies 
Deep  'mid  deepest  mysteries — 
Thine  the  cry  of  earliest  breath  ; 
Boru  in  pain,  entombed  with  death. 
Surely,  Pain,  thy  power  shall  die 
When  man  puts  oft"  mortality. 

Awful  mystery!   can  it  be 

Mercy's  name  is  writ  on  thee  ? 

That  thou  comest  from  above, 

Angel  of  the  God  of  love  ? 

While  thou  scourgest,  tell  us  «•/(//; 

What  message  speak'st  thou  from  the  sky  ? 

Secrets  dread  hast  thou  to  show? 
Knowledge,  which  (Jod's  sons  must  know? 
Power  to  purge  and  purify  ? 
Human  strength  and  power  defy? 
Make  man's  stony  nature  feel? 
Mould  his  ore  to  tempered  steel  ? 

Or  is  thine  the  power  alone. 

So  to  tune  our  dull  earth  tone 

To  that  diviner,  holier  strain 

E'en  love  ami  grief  attempt  in  vain : 

Such  as  opens  hearts  to  see 

What  meant  the  cross  of  Calvary  ? 


SAMUEL   GREG.— THOMAS  KIBBLE  HERVEY. 


601 


Perhaps  some  door  is  closed  in  heaven, 
Whose  key  to  Paiu  alone  is  given  ; 
And  only  thine  all-powerful  hand 
Can  open  to  the  onward  land; 
While  spirits  none  shall  enter  there 
But  those  baptized  in  suftering  here. 

This  one  thing  I  ask  of  thee, 

This  one  only  answer  me : 

Com'st  thou  from  the  heavenly  seat  ? 

Lead'st  thou  to  my  Father's  feet  ? 

Do  I  suffer  not  in  vain  ? 

Art  thou  God's  true  angel,  Pain  ? 

Then  I'll  try  to  say  that  word, 
"  In  the  name  of  God  the  Lord, 
Welcome  art  thou."     But  whate'er 
Thou  briugest,  give  me  strength  to  bear. 
Spare  not — 'tis  my  Father's  will: 
I  can  meet  it,  and  be  still. 


BEATEN !  BEATEN ! 

Tell  me,  now,  my  saddened  soul  ! 

Tell  me  where  we  lost  the  day, — 
Failed  to  win  the  shining  goal. 

Slacked  the  pace,  or  missed  the  way 
We  are  beaten  ; — face  the  truth  ! 

'Twas  not  thus  we  thonght  to  die. 
When  the  prophet-dreams  of  youth 

Sang  of  joy  and  victory. 

Yes,  we  own  life'.s  battle  lost : 

Bleeding,  torn,  we  quit  the  field ; 
Bright  success — ambition's  boast — 

Here  to  happier  men  we  yield. 
And  if  some  strong  hero's  sword 

Had  struck  down  my  weaker  blade, 
Not  one  coward,  moaning  word 

Had  the  weeping  wound  betrayed. 

But  I  see  the  battle  won 

By  less  daring  hearts  than  mine : 
Feebler  feet  the  race  have  run  : 

Humbler  brows  the  laurel  twine. 
See  there!   at  the  glittering  goal, 

See  that  smiling  winiier  stand! 
Measure  him  from  head  to  sole — 

'Tis  no  giant  of  the  laud. 

Can  I  to  that  winner  bow, 
And  declare  how  well  he  ran? 


No:   I  only  murmur  now — 
"  Beaten  by  a  poorer  man  I" 

'•'Perhaps  he  sought  a  lowlier  prize." 
True :   but  what  he  sought  he  won  ; 

While  the  stars  that  gemmed  my  skies, 
Quenched  in  darkness,  all  are  gone. 

Yet,  iierchance,  that  star-like  prize 

Is  not  lost — but  not  yet  won : 
Lift  aloft  thine  earth-bound  eyes : 

Seek  the  goal  still  farther  on. 
Far  beyond  that  sinking  sun 

Swells  a  brighter,  happier  shore ; 
There  a  nobler  race  is  run  : 

Hark  !     He  bids  thee  try  once  more. 


(iljomas  Kibble  Cjcrceij. 

Hervey  (1804-18.59)  was  a  native  of  Manchester,  Eng- 
land. He  studied  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  and  after- 
ward read  law.  From  1846  to  1854  he  edited  Tlie  Athe- 
nceum.  He  published  "Australia,  and  other  Poems," 
1824;  "The  Poetical  Sketch-book,"  1839;  "The  English 
Helicon,"  1841.  His  poems  are  distinguished  by  an  airy 
delicacy  of  style  and  a  rare  metrical  sweetness. 


HOPE. 


Again — again  she  comes! — methinks  I  hear 

Her  wild,  sweet  singing,  and  her  rushing  wings ; 
My  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  her  with  a  tear, 

And  welcome  sends  from  all  its  broken  strings. 
It  was  not  thus — not  thus — we  met  of  yore. 

When  my  ijlunied  soul  went  half-way  to  the  sky 
To  greet  her;   and  the  joyous  song  she  bore 

Was  scarce  more  tuneful  than  the  glad  reply : 
The  wings  are  fettered  by  the  weight  of  years, 
And  grief  has  spoiled  the  music  with  her  tears. 

She  comes — I  know  her  by  her  starry  eyes, 

I  know  her  by  the  rainbow  in  her  hair! 
Her  vesture  of  the  light  and  summer  skies — 

But  gone  the  girdle  which  she  used  to  wear 
Of  summer  roses,  and  the  sandal  flowers 

That  hung  enamored  round  her  fairy  feet, 
When,  in  her  youth,  .she  haunted  earthly  bowers, 

And  culled  from  all  the  beautiful  and  sweet. 
No  more  she  mocks  me  with  her  voice  of  mirth, 
Nor  off'ers  now  the  garlands  of  the  earth. 

Come  back,  come  back — thou  hast  been  absent  long, 
Oh !  welcome  back  the  sybil  of  the  soul, 


602 


ClCLUr^DIA    OF  BUlTiaU  ASD  AMElllCAX  rOETllY. 


Who  camo,  and  comes  again,  with  pleading  strong, 
To  ofi'or  to  the  heart  her  nij'stic  scroll; 

Though  every  year  she  wears  a  sadder  look, 
And  sing.s  a  sadder  song,  and  every  year 

Some  further  leaves  arc  torn  out  from  her  book. 
And  fewer  what  she  brings,  and  far  more  dear. 

As  ouce  she  came — oh,  might  she  come  again, 

With  all  the  perished  volumes  offered  then! 

She  comes — she  comes — her  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 

Her  mild,  sweet  voice,  that  sings,  and  sings  for- 
ever. 
Whose  strains  of  song  sweet  thoughts  awake  to  hear, 

Like  dowers  that  haunt  the  margin  of  a  river; 
(Flowers  that,  like  lovers,  only  speak  in  sighs. 

Whose  thoughts  are  hues,  whose  voices  are  their 
hearts,) 
Oh — thus  the  spirit  j'carus  to  pierce  the  skies, 

Exulting  throbs,  though  all  save  hope  departs : 
Thus  the  glad  freshness  of  our  sinless  years 
Is  watered  ever  by  the  heart's  rich  tears. 

She  comes — I  know  her  by  her  radiant  eyes, 

Before  whose  smile  the  long  dim  cloud  departs; 
And  if  a  darker  shade  be  on  her  brow. 

And  if  her  tones  bo  sadder  than  of  yore, 
And  if  she  sings  more  solemn  music  now, 

And  bears  another  harp  than  erst  she  boi-e, 
And  if  around  her  form  no  longer  glow 

The  earthly  flowers  that  in  her  youth  she  wore — 
That  look  is  loftier,  and  that  song  more  sweet. 
And  heaven's  flowers — the  stars — are  at  her  feet. 


TO  ONE  DEPARTED. 

I  know  thou  art  gone  to  the  homo  of  thy  rest ; 

Then  why  should  my  soul  bo  so  sad? 
I  know  thou  art  gone  w^here  the  weary  are  blessed. 

And  the  mourner  looks  up  and  is  glad ; 
Where  Love  has  put  off,  iu  the  land  of  its  birth, 

Tiie  stains  it  had  gathered  in  this, 
And  lloiie,  t  he  sweet  singer,  that  gladdened  the  earth. 

Lies  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  Bliss. 

I  know  thou  art  gone  where  thy  forehead  is  starred 

With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  thy  soul, 
Where  the  light  of  thy  loveliness  cannot  be  marred, 

Nor  thy  spirit  flung  back  from  its  goal. 
I  know  thou  hast  drunk  of  the  Lethe  that  flows 

Through  a  laud  where  they  do  not  forget; — 
That  sheds  over  memory  only  repose. 

And  takes  from  it  only  regret. 


This  eye  must  be  dark,  that  so  long  has  been  dim, 

Ere  agaiu  it  may  gazo  upon  thine; 
But  my  heart  has  revealings  of  thee  and  thy  home, 

in  many  a  token  and  sign  : 
I  never  look  up  with  a  vow  to  the  sky. 

But  a  light  like  thy  beauty  is  there; 
And  I  hear  a  low  murnnir  like  thine  in  reply, 

When  I  pour  out  my  spirit  in  prayer. 

In  thj'  far-away  dwelling,  wherever  it  be, 

I  know  thou  hast  glimpses  of  mine; 
For  the  love  that  made  all  things  as  music  to  me, 

I  have  not  yet  learned  to  resign. 
In  the  hush  of  the  night,  on  the  waste  of  the  sea, 

Or  alone  with  the  breeze  on  the  hill, 
I  have  ever  a  presence  that  whispers  of  thee. 

And  my  spirit  lies  down  aud  is  still. 

And  though,  like  a  mourner  that  sits  by  a  tomb, 

I  am  wrapped  iu  a  mantle  of  care. 
Yet  the  grief  of  my  bosom — oh,  call  it  not  gloom  ! — 

Is  not  the  dark  grief  of  despair. 
By  sorrow  revealed,  as  the  stars  are  by  night. 

Far  olT  a  bright  vision  appears, 
And  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  a  creature  of  light. 

Is  born,  like  the  rainbow,  from  tears. 


CLEOPATRA   EMBARKING   ON  TIIE   CYDNUS. 

Flutes  in  the  sunny  air, 

Aud  harps  in  the  porphyry  halls! 
And  a  low,  deep  hum,  like  a  people's  prayer. 

With  its  heart-breathed  swells  and  falls! 
Aud  an  echo,  like  the  desert's  call. 

Flung  back  to  the  shouting  shores! 
And  the  river's  ripple,  heard  through  all. 

As  it  plays  with  the  silver  oars! — 
The  sky  is  a  gleam  of  gold. 

And  the  amber  breezes  float. 
Like  thoughts  to  be  dreamed  of,  but  never  told. 

Around  the  dancing  boat ! 

She  has  stei)ped  on  the  burning  sand — 

And  tlie  thousand  tongues  are  nuite. 
And  the  Syrian  strikes,  Avith  a  trembling  hand. 

The  strings  of  his  gilded  lute! 
Aud  the  Ethiop's  heart  throbs  loud  aud  high. 

Beneath  his  white  symar. 
And  the  Lybian  kneels,  as  he  meets  her  eye, 

Like  the  flash  of  an  Eastern  star! 
The  gales  may  not  be  heard. 

Yet  the  silkeu  streamers  quiver. 


THOMAS  KIBBLE  UEEVEY.  — WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 


603 


Ami  tbe  vessel  shoots,  like  a  bright-plumed  bird, 
Awaj-  down  the  golden  river! 

Away  bj-  the  lofty  mount, 

And  away  by  the  lonely  shore, 
And  away  by  the  gushing  of  many  a  fount, 

Where  fouutains  gush  uo  more  ! — ■ 
Oh !   for  some  warning  vision  there. 

Some  voice  that  should  have  spoken 
Of  climes  to  be  laid  waste  and  bare, 

And  glad  young  spirits  broken! 
Of  waters  dried  away, 

And  hope  and  beauty  blasted! 
— That  scenes  so  fair  and  hearts  so  gay 

Should  be  so  earlj-  wasted! 


TO  ELLEN— WEEPING. 

Mine  eyes — that  may  uot  see  thee  smile, 

Are  glad  to  see  thee  weep ; 
Thy  spirit's  calm  this  Aveary  while, 

Has  been  too  dark  and  deep  ;— 
Alas  for  him  who  has  but  tears 

To  mark  his  path  of  pain. 
But  oh  !   Ms  long  and  lonely  years. 

Who  may  not  weep  again! 

Thou  know'st,  young  mourner!   thou  hast  been, 

Through  good  and  ill,  to  me, 
Amid  a  bleak  and  blighted  scene, 

A  single  leafy  tree ; 
A  star  within  a  stormy  sky, 

An  island  on  the  main — 
And  I  have  prayed,  in  agony, 

To  see  thee  weep  again ! 

Thou  ever  wert  a  thing  of  tears, 

When  but  a  playful  child, 
A  very  sport  of  hopes  and  fears, 

And  hoth  too  warm  and  wild  ; 
Thy  lightest  thoughts  and  wishes  wore 

Too  passionate  a  strain — 
To  such  how  often  comes  an  hour 

They  never  weep  again ! 

Thou  wert  of  those  whose  very  morn 

Gives  some  dark  hint  of  night, 
And  in  thine  eye  too  soon  was  born 

A  sad  and  softened  light ; 
And  on  thy  brow  youth  set  the  seal, 

Which  years,  upon  thy  brain. 


Confirmed  too  well — and  thoy  who  feel 
May  scarcely  weep  again  I 

But  once  again  within  thine  eyo 

I  see  the  waters  start — 
The  fountains  cannot  all  be  dry 

Within  so  young  a  heart ! 
Our  love,  which  grew  in  light  awhile, 

Has  long  been  nursed  by  rain. 
But  I  shall  yet  behold  thee  smile, 

Since  thou  hast  wept  again! 


lllilliam  (CrosincU. 


AMERICAN. 

Croswell  (1804-1851)  was  born  at  Hudson,  N.  T.,and 
was  graduated  at  Tale  College  in  1823.  Most  of  his 
poetry  appeared  in  the  Episcopal  Watchman,  published 
in  Hartford,  Conn.,  of  which  he  was  joint  editor  with 
George  Wasliinoton  Doane.  Croswell  was  Rector  of 
Christ  Church,  Boston,  1839-'40;  of  St.  Peter's,  Au- 
burn, N.  Y.,  1840-'44;  of  Church  of  the  Advent,  Boston, 
l&i4^'51. 


DRINK  AND  AWAY. 

There  is  a  beautiful  rill  in  Barbary,  received  into  a  large  ba- 
sin, whicli  bears  a  name  signifying  "Drink  and  away,"  from 
the  irreat  danger  of  meeting  with  rogues  and  assassins.  —  Dr. 

SUAW. 

LTp!   pilgrim  and  rover,  redouble  thy  haste! 
Nor  rest  thee  till  over  life's  wearisome  waste. 
Ere  the  wild  forest  ranger  thy  footsteps  betray 
To  trouble  and  danger, — oh,  drink  and  away ! 

Here  lurks  the  dark  savage,  by  night  and  by  day. 
To  rob  and  to  ravage,  nor  scruples  to  slay  : 
He  waits  for  the  slaughter:   the  blood  of  his  prey 
Shall  stain  the  still  water, — then  up  and  away ! 

W^ith  toil  though  thou  languish,  the  mandate  obey, 
Spur  on,  though  in  anguish,  there's  death  in  delay! 
No  blood-hoitnd,  want-wasted,  is  fiercer  than  they,— 
Pass  by  it  untasted — or  drink  and  away  ! 

Tliough  sore  be  the  trial,  thy  God  is  t])y  stay  ; 
Though  deep  the  denial,  yield  not  in  dismaj^ ; 
But,  wrapped  in  high  vision,  look  on  to  the  day 
When  the  fountains  elysian  thy  thirst  shall  allay. 

There  shalt  thou  forever  enjoy  thy  repose. 
Where  life's  gentle  river  eternally  flows  ; 
Yea,  there  shalt  thou  rest  thee  for  ever  and  aye, 
Witli  none  to  molest  thee — then,  drink  and  away. 


604 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BlilTlSH  AXD  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


DE   riiOFUNDIS. 

"There  mny  be  a  cloiul  without  a  rainbow,  but  there  cannot 
be  a  raiubuw  wiibuut  a  cluud." 

My  .soul  was  dark 
But  for  the  golden  ligiit  and  rainbow  line, 
That,  sweeping  heaven  with  their  triuiiipluil  arc, 

15reak  on  the  view. 

Enough  to  feel 
That  God,  indeed,  is  good.     Enough  to  know, 
Without  the  gloomy  cloud,  he  could  reveal 

No  beauteous  bow. 


(fiimunL)  p.  (Driffin. 


Griffin  (180-1-1830)  was  a  native  of 'Wj-omine:,  Penn.— a 
grandson,  on  the  motlier's  side,  of  Colonel  Zebulon  But- 
ler, who  defended  tlie  valley  against  the  British  attack 
which  led  to  the  massacre  of  1778.  Graduating  at  Co- 
lumbia College,  N.  Y.,  where  he  held  the  lirst  rank  in 
his  class,  Edmund  studied  for  the  Episcopal  Church  ;  but 
an  affection  of  the  lungs  compelled  him  to  give  up  prcacli- 
ing,  and  try  a  voyage  to  Europe.  On  his  return  from 
home,  in  1830,  he  was  prostrated  by  an  inflammatoi-y  at- 
tack, and  died.  His  "Literary  Remains"  were  collect- 
ed by  his  brother.  They  include  several  Latin  poems. 
There  is  abundant  promise  in  his  lines  on  Italy,  though 
the  influence  of  Bvron  is  manifest  in  the  general  tone. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  ITALY. 

"Deh  !   fossi  tu  men  bella,  O  almen  pin  forte."— Ff^R-aja. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Laiid  of  the  orauge-grove  aud  myrtle  bower ! 
To  hail  whoso  strand,  to  breathe  whose  genial  air, 

Is  bliss  to  all  who  feel  of  bli.ss  the  power. 
To  look  ujion  whose  mountains  in  the  hour 

When  thy  sun  sinks  in  glory,  and  a  veil 
Of  purple  flows  around  them,  would  restore 

The  sense  of  beauty  when  all  else  might  fail. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair. 

Parent  of  frnit.s,  alas!  no  more  of  men! 
Where  springs  the  olive  e'en  from  mountains  bare. 

The  yellow  harvest  loads  the  scarce-tilled  plain, 
Spontaneous  shoots  the  vine,  in  rich  festoon 

From  tree  to  tree  depending,  and  the  llowers 
Wreathe  with  their  chaplets,  sweet  though  fading 
soon. 

E'en  fallen  columns  and  decaying  towers. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair. 
Home  of  the  beautiful,  but  not  the  brave ! 


Where  noble  form,  bold  outline,  princely  air, 
Distinguish  e'en  the  peasant  and  the  slave  : 

Where,  like  the  goddess  sprung  from  ocean's  wave, 
Her  mortal  sisters  boast  immortal  grace. 

Nor  spoil  tho.sc  charms  which  partial  nature  gave, 
By  art's  weak  aids  or  fashion's  vain  grimace. 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong,  at  least  less  fair, 

Thou  nurse  of  every  art  save  one  alone. 
The  art  of  self-defence !     Thy  fostering  care 

Brings  out  a  nobler  life  from  senseless  stone, 
Aud.  bids  e'en  canvas  speak :  thy  magic  tone, 

Infused  in  music  now  constrains  the  soul 
With  tears  the  power  of  melody  to  own. 

And  now  with  passionate  throbs  that  spurn  control. 

Would  that  thou  wert  less  fair,  at  least  more  strong, 

Grave  of  the  mighty  dead,  the  living  mean  ! 
Can  nothing  rouse  ye  both  ?  no  tyrant's  wrong. 

No  memory  of  the  brave, — of  what  has  been  ? 
Yon  broken  arch  once  spoke  of  triumph,  then 

That  mouldering   Avail,  too,  spoke  of  brave  de- 
fence— 
Shades  of  departed  heroes,  rise  again  ! 

Italians,  rise,  and  thrust  the  oppressors  hence ! 

0  Ital}'  I  my  country,  fare  thee  well ! 

For  art  thou  not  my  country,  at  whose  breast 
Were   nurtured   those  whose    thoughts  withiu  me 
dwell, 

The  fathers  of  my  mind  ?  whose  fame  impressed, 
E'en  ou  my  infant  fancy,  bade  it  rest 

With  patriot  fondness  on  thy  hills  and  streams, 
E'er  yet  thou  didst  receive  me  as  a  guest, — 

Lovelier  than  I  had  seen  thee  in  my  dreams  ? 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  country,  loved  and  lost : 
Too  early  lost,  alas !  when  once  so  dear ; 

1  turn  in  sorrow  from  thy  glorious  coast. 
And  urge  the  feet  forbid  to  linger  here. 

But  must  I  rove  hy  Arno's  current  clear, 
And  hear  the  rush  of  Tiber's  yellow  flood, 

And  wander  on  the  mount,  now  waste  and  drear, 
Where  Ca?sar's  palace  in  its  glorj-  stood  ; — 

And  sec  again  I'arthenopd's  loved  bay, 

And  Pa-stum's  shrines,  and  Bai;r's  classic  shore, 
And  mount  the  bark,  and  listen  to  the  lay 

That  floats  by  night  through  Venice — never  more  ? 
Far  oft'  I  seem  to  hear  the  Atlantic  roar — 

It  washes  not  thy  feet,  that  envious  sea. 
But  waits,  with  outstretched  arras,  to  waft  me  o'er 

To  other  lands,  far,  far,  alas  I   from  thee. 


OTJTAY  CUEBY.— EDWARD,  LORD  LTTTOX. 


605 


Fare,  fare  thee  well  oiico  more.     I  love  thee  not 

As  other  things  iuauimate.     Thou  art 
Tiie  cherished  mistress  of  my  youth ;   forgot 

Thou  never  canst  be  while  I  have  a  heart. 
Launched  ou  those  waters,  wild   with  storm    and 
wind, 

I  know  not,  ask  not,  what  may  bo  my  lot; 
For,  torn  from  thee,  no  fear  can  touch  my  mind. 

Brooding  in  gloom  on  that  one  bitter  thought. 


(Dtu)ap  (JIurrti. 

AMERICAN. 

Curry  (1S04-1S.55)  was  a  native  of  Greenfield,  Highland 
County,  Ohio.  His  school  education  was  limited.  In 
1823  be  went  to  Lebanon,  and  learned  the  trade  of  a  car- 
penter. He  had  a  taste  for  poetry,  and  in  1838  became 
connected  with  Mr.  W.  D.  Gallagher  in  editing  The  Hespe- 
rian, a  monthly  magazine.  In  1839  he  removed  to  Marys- 
ville,  began  the  studj'  of  the  law,  and  practised  it  for  ten 
years.  In  18.53  we  find  him  connected  with  the  Scioto 
Gazette,  a  dailj'  paper  published  in  Chillicothe.  He  tilled 
various  public  offices,  and  lived  an  unblemished  life. 


.       KINGDOM   COME. 

I  do  not  believe  the  sad  story 

Of  ages  of  sleep  in  the  tomb  ; 
I  shall  pass  far  away  to  the  glory 

And  grandeur  of  Kingdom  Come. 
The  paleness  of  death  and  its  stillness 

May  rest  on  my  brow  for  awhile  ; 
And  my  spirit  may  lose  in  its  chillness 

The  s^ileudor  of  Hope's  happy  smile ; 

But  the  gloom  of  the  grave  will  be  transient, 

And  light  as  the  slumbers  of  worth  ; 
And  then  I  shall  blend  with  the  ancient 

And  beautiful  forms  of  the  earth. 
Through  the  climes  of  the  sky  and  the  bowers 

Of  bliss  evermore  I  shall  roam. 
Wearing  crowns  of  the  stars  and  the  flowers 

That  glitter  in  Kingdom  Come. 

The  friends  who  have  parted  before  me 

From  life's  gloomy  passion  and  pain, 
When  the  shadow  of  death  passes  o'er  me 

Will  smile  on  me  fondly  again. 
Their  voices  were  lost  in  the  soundless 

Retreats  of  their  endless  home : 
But  soon  we  shall  meet  in  the  boundless 

Eflfulgeuce  of  Kingdom  Come. 


Bulwer  (wliosc  full  name  was  Edward  George  Earlc 
Lytton  Bulwer),  afterward  Lord  Lytton  (180.5-1873),  one 
of  the  most  versatile  and  conspicuous  English  autliors 
of  his  day,  was  the  youngest  son  of  Gen.  Bulwer  of  Hay- 
don  Hall,  county  of  Norfolk,  who  died  in  1807.  Edw-ard's 
mother  was  of  the  ancient  family  of  Lytton ;  aud  on 
her  death,  in  1843,  he  succeeded  to  her  valuable  estate, 
aud  took  the  name  of  Lytton.  He  wrote  verses  at  a 
very  early  age ;  aud  his  first  volume,  consisting  of  boyish 
rhymes,  appeared  before  he  was  sixteen  years  old.  At 
Cambridge,  in  1825,  he  carried  off  the  chancellor's  gold 
medal  for  the  best  English  poem.  In  1826  appeared  an- 
other volume  of  verse,  "Weeds  and  Wild  Flowei's;"  and 
in  1827  his  first  novel,  "  Falkland."  He  sought  and  won 
distinction  in  poetry,  the  drama,  the  historical  romance, 
domestic  novel,  ethical  essay,  aud  political  disquisition. 
His  plays,  "The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  "Richelieu,"  and 
"Money,"  still  hold  their  place  on  the  stage.  His  poems 
are  contained  in  three  12mo  volumes.  In  politics  he  was 
at  one  time  a  supporter  of  extreme  radical  measures,  but 
in  1852  entered  Parliament  as  a  Conservative.  His  few 
speeches  were  able  and  apt.  His  reputation  rests  chiefly 
on  his  novels,  which  are  as  various  in  style  as  in  their 
degrees  of  excellence.  In  1827  he  married  Miss  Wheeler, 
by  whom  he  had  a  son  and  daughter.  The  latter  died  in 
1818 ;  of  the  former,  also  a  poet,  an  account  will  be  found 
in  our  pages.  The  connection  with  Miss  Wheeler  proved 
an  unhappy  one;  there  was  a  separation;  and  she,  as 
Lady  Bulwer,  wrote  novels  reflecting  personally  on  her 
husband  aud  his  mother. 

As  a  poet,  Lytton  did  not  reach  "the  summit  of  the 
sacred  mount;"  but  he  has  done  some  good  work,  and 
his  reputation  is  not  likely  to  be  ephemeral.  Among  the 
"Curiosities  of  Literature"  will  be  reckoned  the  inter- 
change of  sarcasms  between  him  and  Tennyson.  In  his 
"New  Timon"  (1815),  a  poem  partly  satirical  and  partly 
narrative,  Lytton  had  designated  the  laureate  as  "School 
Miss  Alfred,"  and  his  poetry  w'as  alluded  to  as 

"The  jh]gling  medley  of  purloined  conceits, 
Out-babyiug  Wordsworth  aud  out-glitteriug  Keats." 

Tennyson  gave  no  babyish  blow  back.  He  published  in 
Punch  (1846)  some  stinging  stanzas  in  reply,  from  which 
we  quote  the  following : 

"Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote ; 
O  Lion,  you  that  made  a  noise, 

Aud  shook  a  mane  en  papilloteH  ! 
***** 
"An  artist,  sir,  should  rest  in  art, 
And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim; 
To  have  the  great  poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 
***** 
"What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt — 
A  dapper  boot — a  little  hand — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt? 
***** 
"A  Timon  yon?    Nay,  nay,  for  shame; 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest — 
That  fierce  old  man— to  take  his  name, 
You  bandbox  !    Off,  aud  let  him  rest." 


606 


CrCLOPJWIA    OF  lilllTISIl  AM)  AMKUIVAX  VUKTRY. 


Lytton  lived  to  do  better  thinijs  than  he  had  yet  pro- 
dueed ;  and  Tennyson  no  doubt  lived  to  regret  the  ex- 
treme severity  of  his  retort;  as  we  lind  him  dedicating 
one  of  his  plays  to  the  younger  Lord  Lytton,  and  refer- 
ring in  the  dedication,  with  high  respcet,  to  the  man  at 
whom  he  had  so  savagely  thrust  back,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  tlie  afleetations  of  his  younger  days,  was  highly  gifted 
as  an  author. 


CARADOC,  THE  BAKU  TU  THE  CYMRLVNS. 

FiioM  "  King  AnTiiuit  :   a  Toem  in  Twelve  Hooks." 

No  Cymiiau  bniil,  by  llie  primitive  hiw,  coiiUl  bear  weapons'. 

Hark  to  the  moasured  march  ! — Tlic  Haxons  come ! 

The  sound  earth  ([uails  bciicatii  the  hollow  tread! 
Your  lathers  rushed  upon  the  swords  of  Rome, 

And  climbed  her  war-ships,  when  the  Ctesar  lied! 
The  Saxous  come!   -why  wait  within  the  wall? 
They  scale  the  uiountaiu  : — let  its  torrents  fall! 

Mark,  ye  have  swords,  and  shields,  and  armor,  YE ! 

No  mail  defends  the  Cymriau  Child  of  Soug ; 
But  where  the  warrior,  there  the  Bard  shall  he ! 

All  fields  of  glory  to  the  bard  belong ! 
His  realm  extends  wherever  godlike  strife 
Spurns  the  ba.se  death,  and  wins  immortal  life. 

Unarmed  ho  goes — his  guard  the  shield  of  all. 
Where  he  bounds  foremost  on  the  Saxon  spear ! 

Unarmed  he  goes,  that,  falling,  even  his  fall 

Shall  bring  no  shame,  and  shall  be<iueath  no  fear: 

Does  the  song  cease? — avenge  it  by  the  deed. 

And  make  the  sepulchre — a  uation  freed  I 


A  SPENDTHRK^T. 


FlioM    "  riRHELIEL'." 


You  have  outrun  your  fortune; 

I  l>lani('  yon  not,  that  you  would  bo  a  beggar; 

Each  to  his  taste  !     But  I  do  charge  you,  sir. 

That,  being  beggared,  yon  would  coin  false  moneys 

Out  of  that  crucible  called  Dkbt.     To  live 

On  means  not  yours ;  be  brave  in  silks  and  laces. 

Gallant  in  steeds,  splendid  in  banquets;   all 

Not  yours,  iingiven,  uninherited,  unpaid  for  ; 

This  is  to  be  a  trickster,  and  to  filch 

Men's  art  and  labor,  which  to  them  is  wealth. 

Life,  d^iily  bread  ;  quitting  all  scores  with,  "  Friend, 

You're  troublesome !"     Why  this,  forgive  me. 

Is  what,  when  done  with  a  less  dainty  grace, 

I'laiu  folks  call  "  77/f// .'"    Y'ou  owe  eight  thousand 

pistoles. 
Minus  one  crown,  two  liards! 


THE  GUARDLVN  ANGEL. 

From  Heaven  what  fancy  stole 
The  dream  of  some  good  spirit,  aye  at  hand. 
The  scrapli  whispering  to  the  exile  soul 
Tales  of  its  native  land? 

Who  to  the  cradle  gave 
The  unseen  watcher  by  the  mother's  side. 
Born  with  the  birth,  companion  to  the  grave, 
The  holy  angel  guide  ? 

Is  it  a  fable?— "No," 
I  hear  Love  answer  from  the  sunlit  air; 
'•Still,  where  mij  presence  gilds  the  darkness,  know 
Life's  angel  guide  is  there !" 

Is  it  a  fable  ?— Hark, 
Faith  hymns  from  deeps  beyond  the  palest  star, 
'•/  am  the  pilot  to  thy  Avaudering  bark, 
Thy  guide  to  shores  afar." 

Is  it  a  fable  ?— Sweet 
From  wave,  from  air,  from  every  forest  tree. 
The  murmur  spoke,  "  Each  thing  thine  eyes  can  greet 
An  angel  guide  can  be  ! 

"  Fiom  myriads  take  thy  choice  ; 
In  all  that  lives  a  guide  to  God  is  given; 
Ever  thou  hear'st  some  angel  guardian's  voice 
When  Nature  speaks  of  Heaven  !" 


TO   THE   KLNG. 

Fhom  "The  Duciiesse  de  l.\  V.\LLitnE." 

Great  though  thou  art,  awake  thee  from  the  dream 
That   earth    was    made    for   kings- — mankind    for 

slaughter — 
Woman  for  lust — the  People  for  the  Palace ! 
Dark  warnings  have  gone  fortli ;  along  the  air 
Lingers  the  crash  of  tlie  first  Charles's  throne. 
l$ehold  the  young,  the  fair,  the  haughty  king, 
The  ruling  courtiers,  and  the  llattering  priests ! 
Lo !   where  the  palace  rose,  behold  the  scaffold — 
The  crowd — the  axe — the  beadsman — and  the  vic- 
tim! 
Lord  of  the  Silver  I^ilies,  canst  thou  tell 
If  the  same  fate  await  not  thy  descendant! 
If  some  meek  son  of  thine  imperial  line 
May  nuike  no  brother  to  yon  headless  spectre ! 
And  when  the  sage  who  saddens  o'er  the  end 
Tracks  back  the  causes,  tremble,  lest  he  finds 


EDWARD,  LORD  LYITON. 


607 


The  seeds,  tliy  wars,  thy  pomp,  and  tliy  profusion, 
Sowed  in  a  heartless  court  and  brcadloss  people. 
Grew  to  the  tree  from  which  men  shaped  the  seat- 
fold, — 
And  the  long  glare  of  thy  funereal  glories 
Light  nnborn  mouarchs  to  a  ghastly  grave  ? 
Beware,  proud  King!   the  Present  cries  aloud, 
A  prophet  to  the  future!     Wake! — beware! 


IS   IT  ALL  VANITY? 

»  *  *  s  # 

Life  answers,  '■  Xo !     If  ended  here  be  life, 

Seize  what  the  sense  can  give  ;  it  is  thine  all ; 
Disarm  thee,  Virtue !   barren  is  thy  strife  ; 
Knowledge,  thy  torch  let  fall ! 

*■  Seek  thy  lost  Psyche,  yearning  Love,  no  more ! 

Love  is  but  lust,  if  sonl  be  only  breath  ; 
Who  would  put  forth  one  billow  from  the  shore 
If  the  great  sea  be — Death?" 

I5ut  if  the  soul,  that  slow  artificer, 

For  ends  its  instinct  rears  from  life  hath  striven. 
Feeling  beneath  its  patient  web-work  stir 
Wiugs  only  freed  in  Heaven, — 

Then,  and  but  then,  to  toil  is  to  be  wise; 
Solved  is  tlie  liddle  of  the  grand  desire 
Which  ever,  ever  for  the  Distant  sighs, 
And  nnist  perforce  aspire. 

Kise  then,  my  soul,  take  comfort  from  thj'  sorrow  ; 
Thou  fcel'st  tliy  treasure  when  thou  feel'st  thy 
load  ; 
Life  without  thought,  the  day  without  the  morrow, 
God  on  the  brute  bestowed  ;  — 

Longings  obscure  as  for  a  native  clime. 

Flight  from  what  is  to  live  in  what  may  be, 
God  gave  the  Soul : — thy  discontent  with  Time 
Proves  thine  eternitv. 


INVOCATIOX  TO   LOVE. 

Froji  "  King  Artiicr." 

Hail  thon,  the  ever  young,  albeit  of  night 
And  of  primeval  chaos  eldest  born  ; 

Thou,  at  whose  birth  bi'oke  forth  the  Founts  of  Light, 
And  o'er  Creation  flushed  the  earliest  morn  ! 


Life,  in  thy  life,  suffused  the  conscious  whole  ; 
And  formless  matter  took  the  harmonious  soul. 

Hail,  Love  !   tlie  Death-defier!   age  to  ago 

Linking,  with  flowers,  in  the  still  heart  of  man! 

Dream  to  the  Bard,  and  marvel  to  tlic  Sage, 
Glory  and.  mystery  since  the  world  began. 

Shadowing  the  cradle,  brightening  at  the  tomb, 

Soft  as  our  joys,  and  solemn  as  our  doom ! 

Ghost-like  amid  tlie  ini familiar  Past, 

Dim  shadows  flit  along  the  streams  of  Time  ; 

Vainly  our  learning  trifles  with  the  vast 

Unknown  of  ages !     Like  the  wizard's  rhyme 

We  call  the  dead,  and  from  the  Tartarus 

'Tis  but  the  dead  that  rise  to  answer  us ! 

Voiceless  and  wan,  we  question  them  in  vain  ; 

They  leave  unsolved  earth's  mighty  yesterday. 
But   wave   thy   wand — they   bloom,  they   breathe 
again  ! 

The  liuk  is  found  ! — as  icc  love,  so  loved  they ! 
Warm  to  our  clasp  our  human  brothers  start, 
Man  smiles  on  man,  and  heart  speaks  out  to  heart. 

Arch  power,  of  every  power  most  dread,  most  sweet, 
Ope  at  thy  touch  the  far  celestial  gates ; 

Yet  Terror  flies  with  Joy  before  thy  feet, 

And,  with  the  Graces,  glide  unseen  the  Fates ; 

Eos  and  Hesperus, — one,  with  twofold  light, 

Biinger  of  day,  and  herald  of  the  night ! 


EPIGRAMS  FROM  THE  GERMAX. 

TO   THE   JIYSTICS. 

Life  has  its  mystery; — True,  it  is  that  one 
Surrounding  all,  and  yet  iierceived  by  none. 

THE   KEY. 
To  know  thyself — in  others  self  discern  ; 
Wouldst  thou  know  others  ?  read  thyself — and  learn  ! 

MY  BELIEF. 
What  my  religion  ?  those  thou  namcst — none  ? 
None,  why  ?     Because  I  have  religion  ! 

FRIEND   AND   FOE. 
Dear  is  my  friend — jet  from  my  foe,  as  from  my 

friend,  comes  good  ; 
My  friend  shows  Avhat  I  can  do,  and  my  foe  shows 

what  I  should. 


608 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BUITISU  AND  AMERICAN  VOETRY. 


FOKUM   01'    WOMKN. 

Woman — to  jiulgo  man  rij^Iitlj' — do  not  scan 
Kacb  separate  act ; — pass  jiulgment  on  the  Man  ! 

SELF-CONSCIOrSNESS. 
Give  mo  that  which  thou  know'st — 111  receive  and 

attend ; 
Bat  thou  {;iv'st  mo  thyself — prithee, — spare  me  my 

friend ! 

THE   PROSELYTE    MAKER. 

"A  little  earth  from  out  the  Earth — and  I 
The  Earth  will  move;"  so  spake  the  Sage  divine. 
Out  of  myself  ono  little  moment — try 
Myself  to  take  : — succeed,  and  I  am  thine ! 

THE   CONXECTINC   MEDIUM. 
What  to  cement  the  lofty  and  the  mean 
Docs  Nature  ? — what  ? — place  vanity  between  ! 

CORRECTNESS. 
The  calm  correctness,  where  no  fault  we  see, 
Attests  Art's  loftiest  or  its  least  degree ; 
That  ground  in  common  two  extremes  may  claim  — 
Strength  most  consummate,  feebleness  most  tame. 

THE   M.VSTER. 
The  herd  of  scribes,  by  what  they  tell  us, 
Show  all  in  which  their  wits  excel  us ; 
lint  the  True  Master  wc  behold, 
In  what  his  art  leaves — just  untold. 

SCIENCE. 

To  some  she  is  the  Goddess  great,  to  some  the  milch- 
cow  of  the  field ; 

Their  care  is  but  to  calculate — what  butter  she  will 
yield. 

K.\NT  AND   IIIS   COMMENTATORS. 
IIow  many  star\clings  one  ricli  man  can  nouri.sh  ! 
When  monarclis  l)ui](l,tli('  rubbinli-carriers  llouri.sh. 


Saral)  JTloiucr  ^bams. 

Miss  Flower  (180.5-1819),  a  n.ativc  of  London,  was  a 
younger  duughtcr  ofliunjaniin  Flower,  editor  of  the  Cam- 
bridge Inldlif/eHccr,  and  a  well-known  politician  of  the 
Liberal  school.  Sarah  was  married  to  William  B.  Adams, 
eminent  as  a  civil  engineer.  Tier  celebrated  hymn,  "Near- 
er, my  God,  to  Thee,"  founded  on  Jacob's  dream,  record- 
ed in  Genesis,  was  contributed  in  1841  to  a  LTnitarian  col- 
lection of  "  Hymns  and  Anthems,"  edited  by  William  J. 


Fox,  preacher  and  member  of  Parliament.  Few  hymns 
have  been  so  widely  popular.  It  has  been  adopted  by 
all  Christian  sects,  and  translated  into  various  languages, 
adapted  to  the  tune  of  "  Bethany."  Professor  Hitch- 
cock relates  that  as  he  and  his  travelling  companions 
rounded  their  way  down  the  foot-hills  of  Mount  Lebanon 
iu  1870,  they  came  iu  sight  of  a  group  of  lifty  Syrian 
students,  who  wei-e  singing  in  Arabic  tliis  beautiful  hymn 
to  this  familiar  tune.  Mrs.  Adams  was  also  the  author 
of  a  drama  in  five  acts,  founded  on  the  martyrdom  of 
Vivia  Pcrpctua,  and  published  in  1841 ;  and  of  "  The  Flock 
at  the  Fountain,"  desi'rned  for  children. 


NEAEER,  MY  GOD,  TO  TMEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raise th  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  nay  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though  like  a  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down. 
Darkness  comes  over  me. 

My  rest  a  stone ; 
Yet  iu  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  ! — 

Nearer  to  thee  I 

There  let  tho  way  appear 

Steps  unto  Heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  mo 

la  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts, 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I'll  raise; 

So  by  mj^  woes  to  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  theo — 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if,  on  joyful  wing, 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I'll  lly— 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 


SAEAH  FLOWER  ADAMS.— HENRY  GLASSFORD  BELL. 


609 


THE  WORLD   MAY  CHANGE. 

A  Paraphrase  from  Schiller. 

The  world  may  change  from  old  to  new, 

From  new  to  old  again ; 
Yet  liope  and  heaven,  forever  true, 

AYithin  man's  heart  remain. 
The  dreams  that  bless  the  weary  soul, 

The  struggles  of  the  strong, 
Are  steps  toward  some  happy  goal. 

The  story  of  Hope's  song. 

Hope  leads  tlie  child  to  plant  the  flower, 

The  man  to  sow  the  seed  ; 
Nor  leaves  fulfilment  to  her  hour, 

But  prompts  again  to  deed. 
And  ere  upon  the  old  man's  dust 

The  grass  is  seen  to  wave, 
"We  look  through  fallen  tears, — to  trust 

Hope's  sunshine  on  the  grave. 

Oh  no!   it  is  no  flattering  lure, 

No  fancy,  weak  or  fond, 
When  hope  would  Lid  us  rest  secure 

In  better  life  beyond : 
Nor  loss  nor  shame,  nor  grief  nor  siu. 

Her  promise  may  gainsay  ; 
The  voice  Divine  hath  spoke  within. 

And  God  did  ne'er  betrav. 


THY  AYILL,  NOT   MINE. 

He  sendeth  suu,  he  sendeth  shower, 
Alike  they're  needful  to  the  flower ; 
And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 
As  comes  to  me,  or  cloud  or  sun. 
Father!    thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Can  loving  children  e'er  reprove 

With  murmurs,  whom  they  trust  and  love' 

Creator !   I  would  ever  be 

A  trusting,  loving  child  to  thee: 

As  comes  to  me,  or  cloud  or  sun. 

Father!   thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Oh !   ne'er  will  I  at  life  repine — 
Enough  that  thou  hast  made  it  mine. 
Where  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death, 
I  yet  will  sing  with  parting  breath, 
As  comes  to  me,  or  shade  or  sun, 
Father!  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 
39 


f)cnrii  CIMassforb  Ucll. 

Bell  (180.5-1874)  was  a  native  of  Glasgow,  and  edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  After  leaving 
college  he  wrote  a  "Memoir  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots," 
which  passed  through  several  editions.  lie  edited  the 
Edlnhun/h  Literanj  Journal  for  three  years.  In  1833  he 
was  admitted  to  the  Bar,  became  quite  eminent  as  a  law- 
yer, and  in  1867  succeeded  Sir  Archibald  Alison  as  Sher- 
iff of  Lanarkshire.  His  first  volume  of  poems  appeared 
in  1831;  his  last  in  186.5,  with  the  title  of  "Romances, 
and  other  Elinor  Poems."  Highly  esteemed  by  all  wlio 
knew  him,  "he  had,"  says  one  of  his  biographers,  "al- 
most the  innocence  of  a  child  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
sase." 


FROM   "THE    END." 

Dear  friend,  is  all  we  see  a  dream  ? 

Does  this  brief  glimpse  of  time  and  space 
Exhaust  the  aims,  fulfil  the  scheme 

Intended  for  the  human  race? 

Shall  even  the  star-exploring  mind, 
Which  thrills  with  spiritual  desire, 

Be,  like  a  breath  of  summer  wind. 
Absorbed  in  sunshine  and  expire  ? 

Or  will  what  men  call  death  restore 

The  living  myriads  of  the  past? 
Is  dying  but  to  go  before 

The  myriads  who  will  come  at  last  ? 

If  not,  whence  sprang  the  thought,  and  whence 

Perception  of  a  Power  divine, 
Who  symbols  forth  Omnipotence 

In  flowers  that  bloom,  in  suns  that  shine  ? 

'Tis  not  these  fleshlj'  limbs  that  think, 
'Tis  not  these  filmy  eyes  that  see  ; 

Tliough  mind  and  matter  break  the  link, 
Mind  does  not  therefore  cease  to  be. 

Such  end  is  but  an  end  in  part. 
Such  death  is  but  the  body's  goal  ; 

Blood  makes  the  pul.ses  of  the  heart. 
But  not  the  emotions  of  the  soul. 


CADZONV. 

Tlie  birds  are  singing  by  Avon  Bridge, 
The  sky  is  blue  o'er  Chatebranlt, 

And  all  through  Cadzow's  wooded  glades 
Tiie  softest  airs  of  summer  blow. 


610 


CYCLOrjiDIA    OF  BlilTISU  ASV  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


O  birds  that  siug  by  Avou  Bridge, 

Why  should  your  notes  so  richly  How  ? 

()  tranquil  sky  of  rloiidless  blue, 

Why  shine  so  brij;ht  o'er  Chatebrault  ? 

O  Avou!   rolling  gently  down, 

Why  keep'st  thou  that  old  tiincrnl  tone.' 
Where  is  the  voice  so  soft  and  low 

Whose  music  echoed  back  thy  own  ? 

O  Cadzow  !   Avliy  this  rustling  pomp 
Of  leafy  boughs  that  wave  so  high  ? 

Where  is  the  light  that  gleamed  through  all 
Thy  shadowy  paths  in  days  gone  by  ? 

O  summer  airs!    w iiy  thus  recall 

Th*e  sweeter  breath,  that  seemed  to  bring 

The  balmy  dews  of  summer  skies, 
Aud  all  the  roses  of  the  spring ! 


(J^corgc  lllasljiugton  Uctljunc. 


Dr.  Bethunc  (1805-18G2),  an  eloquent  pulpit  orator  of 
the  Dutch  Church,  was  a  native  of  the  city  of  New  York, 
(iraduating  at  Dickinson  College  in  the  class  of  1832,  he 
studied  theology  at  Princeton,  and  preached  successively 
at  Rhinebeck,  Utica,  Philadelphia,  and  Brooklyn.  He 
published  iu  1848  "  Lays  of  Love  and  Faith." 


IT   IS   NOT  DEATH  TO   DIE. 

It  is  not  death  to  die,  to  leave  this  weary  road, 
Aud  'mid  the  brotherhood  on  high  to  be  at  home 

with  God. 
It  is  not  death  to  clo.se  the  eye  long  dimmed  by  tears, 
Aud  wake  in  glorious  repo.se  to  spend  eternal  years. 
It  is  not  death  to  bear  the  wrench  that  sets  us  free 
From  prison-bars,  to  breathe  the  air  of  boundless  lib- 
erty. 
It  is  not  death  to  fling  aside  this  sinful  dust. 
And  ris(!  on  strong,  exultant  wing  to  live  among  the 

jnst. 
Jesus,  thou  prince  of  life!    thy  cho.sen  cannot  die; 
Like  thee  they  couijucr  in  the  strife  to  live  with  thee 
on  high. 


SONNET,  INTRODUCING   "  LAYS,"  ETC. 

As  one  arranges  in  a  single  vase 

A  little  store  of  unpretending  flowers, 

So  gathered  I  some  record  of  past  hours, 


Aud  trust  them,  gentle  reader,  to  thy  grace  ; 

Nor  hope  that  in  my  pages  thou  wilt  trace 

The  brilliant  i)roof  of  higli  poetic  powers; 

IJut  dear  memorials  of  my  hapi)y  days. 

When  heaven  shed  blessings  on  my  head  like  show- 

«'rs ; 
Clothing  with  beauty  even  the  desert  place; 
Till  I,  with  thankful  gladness  in  my  looks, 
Turned  nic  to  God,  sweet  nature,  loving  friends, 
Christ's  little  children,  well-worn  ancient  books, 
The  charm  of  art,  the  rapture  music  sends, — 
Aud  sang  awav  the  grief  that  on  man's  lot  attends. 


Rcade  (1805-1870)  was  a  native  of  England.  His  first 
volume,  "The  Broken  Heart, aud  other  Poems,"  appear- 
ed in  182.5.  A  diligent,  if  not  a  distinguished,  writer,  he 
published  four  collective  editions  of  his  poetical  works 
(18.51-1805).  He  also  wrote  several  novels.  His  de- 
scription of  the  Colosseum,  though  suggestive  of  By- 
ron's "  Childe  Harold,"  is  grai)hic  and  vigorous,  showing 
no  inconsiderable  degree  of  original  power. 


THE    COLOSSEUM. 

1-  ROM  "  Italy  :    A  Toem." 

Hark  !   the  night's  slumberous  air  is  musical 
With  the  low  carolling  of  birds,  that  seem 
To  hold  here  an  enduring  festival : 
How  do  their  notes  and  nature's  flowers  redeem 
The  place  from  stained  pollution  !  if  the  stream 
And  reek  of  blood  gushed  forth  from  man  and 

beast. 
If,  Cain-like,  brethren  gloated  o'er  the  steam 
Of  immolation  as  a  welcome  feast, 
Ages  have  cleansed  the  guilt,  the  unnatural  strife 

hath  ceased. 

Along  its  shattered  edges  on  a  sky 
Of  azure,  sharply,  delicately  traced, 
The  light  Idrd  flits  o'er  flowers  that  wave  from 

high, 
Where  hiunan  foot  shall  nevermore  be  based  : 
Grass  mantles  the  arena  'mid  defaced 
And  broken  columns  freshly,  wildly  spread; 
And  through  the  hollow  windows  once  so  graced 
With  glittering  eyes,  faint  stars  their  twinklings 

shed. 
Lighting  as  if  with  life  those  sockets  of  the  dead! 

So  stretches  that  Titanic  skeleton  : 
Its  shattered  aud  enormous  circle  rent, 


BOBERT  T.  CONRAD.— SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


611 


And  yawuinj?  opeii,  aich  and  covering  gone ; 
As  the  lingo  crater's  sides  liang  imminent 
Ixonnd  the  volcano  whoso  last  flames  are  spent, 
Whoso  sounds  shall  nevermore  to  heaven  asjjire, 
So  frowns  that  stem  and  desolate  moiuiment ; 
A  stage  iu  rnin,  an  exhausted  pyre, 
riie  actors  passed  to  dust,  forever  quenched  tlie  lire  ! 


Uobcrt  ^.  Qlonralr. 

AMERICAN. 

Conrad  (1805-1858)  was  a  native  of  Philadelphia.  Quite 
early  in  life  he  manifested  strong  literary  tastes.  He 
studied  for  the  Bar,  became  an  accomplished  pleader,  was 
made  Judge  of  the  Court  of  General  Sessious  in  1840,  and 
Mayor  of  the  city  in  1854.  He  was  the  author  of  two 
tragedies,  "Conrad  of  Naples  "  and  "  Aylmere,"  the  lat- 
ter written  for  Forrest,  and  produced  on  the  stage  with 
success.  An  edition  of  Conrad's  poetical  and  dramatic 
writings  was  published  (1853)  in  Philadeli^hia. 


FROM  "  MY   BROTHER." 

Forever  gone!   I  am  alone — alone! 

Yet  my  heart  doubts;   to  me  thou  livest  yet: 
Love's  lingering  twilight  o'er  mj^  soul  is  thrown  ; 

E'en  when  the  orb  that  lent  that  light  is  set. 
Thou  miuglest  with  ray  liopes — does  Hope  forget? 

I  think  of  thee  as  thou  wert  at  my  side; 
I  grieve,  and  whisper — ^^He  too  Avill  regret;" 
I  doubt  and  ponder — "  How  will  he  decide  ?" 
I  strive,  but  'tis  to  win  thy  praises  and  thy  pride. 

For  I  thy  praise  could  win — tliy  praise  sincere. 
How  lov'dst  thou  me,  with  more  than  Avomau's 
love ! 
And  thou  to  me  wast  e'en  as  honor  dear! 
Nature  in  one  fond  woof  our  spirits  wove; 
Like  wedded  vines  enclasping  in  the  grove 
We  grew.     Ah!   withered  now  the  fairer  vine! 

But  from  the  living  who  the  dead  can  move? 
Blending  their  sere   and   green    leaves,  there   they 

twine, 
And  will,  till  dust  to  dust  shall  mingle  mine  with 
thine. 

The  sunshine  of  our  boyhood !     I  bethink 

How  we  were  wont  to  beat  the  briery  wood  ; 

Or  clamber,  boastful,  up  the  craggy  brink, 

AVhere  the  rent  mountain  frowns  npon  the  flood 
That  thrids  that  vale  of  beauty  and  of  blood, 

Sad  Wyoming!     The  whispering  past  will  tell. 
How  by  the  silver-browed  cascade  we  stood. 


And  Avatchod  the  sunlit  waters  as  they  fell      [dell. 
(So  youth  drops  in  the  grave)  down  in  the  shadowy 

And  how  W(!  plunged  in  Lackawanna's  wave; 

The  wild  fowl  startled,  when  to  echo  gay, 
In  that  hushed  dell,  glad  laugh  and  shout  we  gave ! 

Or  on  tlie  shaded  hill-side  how  we  lay 

And  watched  the  bright  I'ack  on  its  beamy  way. 
Dreaming  high  dreams  of  glory  and  of  pride  ; 

What  heroes  we,  in  freedom's  deadliest  fiay! 
How  poured  we  gladly  forth  life's  ruddy  tide. 
Looked  to  our  skyey  flag,  and  shouted,  smiled,  and 
died ! 

Bright  dreams — forever  past !     I  dream  no  more ' 

Memory  is  now  ruy  being :   her  sweet  tone 
Can,  like  a  spirit-spell,  the  lost  restore — 

My   tried,  my   true,  my   brave,  bright-thoughted 
one! 

Few  have  a  friend — and  such  a  friend!    But  none 
Have,  iu  this  bleak  world,  more  than  one ;  and  he, 

Ever  mine  own,  mine  only — lie  is  gone  I 
He  fell — as  hope  had  promised — for  the  free  : 
Our  earlj'^  dream, — alas !  it  was  no  dream  to  thee ! 


!5amucl  iTcrguson. 


A  native  of  Belfast,  Ireland,  Ferguson  was  born  in  1805. 
He  was  a  contributor  to  BlackwooiVs  Ifogazhie  and  the 
Dublin  University  Magazine.  An  edition  of  his  collected 
writings  was  published  in  1865 ;  and  in  1880  appeared 
"Poems  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson;"  he  having  been 
kniiihted. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  DoJphln^s  Anchor  forged  ;  'tis  at  a 
white-heat  now  ; 

The  billows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased ;  though 
ou  the  forge's  brow 

The  little  flames  still  fltfnlly  pl;iy  through  the  sa- 
ble mound ; 

And  titfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  rank- 
ing round, 

All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only 
bare ; 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the 
windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black 
mound  heaves  below. 

And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  ev- 
ery throe; 


612 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF   llUlTISil   AM)   AMERICAN  rOETUY. 


It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O  Viilcau,  wliat 
a  glow  I 

Tis  blinding  wbitc, 'tis  blasting  brigiit,  tiie  bigb  sun 
shines  not  so  I 

The  high  snn  sees  not,  on  (lie  earth,  siicli  licry  fear- 
ful show ; 

Tiie  roof-ribs  swarth,  tlie  eandent  hearth,  the  ruddy 
lurid  row 

Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  be- 
fore the  foe ; 

As  quivering  through  his  lleece  of  llanie  the  sail- 
ing monster  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow — 

"  Hurrah!"  they  shout ;  "  leap  out — leap  ont :"  bang, 
bang,  the  sledges  go; 

Hurrah!  the  jetted  lightnings  are  liissing  high  and 
low ; 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squash- 
ing bU)w : 

The  leathern  mail  rebonuds  the  hail ;  the  rattling 
cinders  strow 

The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  swelter- 
ing fountains  flow. 

And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every 
stroke, pant  "  Ho!" 

Leap  out.  leap  ont,  my  masters;  leap  out  and  lay 
on  load  I 

Let's  forge  a  goodly  Anchor,  a  l)ower  thick  and 
broad  ; 

For  a  heart  of  oak  is  banging  on  every  blow,  I  bode. 

And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  itcrilous 
road  ; 

'I'hc  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  the  roll  of  ocean 
poured 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,  the  niain-inast  by 
the  board ; 

The  bulwarks  down.  Ilic  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove 
at  the  chains  I 

Hut  courage  still,  brave  niiirim  is.  the  bower  still 
remains. 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye 
pitch  sky  high, 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  saiil,  "  Fear  noth- 
ing— here  am  I !'' 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand 
keep  time, 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  stee- 
ple's chime ! 

r>ut  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing:  and  let  the 
burden  be, 

'The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal  crafts- 
men we;" 


Strike  in,  strike  in,  the  sparks  begiu  to  dull  their 

rustling  red! 
Our  liammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will 

soon  be  sjied  ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich 

array, 
l'(U-  a   hammock   at   flu-   roaring  bows,  or  an   oozy 

couch  of  clay ; 
Our  anchor  soon   must   change   the   lay   of  merry 

craftsmen  here, 
For  the  Yo-heave-o,  and  the  Heave-away,  and  the 

sighing  .seaman's  cheer; 
\Vlieu  Aveighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far  from 

love  and  home. 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in   a  row,  wail  o'er  the 

ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom, hedarkcnsdown  at  last, 
A  shapely  one  he  is  and  strong  as  e'er  from  cat  was 

cast. 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life 

like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the 

deep  green  sea! 
O  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights 

as  thou  / 
The  hoary  monster.s'  palaces!   metliinks  what  joy 

'twere  now 
To  go  plump  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of 

the  whales, 
And  feel  the  churned   sea  round  me  boil  beneath 

their  scourging  tails! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea- 
unicorn, 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his 

ivory  horif ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  swordcr-fish,of  bony  blade  forlorn. 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to  laugh  his 

jaws  to  scorn  ; 
To   leap  down    on    the  kraken's   back,  where  'mid 

Norwegian  isles 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage,  for  sudden  shallowed 

miles  ; 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  v(dcano,ofl'  he  rolls; 
>b'aiuvhile  to  swing,  a  buffeting  the  far-astonished 

shoals 
Of  his  back-browsing  ocean  calves;  or  haply  in  a 

cove, 
Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Uiidin(5's 

love. 
To   find  the   long-haired  mermaidens;   or,  hard  by 

icy  lands. 
To  wrestle  with  the  .sea-serpent  upon  cerulean  sands. 


WILLIAM  BOWAX  HAMILTON.  — WILLIAM  PARSONS  LUNT. 


613 


O  broad-armeil  Fislicr  of  tho  deep,  whose  sports  can 

equal  thine? 
The  Dolphin  weifjhs  a  thonsaiid  tons  that  tnj^s  tliy 

cabU'  line  : 
And  night  by  niglit  'tis  thy  (h'liglit.  tiiy  gh)iy  day 

by  <hiy, 
Throngh  sable   sea   and   breaker   white,  the   giant 

game  to  play  ; — 
Bnt,  shanier  of  our  little  sports!   forgive;  the  name 

I  gave, 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy, — thine  office  is  to  save. 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-kings'  halls,  conldst  thon  bnt 

uncTerstand 
AVhose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  tiiat 

dripping  baiul, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  ronnd  abont 

thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream,  blessing  their 

ancient  friend — 
Oh,  conldst  thou  know  wliat  In^roes  glide  with  larger 

steps  ronnd  thee. 
Thine  iron  side  would   swell   with   pride,  thou'dst 

leap  within  the  seal 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant 
strand, 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Fa- 
therland— 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churcii- 
yard  grave 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave — 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly 
sung, 

Honor  hiui  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes 
among ! 

lUilliam  Uoroau  fjamilton. 

Hamilton  (1S05-18G5),  Astronomer  Royal  of  Dublin, 
was  also  a  poet.  George  Ticknor( Boston,  U.  S.  A.,  1791- 
1871),  in  bis  "Life,  Letters,  etc."  (1870),  speaks  of  the 
following  sonnet  as  "one  of  the  finest  in  the  English 
language."  Wordsworth  once  said  to  Mr.  Aubrey  de 
Vere :  "I  have  known  many  that  might  be  called  very 
clever  men,  and  a  good  many  of  real  and  vigorous  abilities, 
butfew  of  genius;  and  only  one  whom  I  should  call  won- 
derful. That  one  was  Coleridge.  *  *  *  The  only  man  like 
Coleridge  whom  1  liave  known  is  Sir  William  Hamilton, 
Astronomer  Royal  of  Dublin." 

A   PRAYER. 

O  brooding  Spirit  of  Wisdom  and  of  Love, 
Whose  mighty  wings  even  now  o'ershadow  me, 


Ab,sorb  me  in  thine  own  immensity, 

And  rai.se  mo  far  my  finite  self  above  ! 

Purge  vanity  away,  and  the  weak  care 

That  name  or  fame  of  mo  nniy  widely  spread  ; 

And  tho  deep  Avish  keep  burning  in  tiieir  stead, 

Thy  blissful  influence  afar  to  bear, — 

Or  see  it  borne !     Let  no  desire  of  ease. 

No  lack  of  courage,  faith,  or  love,  delay 

Mine  owu  steps  ou  that  high  tliought-paven  way 

In  which  my  soul  her  clear  commission  sees : 

Yet  with  an  equal  joy  let  me  behold 

Tiiy  chariot  o'er  that  way  by  others  rolled ! 


TO  ADAMS, 

DrSCOVERER   OF   THE    PLAXET   NEPTUNE. 

When  Vulcan  cleft  the  laboring  brain  of  Jove 

With  his  keen  axe,  and  set  Minerva  free. 

The  unimprisoned  maid,  exnltingly. 

Bounded  aloft,  and  to  the  Heaven  above 

Turned  her  clear  eyes,  while   the   grim   workman 

strove 
To  claim  the  virgin  Wisdom  for  his  fee, 
His  private  wealth,  his  property  to  be. 
And  hide  in  Lemniau  cave  her  light  of  love. 
If  some  new  truth,  oh  friend,  thy  toil  discover. 
If  thine  eyes  first  by  some  fair  form  be  blessed, 
Love  it  for  what  it  is,  and  as  a  lover 
Gaze,  or  with  joy  receive  thine  honored  guest: 
The  new-found  Thought,  set  free,  awhile  may  hover 
Gratefully  near  thee,  bnt  it  cannot  rest. 


llliUiam  IparsoiiG  £uut. 


Lunt  was  born  at  Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  1805,  and  died 
at  Akbar,  in  Arabia  Petrffia,  March  20th,  1857.  He  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1823;  studied  law  for  a 
time,  then  divinitj*.  He  oflieiated  in  1828  as  pastor  of  the 
Second  Unitarian  Church  in  New  York,  but  in  1835  took 
charge  of  the  church  in  Quincy,  Mass.,  and  retained  it 
up  to  the  time  of  his  death.  His  writings,  both  in  prosi- 
and  verse,  give  evidence  of  a  clear,  highly  cultivated  in- 
tellect and  of  an  emotional  nature,  quick  to  sympathize 
with  the  good,  beautiful,  and  true. 


THE   AMERICAN   FLAG. 

Flag  of  my  country!   in  thy  folds 

Are  wrapped  the  treasures  of   the  heart ; 

Where'er  that  waving  sheet  is  fanned 

By  breezes  of  the  sea  or  land, 
It  bids  the  life-blood  start. 


614 


CYCLOPJ^.DIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


It  is  not  that  anioiij;  those  stars 

The  fiery  crest  of  Mars  shines  out ; 
It  is  not  that  on  battle-phiiii, 
'Mid  heaps  of  harnessed  warriors  shiiii, 
It  flaps  triuinphaut  o'er  the  rout. 

Short-lived  the  joy  that  conquest  yiehls ; 

Fhished  victory  is  bathed  in  tears; 
The  burden  of  that  bloody  fame 
Wliich  shouting  myriads  proclaim 

Sounds  sad  to  widowed  oars 

Thou  hast  a  deeper,  stronger  hold, 
Flag  of  my  country!   on  the  heart, 

Than  when  o'er  mustered  hosts  unfurh'd, 

Thou  art  a  signal  to  the  world, 
At  which  the  nations  start. 

Thou  art  a  symbol  of  the  power 

Whose  sheltering  wings  our  homes  surround 
Guarded  by  thee  was  childhood's  morn, 
And  where  thy  cheering  fcdds  are  borne, 

Order  and  Peace  are  found. 

ring  of  our  mighty  Union,  hail! 

Blessings  abound  Avhere  thou  dost  float ; 
Best  robe  for  living  Freedom's  form, 
Fit  pall  to  spread  upon  her  tomb, 

Should  Heaven  to  death  devote. 

Wave  over  ns  in  glory  still, 

And  be  our  guardian  as  now  ! 
Each  wind  of  heaven  salute  thy  streaks  ! 
And  withei-ed  be  the  arm  that  .seeks 

To  bring  tliat  banner  low  ! 


lUilliam  CIoijli  (J^arriGon. 

AMERICAN. 

Garrison  was  born  in  Ncwburyport,  Mass.,  December 
lOUi,  180.5,  and  died  in  the  city  of  New  York,  May 'J4th, 
1879.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  rare  good  sense  and 
strong  religions  convictions.  The  family  were  poor,  and 
William  had  few  advantages.  He  began  early  to  learn 
the  trade  of  a  shoemaker,  but  left  it  for  the  printing- 
office.  This  led  to  his  becoming  associated  in  an  edi- 
torial capacity  with  various  journals.  In  1829  he  joined 
Benjamin  Lnndy  in  starting  The  Gcnim  of  Universal  Eimm- 
cipalion  in  Baltimore,  and  was  imprisoned  some  thirty 
days  for  his  attacks  on  the  slave  system.  In  1831  aiipear- 
ed  the  Liberator,  published  in  Boston.  Thenceforward 
he  devoted  himself  strenuously  to  the  eradication  of 
slavery  from  the  land.  Political  developments,  attended 
by  tlic  estrangement  of  the  South,  gradually  led  to  the 


conflict  which  ended  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  life-long  en- 
deavors. Two  of  the  subjoined  sonnets  were  tiaccd  in 
IK'ucil  on  the  walls  of  the  cell  where  he  was  imprisoned. 
He  i)ublislicd  a  volume  of  nin,ety-six  pages  in  1843,  enti- 
tled "  Sonnets,  and  other  Poems." 


THE   GUILTLESS  PKISONER. 

Prisoner!  within  these  gloomy  walls  close  pent, 
Guiltless  of  horrid  crime  or  venal  wron^ — 
Bear  nobly  up  against  thy  punishment. 
And  in  thy  innocence  be  great  and  strong! 
Perchance  thy  fiinlt  was  love  to  all  mankind; 
Tiiou  didst  oppose  some  vile,  oppressive  law, 
Or  strive  all  human  fetters  to  unbind  ; 
Or  wouldst  not  bear  the  implements  of  war: 
What  then?     Dost  thou  so  soon  repent  the  deed? 
A  martyr'.s*  crown  is  richer  than  a  king's ! 
Tliink  it  an  honor  with  thy  I^ord  to  bleed, 
And  glory  'mid  intensest  sult'erings! 
Though  beat,  imprisoned,  put  to  open  shame, 
Time  shall  embalm  and  magnifv  tliy  name! 


FREEDOM    OF  THE    MIND. 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baflle  his  design. 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways; 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control! 
No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes! 
It  leaps  from  nunuit  to  mount — from  vale  to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale. — 
Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  iiours; 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star! 


TO   BENJAMIN   LUNDY. 

Self-taught,  unaided,  jxior,  reviled,  contemned, 

Beset  witii  enemies,  by  friends  l)etrayed  ; 

As  madman  and  fanatic  oft  condemned, 

Yet  in  thy  noble  cause  still  nndismayed  ; 

Leonidas  could  not  thy  courage  boast ; 

Less  numerous  were  his  foes,  his  band  more  strong ; 

Alone  unto  a  more  than  Persian  host. 

Thou  hast  undauntedly  given  battle  long. 

Nor  shalt  thou  singly  wage  the  unequal  strife  ; 


WILLIAM  LLOYD   GARRISON.— FREDERIC  HENRY  HEDGE. 


615 


Uuto  thy  aid,  with  spear  and  shield,  I  rush, 

And.  freely  do  I  offer  up  my  iilt', 

And  hid  my  heart's-hlood  liud  ;i  wound  to  gush  ! 

New  volunteers  are  trooping  to  the  held  ; 

To  die  we  are  prepared,  but  not  an  inch  to  yield. 


SONNET. 

How  shall  my  love  to  God  be  clearest  shown  ? 
He  nothing  needs  of  all  that  I  possess ; 
Nothing  it  costs  lip  homage  to  express, 
In  sackcloth  and  iu  ashes  to  lie  prone, 
Sin  in  the  abstract  loudly  to  bemoan  ! 
Easy  it  is  religion  to  profess. 
And  praise  and  magnify  Christ's  righteousness; 
For  this  requires  but  empty  breath  alone. 
By  cleaving  to  the  truth  when  under  ban, 
Striving  to  break  Oppression's  iron  rod. 
Bearing  the  cross  where  freedom  leads  the  van, 
Shunning  no  path  by  faithful  martyrs  trod. 
And  loving  as  myself  my  fellow-man, — 
Thus  clearest  shall  I  show  my  love  to  God. 


JTreiicric  f)eniii  C)ci)gc. 


Hedge  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1805 — the  son 
of  Levi  Hedge,  teacher  of  Logic,  etc.,  at  Harvard  College. 
Ill  1818  he  accompanied  George  Bancroft  to  Germany, 
and  studied  there  for  some  time.  Returning  to  America, 
he  graduated  at  Harvard  in  18:35,  and  studied  for  the  min- 
istry. In  1856  he  took  charge  of  the  parish  in  Brookline, 
Mass.  ;  but  in  1873  removed  to  Cambridge,  and  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  German  Literature.  Dr.  Hedge  has 
been  a  voluminous  author,  has  published  various  trans- 
lations from  the  German,  and  written  some  excellent 
hvmns. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

'Twas  the  day  when  God's  Anoin,ted 
Died  for  ns  the  death  appointed, 

Bleeding  on  the  guilty  cross ; 
Day  of  darkness,  day  of  terror. 
Deadly  fruit  of  ancient  error. 

Nature's  fall,  and  Eden's  loss. 

Haste,  prepare  the  bitter  chalice! 
Gentile  hate  and  Jewish  malice 

Lift  the  royal  victim  high — 
Like  the  serpent,  wonder-gifted. 
Which  the  Prophet  once  uplifted — 

For  a  sinful  world  to  die. 


Conscious  of  the  deed  unholy, 
Nature's  pulses  beat  more  slowly, 

And  the  snn  his  light  denied ; 
Darkness  wrapped  the  sacred  city, 
AikI  the  earth  with  fear  and  pity 

Trembled  when  the  Just  One  died. 

It  is  finished,  Man  of  sorrows! 
From  thy  cross  our  nature  borrows 

Strength  to  bear  and  conquer  thus. 
While  exalted  there  we  view  thee, 
Mighty  sufferer,  draw  us  to  thee, 

Sufferer  victorious! 

Not  in  vain  for  us  uplifted, 
Man  of  sorrows,  wonder-gifted! 

May  that  sacred  symbol  be. 
Eminent  amid  the  ages. 
Guide  of  heroes  and  of  sages. 

May  it  guide  ns  still  to  thee ! 

Still  to  thee,  whose  love  unbounded 
Sorrow's  deep  for  us  has  sounded, 

Perfected  by  sorrows  sore. 
Glory  to  thy  cross  forever! 
Star  that  points  our  high  endeavor 

Whither  thou  hast  gone  before. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought 

Other  substance  thau  my  thought  ? 

Lives  it  by  my  sense  alone. 

Or  by  essence  of  its. own? 

Will  its  life,  with  mine  begun, 

Cease  to  be  when  that  is  done. 

Or  another  consciousness 

With  the  self-same  forms  impress  ? 

Doth  yon  fire-ball,  poised  iu  air, 
Haug  by  my  permission  there  ? 
Are  the  clouds  that  wander  by 
But  the  offspring  of  mine  eye, 
Born  with  cver^'  glance  I  cast. 
Perishing  when  that  is  past  ? 
And  those  thousand,  thousand  eyes. 
Scattered  through  the  twinkling  skies, 
Do  they  draw  their  life  from  mine, 
Or  of  their  own  beauty  shine? 

Now  I  close  my  eyes,  m3'  ears, 
And  creation  disappears; 


616 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  roKTRY. 


Yet  if  I  but  speak  the  word, 

All  creation  is  lostorcd. 

Or — more  wonderftil — witliiii, 

New  creations  do  begin  ; 

lines  more  bright  and  forms  more  rare 

Than  reality  doth  wear, 

Flash  across  my  inward  sense, 

Horn  of  the  mind's  omnipotence. 

!Sonl  I   that  all  informest,  say  ! 
Shall  these  glories  pass  away? 
Will  those  planets  cease  to  blaze 
When  these  eyes  no  longer  gaze? 
And  the  life  of  things  be  o'er, 
When  these  pulses  beat  no  more  ? 

Thonglit  I   that  in  me  Avorks  and  lives, — - 

Life  to  all  things  living  gives, — 

Art  thou  not  thyself,  perchance. 

But  the  universe  in  trance? 

A  reflection  iidy  flung 

By  that  world  thou  fauciedst  sprung 

From  thyself, — thyself  a  dream, — 

Of  the  world's  thinking,  thou  the  theme 

Be  it  thus,  or  be  thy  birth 

From  a  source  above  the  earth, — 

Be  thou  matter,  be  thou  mind. 

In  thee  alone  myself  I  liud, 

And  through  thee  alone,  for  me, 

Hath  this  world  reality. 

Therefore,  in  thee  will  I  live. 

To  thee  all  myself  will  give, 

Losing  still,  that  I  may  And 

'J'his  bounded  self  in  boundless  mind. 


-frcbcrick  <J^cnni)50u. 

Born  about  the  year  1806,  and  educated  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  Frederick  was  the  eldest  of  the  three 
Tennyson  brothers,  all  of  wlioni  seem  to  have  been  gen- 
uine poets.  In  his  religious  views  he  is  an  outspoken 
Spiritualist,  witli  a  leaning  to  Swedenborg's  teachings. 


THE   BLACKBIRD. 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon ! 

The  Blackbird  sings  along  the  sunny  breczo 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  and  summer  boou  ; 

Rich  breath  of  hay-fields  streams  through  whis- 
pering trees ; 
And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling  wings, 
And  listen  fondly — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 


How  soft  the  lovelight  of  the  West  reposes 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 

On  the  trim  cottage  with  its  screen  of  roses. 
On  the  gray  belfrj'  with  its  ivy  hood, 

And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel  that  flings 

Its  bubbling  freshness — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 

Seems  as  'twere  dreaming  in  a  dozy  rest; 

The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the  porch 
Bask  iu  the  kindly  welcome  of  the  West: 

But  the  broad  casements  of  the  old  Three  Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace — whib  the  Blackbird  sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three  rosy  revellers  round  a  table  sit. 

And  through  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto  the  realm. 
Curse  good  and  great,  but  worship  their  own  wit, 

And  roar  of  tights,  and  fairs,  and  junketings. 

Corn,  colts,  and    curs  —  the    while   the   Blackbird 
sings. 

Before  her  home,  in  her  accustomed  seat, 
The  tidy  grandam  spins  beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  old  honeysuckle, — at  her  feet 

The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby  laid  : 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  nuiiden  clings. 

And  spells  in  silence — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 

Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gardens  green. 

While  the  far  fields,  with  sunlight  overflowed, 
Like  golden  shores  of  Fairy-land  are  seen  ; 

Again  the  sun.shine  on  the  shadow  springs, 

And  tires  the  thicket — where  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Thi>  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  manor-house. 

With  its  peach-covered  walls,  and  rookery  loud. 
The  trim,  quaint  garden-alleys,  screened  with  boughs, 

The  lion-headed  gates,  so  grim  and  proud, 
The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murmurings. 
Lie  in  warm  sunshine — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of  festal  garments — and  my  lady  streams 

With  her  gaj'  court  across  the  garden  green; 
Some  laugh  and  dance,  some  whisper  their  love- 
dreams. 

And  one  calls  for  a  little  page;   he  strings 

Her  lute  beside  lier — Avhile  the  Blackbird  sings. 

A  little  while — and  lo !   the  charm  is  heard; 

A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  summer,  steals 


FREDERICK  TENNYSOX.— CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


61' 


Forth  from  the  noisy  j^nests  aroiuul  the  board, 

Creeps  by  her  softly ;    at  her  footstool  kneels  : 
And,  when  she  pauses,  murmurs  teuder  tilings 
Into  her  fond  ear — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

The  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys  curl  nphiglier, 
And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 

Upon  the  light;   the  breeze  begins  to  tire. 
Half-way  to  sunset,  with  a  drowsy  note, 

The  ancient  clock  from  out  the  valley  swings; 

The  grand.'un  nods — and  still  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Far  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farm-stead  peal, 
Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  iu  the  sun ; 

Through  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons  reel, 
And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run ; 

While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  off,  aud  brings 

Tlie  merry  tempest — and  the  Blackbird  sings. 

On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 
Burns,  like  a  beacon,  over  dale  aud  stream  ; 

The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  aud  the  fun  ; 
The  grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be  her  dreams! 

Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings; 

The  day  is  dying — still  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Now  the  good  vicar  passes  from  his  gate. 

Serene,  with  long  white  hair;   and  in  his  eye 

Burns  the  clear  spirit;  that  has  conquered  Fate, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality ; 

His  heart  is  thronged  with  great  imagiuings, 

And  tender  mercies — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps,  and  through 
A  lowly  wicket;  and  at  last  he  stands 

Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 

From  boyhood  with  him, — who,  with  lifted  hands 

And  eyes,  seems  listening  to  far  welcomings 

And  sweeter  music — than  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Two  golden  stars,  like  tokens  from  the  blessed. 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting  sun  ; 

His  sinking  hands  seem  pointing  to  the  West; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said,  " Thy  will  be  done  !" 

His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illnminiiigs ; 

His  ears,  they  hear  not — what  the  Blackbird  sings. 


SONNET. 

'Tis  not  for  golden  eloquence  I  pray, 

A  godlike  tongue  t»  move  a  stony  heart : — 

Methinks  it  were  full  well  to  be  apart 


In  solitary  uplands  far  away, 
B(;tween  the  blossoms  of  a  rosy  spray. 
Dreaming  upon  the  wonderful  sweet  face 
Of  Nature  in  a  wild  and  pathless  place. 
And  if  it  chanced  that  I  did  once  array, 
In  words  of  magic  woven  curiously, 
All  the  deep  gladness  of  a  summer's  morn, 
Or  rays  of  evening  that  light  up  the  lea 
On  dewy  days  of  spring,  or  shadows  boruo 
Across  the  forehead  of  an  autunni  noon, — 
Then  would  I  die  and  ask  no  better  boon. 


Cljarlcs  iTcnno  i^offi"^"- 

AMERICAN. 

Hoffman  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York  iu  1800. 
While  yet  a  boy,  as  he  was  sitting  carelessly  at  the  end 
of  a  pier  on  the  Hudson,  a  steamboat  drew  up  and  crush- 
ed one  of  his  legs,  so  that  he  liad  to  have  it  amputated. 
Thenceforward  he  had  to  go  with  a  wooden  leg.  This 
did  not  prevent  his  making  an  adventurous  journey  on 
horseback  tln'ough  the  North-western  States  to  the  Mis- 
sissippi in  1833.  He  published,  on  his  return,  a  grapliie 
account  of  his  adventures  in  a  volume,  entitled  "A  Win- 
ter in  the  West."  Educated  at  Columbia  College,  HoflT- 
raan  tried  the  law,  but  drifted  into  literature,  and  edited 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  for  a  year  or  two.  Bryant 
has  truly  said  of  him:  "His  kindly  and  generous  temper 
and  genial  manners  won  the  attachment  of  all  who  kiruw 
him.  His  poems  bear  the  impress  of  his  noble  cliarac- 
tor."  Hoffman  became  insane,  and  passed  the  last  quar- 
ter of  his  life  in  an  asylum. 


MONTEEEY. 

"Peiids  toi,  brave  Crillon  !    Nons  avons  combatta,  et  tu  n'y 
etois  pas." — Lettre  de  Henri  IV.  d  Crillon. 

We  were  not  many,  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  steel  that  day — 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray. 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  tliem  wailed 

Tlieir  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way  ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stepped, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  that  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 


618 


cycloj'.j:i>ia  of  British  and  American  poetry. 


The  foo  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
Wo  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  lunrdenms  blast, 
Stormed  home  tht!  towers  of  Monterey. 

Onr  banners  on  those  turrets  wave. 

And  there  onr  evening  bugles  play  ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many — we  wiio  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  Avarrior  rest, 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


lUilliam  ([Mlmorc  Simms 


Simms  (1S0G-1S70)  was  a  native  of  Charleston,  S.  C, 
and  resided  there  most  of  his  life,  with  the  exception  of 
occasional  visits  to  New  York,  where  he  was  well  known 
in  literary  circles.  He  wrote  numerous  novels,  the  most 
successful  of  which  was  "The  Yemassee."  His  princi- 
pal poems  are  "Atlantis,"  "  Lays  of  the  Palmetto,"  and 
"Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  South."  Simms  was  a  pro- 
lific writer,  and  as  he  wrote  for  an  inmiediatc  support, 
he  had  little  time  to  blot.  A  list  of  some  sixty  volumes 
from  his  pen  may  be  found  in  Applctou's  "Cyclopaedia." 
As  a  man  he  w'as  thoroughly  estimable.  His  collected 
poems,  in  two  volumes,  were  published  by  Redficld,  New 
York,  1853.  In  18'2'.)  he  had  purchased  an  interest  in  a 
newspaper ;  but  this  proved  a  losing  venture,  as  the  doc- 
trine of  nullification  was  then  in  the  ascendant,  and  he 
was  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  mainlcuancc  of  the 
Union.     Ilis  education  was  limited. 


TIIK   ITIJST   DAY   OF   SrRING. 

OI   tiion  bright  and  beautiful  day. 
First  bright  day  of  the  virgin  spring, 

Bringing  the  .slumbering  life  into  play, 
Giving  the  leaping  bird  his  wing! 

Thou  art  round  me  now  in  all  thy  hues, 
Thy  robe  of  green,  and  thy  scented  sweets, 

In  thy  bursting  buds,  in  thy  blessing  dews. 
In  every  form  that  my  footstep  meets. 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  lark's  clear  note. 
In  the  cricket's  chirp  at  the  evening  hour, 


In  the  zephyr's  sighs  that  around  me  float, 

In   I  lie   breathing  bud  and  the  opening  llower. 

I  see  thy  forrus  o'er  the  jtarting  earth. 
In  the  tender  shoots  of  the  grassy  blade. 

In  the  thousainl  plants  that  sjiring  to  birth. 
On  the  valley's  side  in  the  honu;  of  shade. 

I  feel  thy  promise  in  all  my  veins, 

They  bound  with  a  feeling  long  suppressed, 

And,  like  a  captive  who  breaks  his  chains. 
Leap  the  glad  hopes  in  my  heaving  breast. 

Tliere  are  life  and  joy  in  thy  coming,  Spring! 

Thou  hast  no  tidings  of  gloom  and  death; 
But  buds  thou  shakest  from  every  wing. 

And  sweets  thou  breathest  with  everv  breath. 


FKEEDOM   OF  THE   SABBATH. 

Let  us  escape!    This  is  our  holiday — 

God's  day,  devote  to  rest;   and,  through  the  wood 

We'll  wander,  and,  perchance,  find  heavenly  food: 

So,  profitless,  it  shall  not  pass  away. 

'Tis  life,  but  with  sweet  ditfereuce,  methink.s. 

Here  in  the  forest ; — from  the  crowd  set  free, 

The  spirit,  like  escaping  song-bird,  drinks 

Fresh  sense  of  music  from  its  liberty. 

Thoughts  crowd  about  us  with  the  trees  :  the  shade 

Holds  teachers  that  await  us:   in  our  ear, 

Unwonted  but  sweet  voices  do  we  hear, 

That  with  rare  excellence  of  tongue  persuade: 

They  do  not  chide  onr  idlesse, — were  content 

If  all  our  walks  were  half  so  innocent. 


SOLACE    OF   THE    WOODS. 

Woods,  waters,  have  a  charm  to  soothe  the  car, 

When  common  sounds  have  vexed  it :  when  the  day 

(Jrows  sultry,  and  the  crowd  is  in  thy  way, 

-Vnd  working  in  thy  soul  much  coil  and  eare. 

Hi'take  thee  to  the  forest:    in  the  shade 

Of  pines,  and  by  the  side  of  purling  streams 

That  prattle  all  their  secrets  in  their  dreams. 

Unconscious  of  a  listener — unafraid — 

Thy  soul  shall  feel  their  freshening,  and  the  truth 

Of  nature  then,  reviving  in  thy  heart, 

Shall  bring  thee  the  best  feelings  of  thy  youth. 

When  in  all  natural  joys  thy  joy  had  part, 

Ere  lucre  and  the  narrowing  toils  of  trade 

Had  turned  thee  to  the  thin<i  (hou  wast  not  made. 


ELIZABETH  OAEES  SMITH.— JOHN  STERLING. 


619 


Orliuabctlj  (DakcG  !5initl). 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Smith  was  born  in  180G  at  Cumborhuul,  about 
twL'lvc  niilos  from  Portland,  Me.  Iler  maiden  name  was 
Elizabeth  Oakes  Prince.  Siic  married,  in  1823,  Seba 
Smith,  author  of  the  "Jack  Downing  Letters,"  and  sev- 
eral poems.  The  fomily  removed  to  New  York  in  1839, 
and  after  Mr.  Smith's  death  in  18G8,  she  resided  for  sever- 
al years  in  North  Carolina.  She  published  "  Tiie  Sinless 
Child,  and  other  Poems,"  wrote  tragedies,  stories,  and 
hynms,  besides  contributing  largely  to  magazines  and 
newspapers.  Latterl}'  she  resided  at  Patchogue,  Suffolk 
County,  N.  Y. 


SONNET:    THE   UNATTAINED. 

And  is  this  life?  and  are  ^e  born  for  this? — 

To  follow  phantoms  that  elude  the  grasp, 

Or  whatsoe'er  secured,  withiu  our  clasp, 

To  withering  lie,  as  if  each  earthly  kiss 

Were  doomed   death's  shuddering   touch   alone  to 

meet. 
O  Life !   hast  thou  reserved  no  cup  of  bliss  ? 
Must  still  The  Uxatt^vined  beguile  onr  feet? 
The  L'x.vttaixed  with  j-earniugs  fill  the  breast, 
That  rob  for  aye  the  Spirit  of  its  rest  ? 
Yes,  this  is  Life  ;   and  everywhere  we  meet, 
Not  victor  crowns,  but  wailings  of  defeat; 
Yet  faint  thou  not:   thou  dost  apply  a  test, 
That  shall  incite  thee  onward,  upward  still: 
The  present  cauuot  sate,  uor  e'er  thy  si)irit  till. 


SONNET:    POESY. 

With  no  fond,  sickly  thirst  fur  fame  I  kneel, 

0  godde.S3  of  the  high-born  art,  to  thee ; 
Not  unto  thee  with  semblance  of  a  zeal 

1  come,  O  pure  and  heaven-eyed  Poesy ! 
Thou  art  to  rae  a  spirit  and  a  love. 

Felt  ever  from  the  time  when  first  the  earth 
In  its  greeu  beauty,  and  the  sky  above. 
Informed  my  soul  with  joy  too  deep  for  mirth. 
^  was  a  child  of  thine  before  my  tongue 
uld  lisp  its  infant  utterance  unto  thee  ; 
now,  albeit  from  my  lieart  are  flung 
^anfc  numbers,  and  the  song  may  be 
'"\\  I  would  not,  yet  I  know  tiiat  thou 
■  wilt  not  spurn,  while  thus  to  thee  I  bow. 


^NNET:    FAITH. 

-faith  is  the  subtle  chain 
he  Infinite  :   the  voice 


Of  a  deep  life  within,  that  will  remain 

Until  we  crowd  it  thence.     ^Ve  may  rejoice 

With  an  exceeding  joy,  and  make  our  life. 

Ay,  this  external  life,  become  a  part 

Of  that  which  is  within,  o'erwrought  and  rife 

With  faith,  that  childlike  blessedness  of  heart;  — 

The  order  and  the  harmony  inborn 

With  a  perpetual  hymning  crown  onr  way. 

Till  callousness  and  sclti.shness  and  scorn 

Shall   pass   as   clouds   where    scathlcss   light 

play ! 
Cling  to  thy  faith  :  'tis  higlier  than  the  thoi 
That  questions  of  thy  faith,  the  cold  external  d 


jIoIju  Sterling. 

Sterling  (1806-18-14)  was  born  at  Kaimes  Casth 
of  Bute.     His  father,  Cai)tain  Sterling,  became  edit 
the  Times  newspaper,  and  John,  having  been  educai 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  was  early  introduced 
the  best  literary  society  of  London.    This  included  ■ 
ridge  and  Carlyle;  and  with  the  latter,  who  wrote  ■. 
moir  of  him,  he  became  very  intimate.    He  took  hor 
ders  in  the  Church,  and  preached  for  eight  months  ■ 
failing  health  and  doubts  as  to  the  creed  he  was  ti 
ing  induced  him  to  resign  his  charge.     Thencefor'  i 
devoted  himself  to  literature,  writing  ior  BlackwoocT s  ' 
azine  and  the  ^\'eiitlnillster  Review.     In  the  former  .- 
of  his  poems  first  appeared.     He  published  a  voluin 
them,  1839;  "The  Election,"  a  poem,  1841;  and 
ford,"  a  tragedy,  1843.    His  prose  works,  edited  by  A 
deacon  Hare,  appeared  in  1848.    Sterling  was  remark 
for  his  genial,  amiable  traits,  and  his  conversational ; 
ers.    He  was  the  charm  of  every  society  into  whi( ' 
entered.     His  poems  lack  the  popular  element,  bu. 
rich  in  profound,  earnest  thought. 


;^r,;if- 


TO   A   CHILD. 

Dear  child!   whom  sleep  can  hardly  tam< 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame. 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  tliy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn. 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves. 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 

With  briglit  round  check,  amid  whose  glow 

Delight  and  wonilcr  come  and  go, 

And  eyes  wlio.se  inward  meanings  play, 

Congenial  with  the  light  of  day, 

And  brow  so  calm,  a  liome  for  thought, 

Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought ; 


(520 


CTCLOPjEDIA    of  URITISH  AM)   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlioujjh  wise  indeed  thou  seomest  not, 

Tlioti   l)iij;liU'iu'«t  wt'll  the  wise  man's  lol. 

Tliat  shout  proclaims  Ihc  nndoiihling  mind. 
That  laiijjhter  leaves  no  aclie  behind ; 
And  iu  thy  look  and  dance  of  gU'c, 
Unforced,  unthonght  of,  simply  free, 
How  weak  the  schoolmau's  formal  art 
Tby  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part! 
I  hail  thee  childhood's  very  lord, 
In  ^aze  and  glance,  iu  voice  and  word. 

Ill  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 

A  tiling  tiioii  art  of  present  cheer; 

And  thus  to  be  beloved  and  known 

As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone. 

As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 

Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade  : 

Thou  art  a  Hasli  that  lights  the  whole  ; 

A  gush  from  nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  child!    within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives. 
That  makes  thee  more  thau  liglit  or  air, 
Thau  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee, 
For  'mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  i>erfect  heart  and  will  of  man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  slialt  be ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlauds  blow 
Tiie  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 
Ever  within  not  lond  bnt  clear 
Prophetic  murmnr  fills  the  ear. 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 


THE    MAN    SURVIVES. 

iMiOM  "IlVMXS   OF    A    llEllMIT." 

How  strange  is  death  to  life!    and  yet  how  sure 
The  law  wliieh  dooms  each  living  thing  to  <lie ! 

Wliatc'er  is  outward  cannot  long  endure. 
And  all  that  lasts  eludes  the  subtlest  eye. 

IJecause  the  eye  is  only  made  to  si)ell 

The  grosser  garb  and  failing  husk  of  things; 

Tlie  vital  strength  and  stream  that  inlier  dwells, 
Our  faith  divines  amid  their  secret  springs. 


The  stars  will  sink  as  fade  the  lamps  of  earth, 
The  eartli  be  lost  as  vapor  seen  no  mine, 

And  all  around  that  seems  of  oldest  birth. 
Abides  one  destined  day — aud  all  is  o'er. 

The  si»irit  leaves  the  body's  wondrous  frame. 
That  frame  itself  a  world  of  strength  and  skill; 

The  nobler  inuiate  new  abodes  will  claim, 
In  every  change  to  Thee  aspiring  still. 

Oh  !   rather  bear  beyond  the  date  of  stars 

All  torments  heaped  that  nerve  and  soul  can  feel. 

Than  bnt  one  hour  believe  destruction  mars 
Without  a  hope  the  life  our  bi'casts  I'eveal ! 

Although  from  darkness  born,  to  darkness  lied. 
We  know  that  light  beyond  snrronnds  the  whole  ; 

The  man  survives,  though  the  weird  cori)se  be  dead, 
And  He  who  dooms  the  llesh  redeems  the  soul. 


PROSE  AND   SONG. 

I  looked  upou  a  plain  of  green, 

That  some  one  called  the  land  of  prose, 

W^here  many  living  things  were  seeu, 
In  movement  or  repose. 

I  looked  upon  a  stately  hill 

That  well  was  named  the  mount  of  song, 
Where  goldeu  shadows  dwelt  at  will 

The  woods  and  streams  among. 

But  most  this  fact  my  wonder  bred. 

Though  known  by  all  the  nobly  wise, — 

It  was  the  mountain  streams  that  fed 
The  fair  green  plain's  amenities. 


iJulia  JOarboc. 


Miss  Pardoc  (180G-18(tt)  was  a  native  of  Beverlc- 
Yorksliire,  England.     Slic  was  an  extensive  wri' 
novels,  books  of  travel,  and  historical  memoir? 
said  to  have  produced  a  volume  of  poems  at  ' 
thiitcen.     She  travelled  extensively,  and  tl 
umcs  from  licr  i)en  were  favorably  receive' 


THE  BEACON-LU 

Darkness  was  <leepen' 
And  still  the  hul' 

No  sail  to  answc' 
Her  masts  a' 


JULIA   FARDOE.—GEOIiGE  LUNT. 


621 


Gloomy  and  drear  her  course  of  fear, — 

Each  looked  but  for  a  grave, — • 
When,  fall  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  Avave. 

Then  wildly  rose  the  gladdening  shout 

Of  all  that  hardy  crew  ; 
Boldly  they  put  the  helm  abont, 

And  through  the  surf  they  flew. 
Storm  was  forgot,  toil  heeded  not, 

And  loud  the  cheer  they  gave, 
As,  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave. 

And  gayly  of  the  tale  they  told, 

When  they  were  safe  on  shore ; 
How  hearts  had  sunk,  and  hojies  grown  cold, 

Amid  the  billows'  roar; 
AVlien  not  a  star  had  shone  from  far, 

By  its  pale  beam  to  save, 
Then,  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave. 

Thus,  in  the  night  of  Nature's  gloom, 

When  sorrow  bows  the  heart. 
When  cheering  hopes  no  more  illume, 

And  comforts  all  depart ; 
Then  from  afar  shines  Bethlehem's  star. 

With  cheering  light  to  save; 
And,  full  in  sight,  its  beacon-light 

Comes  streaming  o'er  the  grave. 


(!?corgc  £uut. 


Lunt  was  born  in  Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  1S07.  He 
Avas  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1824  ,  studied  and 
practised  law.  In  1848  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  was 
appointed  United  States  District  Attorney.  lie  edited 
the  Boston  Courier  for  several  years  with  marked  ability  ; 
published  volumes  of  poems  in  1839, 1843, 1854,  and  1855 , 
also  in  the  last-named  year,  "Eastford,  a  Novel."  He 
is  also  the  author  of  several  valuable  historical  works. 
'is  residence  since  1877  was  in  Scituate,  Mass. 

•nong  the  lyrics  that  "almost  sing  themselves"  from 
^n  of  Lunt  is  his  "Pilgrim  Song,"  which  runs  to 
'^ure  of  T.  H.  Bayly's  once  popular  ballad, 
""ayly  the  troubadour  touched  his  guitar." 
nnzas  from  Lunt's  poem  is  as  follows  : 
"nith  sunny  dales,  dearly  they  bloom  ; 
heather-liills,  sweet  their  perfume: 
he  wilderness  cheerful  we  stray, 
've  hind,  home  far  away  ! 
wanderers,  hither  we  come  ; 
iare  to  be, — this  is  our  home." " 


THE   HAYMAKERS. 

Down  on  the  Merrinnte  River, 

While  the  autumn  grass  is  green. 
Oh,  there  the  jolly  hay-men 

In  their  gundalows  are  seen  ; 
Floating  down,  as  ebbs  the  current. 

And  the  dawn  leads  on  the  day. 
With  their  scythes  and  rakes  all  ready 

To  gather  in  the  hay. 

The  good  wife,  up  the  river. 

Has  made  the  oven  hot. 
And  with  plenty  of  pandowdy 

Has  filled  her  earthen  pot. 
Their  long  oars  sweep  them  onward. 

As  the  ripples  round  them  play. 
And  the  jolly  hay-men  drift  along 

To  make  the  meadow  hay. 

At  the  bank-side  then  they  moor  her, 

W'liere  the  sluggish  waters  run. 
By  the  shallow  creek's  low  edges, 

Beneath  the  fervid  sun — 
And  all  day  long  the  toilers 

Mow  their  swaths,  and,  day  by  day. 
You  can  see  their  scythe-blades  flashiug 

At  the  cutting  of  the  hay. 

When  the  meadow-birds  are  flying. 

Then  down  go  scythe  and  rake, 
And  right  and  left  their  scattering  shols 

The  sleeping  echoes  Avake— 
For  silent  spreads  the  broad  expanse, 

To  the  sand-hills  far  away, 
And  thus  they  change  their  work  for  sport, 

At  making  of  the  hay. 

When  the  gundalows  are  loaded — 

Gunwales  to  the  water's  brim — 
With  their  little  square-sails  set  atop, 

Up  the  river  how  they  swim  ! 
At  home,  beside  the  fire,  by  night. 

While  the  children  round  them  play, 
What  tales  the  jolly  hay-men  tell 

Of  getting  in  the  hay ! 


THE   COMET. 

Yon  car  of  lire,  though  veiled  by  day, — 
Along  that  field  of  gleaming  blue. 

When  twilight  folded  earth  in  gray, 
A  world-wide  wonder  flew. 


6*?^ 


('YVLOP.EDIA    OF  BL'ITISII   AM)   AMERICAS  rOETRV. 


ily,  in  turn,  oacli  orb  of  night 
From  out  llu'  diirkcninj:;  concave  broke  ! 
c's  glowing  herald  swam  in  light, 
\nd  every  star  awoke. 

'  I'O  Lyre  re-strung  its  burning  chords, — 
Streamed  from  the  Cross  its  earliest  ray, — 
lien  rose  Altair,  nmre  sweet  than  words 
Or  music's  soul  could  say. 

']'  ley  from  old  time,  in  course  the  same. 

Familiar  set,  familiar  rise: 
H'lt  what  art  thou,  wild,  lovely  llame, 

.\cross  the  startled  skies  ? 

-Mysterious  yet  as  when  it  burst. 

Through  the  vast  void  of  nature  hurled, 
'"  iid  shook  their  shrinking  hearts  at  first, — 
riiC'  fiithers  of  the  world  ! 

curious  sage  the  scroll  unseals, — 
Vain  quest  for  baffled  Science  given! — 
I      orbit  ages,  while  it  wheels, 
The  miracle  of  heaven  ! 

nature's  plan  thy  sphere  unknown, 
Save  that  no  sphere  His  order  mars, 
A^ll0se  law  could  guide  thy  path  aloue 
In  realms  beyond  the  skies. 

<  'id's  minister!   we  know  no  more 
Of  thee,  thy  frame,  thy  mission  still, 

i  ban  he  who  Avatched  thy  flight  of  yore 
On  the  Chaldean  hill. 

Vot  thus,  transcendent  from  thy  blazo 

Beams  light  to  pierce  this  mortal  clod; — 
^"  -arcely  "  the  fool "  on  thee  could  gaze 

\nd  say,  "There  is  no  God!" 
O'.:  >ber  7th,  1S59. 


REQUIEM. 

iutathe,  trumpets,  breathe   slow   notes   of  saddest 
wailing ; 

."ridly  responsive  peal,  ye  nniffled  drums: 
i'  'Jiuades,with  downcast  eyes  and  muskets  trailing, 

\ ;  tend  him  home:   the  youtliful  warrior  comes. 

■  his  shield,  upon  his  shield  returning, 
:•  .rue  from  the  field  of  battle  where  ho  fell: 
t'oiy  and  grief  together  clasped  in  mourning, 
t-s  fame,  his  fate,  with  sobs  exulting  tell. 


Wrap  round  his  breast  the  flag  his  breast  defended, — 
His  country's  flag,  in  battle's  front  unrolled: 

For  it  he  died, — on  earth  forever  ended: 

His  brave  young  life  lives  in  each  sacred  fold. 

Witii  jirDiid,  proud  tears,  by  tinge  of  shame  untainted, 
Bear  him,  and  lay  him  gently  in  his  grave; 

Above  the  hero  write, — the  young,  half-sainted, — 
"His  countrv  asked  his  life,  his  life  ho  gave." 


Uobcrt  ill.  Cljarlton. 

AMERICAN. 

Charlton  (1807-18.54)  was  a  native  of  Savannah,  son  of 
a  much  esteemed  judge.  Robert  was  early  admitted  to 
the  Bar,  became  United  States  District  Attorney,  and  in 
18.52  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate.  He  was  a 
polished  orator  and  a  genial  couverser.  In  1839  appear- 
ed a  vokune  of  his  poems,  and  in  1843  a  second  edition 
of  them,  with  additions,  was  published  in  Boston. 


THE  DEATH   OF  JASPER. 

AN  HISTORICAL   EALL.AD. 

'Twas  amid  a  scene  of  blood, 

On  a  bright  autumnal  day, 
When  misfortune  like  a  flood 

Swept  our  fairest  hopes  away ; 
'Twas  on  Savannah's  plain. 

On  the  spot  we  love  so  well, 
Amid  heaps  of  gallant  slain, 

That  the  daring  Jasper  fell. 

He  had  borne  him  in  the.  fight, 

Like  a  soldier  in  his  prime. 
Like  a  bold  and  stalwart  knight 

Of  the  glorious  olden-time  ; 
And  unharmed  by  sabre  blow. 

And  untouched  by  leaden  ball, 
lie  had  battled  with  the  foe, 

Till  ho  heard  the  trumpet's  call. 

But  he  turned  him  at  the  sound. 

For  he  knew  the  strife  was  o'er, 
That  in  vain  on  freedom's  ground 

Had  her  children  shed  their 
So  he  slowly  turned  away 

AVith  the  remnant  of  th 
Who  amid  the  bloody  fr 

Had  escaped  the  fo^ 

But  his  banner  c 
As  it  trailed 


ROBERT  M.  CUAnLTOX.—EPHRAIM  PEABODY. 


G:>3 


Ami  ho  saw  his  comrade  die 
Ero  he  yielded  up  liis  trust: 

"  To  the  rescue !"  loud  he  cried  ; 
"  To  the  rescue,  gallant  men  !'' 

And  ho  dashed  into  the  tide 
Of  the  hattle-stream  again. 

And  then  fierce  the  contest  rose 

O'er  its  field  of  hroidered  gold, 
And  the  hlood  of  friends  and  foes 

Stained  alike  its  silken  fold  ; 
I>ut  unheeding  wound  and  blow. 

Ho  has  snatched  it  midst  the  strife, 
He  has  borne  that  flag  away, 

But  its  ransom  is  his  life! 

"  To  my  father  take  my  sword," 

Thus  the  dying  hero  said ; 
"Tell  him  that  my  latest  word 

Was  a  blessing  on  his  head  ; 
That  when  death  had  seized  my  frame, 

And  uplifted  was  his  dart, 
I  ne'er  forgot  tlie  name 

Tliat  was  dearest  to  my  heart. 

"And  tell  her  whose  favor  gave 

Tliis  fair  banner  to  our  band, 
Thar  I  died  its  folds  to  save 

From  the  foe's  polluting  hand ; 
And  let  all  my  comrades  hear, 

Wben  my  form  lies  cold  in  death. 
That  tlicir  friend  remained  sincere 

To  his  last  expiring  breath." 

It  was  thus  that  Jasper  fell, 

'Neath  that  bright  autumnal  sky ; 
Has  a  stone  been  reared  to  tell 

Where  he  laid  him  down  to  die  ? 
To  the  rescue,  spirits  bold! 

To  the  rescue,  gallant  men  ! 
Let  the  marble  page  unfold 

All  his  daring  deeds  again ! 


AMERICAN. 
Pcabocly  (1807- 1S5G)  was  a  native  of  Wilton,  N.  H. 
Educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  he  was  graduated  in  1827. 
He  became  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  in  184G  was  set- 
tled over  King's  Cliapel,  Boston.  Here  he  preached  most 
acceptably  for  ten  years.  He  has  shown  fine  talents  for 
what  Byron  esteemed  the  highest  order  of  poetry,  the 
ethical ;  but  his  productiveness  as  a  poet  seems  to  have 
been  checked  by  his  ministerial  labors. 


TO   A   (HIM). 

"  The  memory  of  thy  name,  dear  one, 
Lives  ill  my  inmost  lieurt, 
Liiiliud  with  a  tliousand  liopes  and  fears, 
That  will  not  thence  depart." 

Things  of  high  import  sound  I  in  thine  ears. 
Dear  child,  though  now  thou  mayest  not  feel  their 
power ; 
But  hoard  them  up,  and  in  thy  coming  years 

Forget  them  not,  and  when  earth's  tempests  lower, 
A  talisman  unto  thee  shall  they  be. 
To  give  thy  weak  arm  strength — to  make  thy  dim 
eye  see. 

Seek  truth,  that  pure  celestial  truth,  whose  birth 
Was  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  clear,  sacred,  shrined 

In  reason's  light :   not  oft  she  visits  earth. 
But  her  majestic  port,  the  willing  mind. 

Through  faith,  may  sometimes  .see :  give  her  thy  soul, 

Nor  faint,  though  error's  surges  loudly  'gainst  thee 
roll. 

Be  free :   not  chiefly  from  the  iron  cliain. 
But  from  the  one  which  passion  forges — be 

The  master  of  thyself:    if  lost,  regain 

The  rule  o'er  chance,  sense,  circumstance.   Be  free. 

Trample  thy  proud  lusts  proudly  'ueath  thy  feet, 

And  stand  erect,  as  for  a  heaven-born  one  is  meet. 

Seek  virtue:   wear  her  armor  to  the  fight; 

Then,  as  a  wrestler  gathers  strength  from  strife, 
Shalt  thou  be  nerved  to  a  more  vigorous  might 

By  each  contending  turbulent  ill  of  life. 
Seek  virtue. — She  alone  is  all  divine ; 
And  having  found,  be  strong,  in  God's  own  strength 
and  thine. 

Truth,  freedom,  virtue,  —  these,  dear    child,  have 
power. 
If  rightly  cherished,  to  uphold,  sustain, 
And  bless  thy  spirit  iu  its  darkest  hour; 

Neglect  them — thy  celestial  gifts  are  vain  : 
In  dust  shall  thy  weak  wings  bo  dragg<'d  and  soiled  ; 
Thy  soul  bo  cru.shed  'ncatii  gauds  for  wliich  it  basely 
toiled. 


FROM  "THE   BACKWOODSMAN." 

I  stand  upon  the  mountain's  top, 

And — solitude  profound  ! — 
Not  even  a  woodman's  smoke  curls  up 

Within  the  horizon's  bound. 


624 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BUITISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Below,  as  o'er  its  ocean  breatlth 

Tlio  ail's  lijjlit  cnrronts  run, 
Tho  wildciiicss  of  luoviiig  leaves 

Is  j;l;uicinj;  in   tho  sun. 

I  look  iironixl  to  wlicrt'  tlic  sky 

Meets  the  far  forest  line, 
And  this  inii)erial  domain— 

This  kinj^doni — all  is  mine  ! 
This  bending  heaven,  these  tioating  clontU 

Waters  that  ever  roll, 
And  wilderness  of  glory,  bring 

Their  offerings  to  my  soul. 

My  palace,  built  by  God's  own  liiind, 

The  world's  fresh  prime  hath  seen  : 
Wide  stretch  its  liviug  halls  away. 

Pillared  and  roofed  with  green  : 
My  music  is  the  wind  that  uow 

Pours  loud  its  swelling  bars, 
Now  lulls  in  dying  eadences, — 

My  festal  lamps  are  stars. 

Though  when  in  this  my  lonely  home, 

^ly  star-watched  couch  I  press, 
I  hear  no  fond  "good-uight" — think  not 

I  am  companiouless. 
Oh  no !   I  see  my  father's  house. 

The  hill,  the  tree,  the  stream, 
And  the  looks  and  voices  of  my  home 

Come  gently  to  my  dream. 

And  in  these  solitary  haunts, 

While  slumbers  every  tree 
In  night  and  silence,  God  himself 

Seems  nearer  unto  me. 
I  feel  his  jtresenco  in  these  shades. 

Like  the  embracing  air; 
And  as  my  eyelids  close  in  sloop, 

My  heart  is  huslicd  in  ])rayer. 


^'atljanicl  ^arkcr  lUilliG. 


Willis  (1807-1807)  was  a  native  of  Porlliuul,  Maine,  and 
was  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  18:^7.  He  ventured 
upon  a  magazine  enterprise,  the  American  Monthly,  in 
1829,  but  it  expired  in  two  years.  From  1831  to  188.5  he 
travelled  in  Europe ;  and  having  taken  an  English  wife, 
lie  returned  home,  and  settled  at  a  place  on  the  Susque- 
lianna  River,  wliicli  he  named  Glcnmary.  In  1814  he  re- 
visited Europe,  and,  having  become  a  widower,  in   1840 


married  his  second  wife,  Miss  Grinnell.  The  remainder 
of  his  life  was  jjassed  chiefly  at  his  well-known  place  on 
tin;  Hudson,  near  Newburgli,  to  wliieh  he  gave  the  name 
of  Idlewihl.  lie  was  associated  witli  George  P.  Morris 
in  editing  tlie  Home  Journal,  a  New  York  wceiily  ])aper. 
Willis's  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  Bos- 
ton in  1839.  lie  wrote  no  long  poem  that  can  be  pro- 
nounced sueccssful ;  though  his  "Scriptural  Poems" 
were  highly  popular  in  tlieir  day.  Of  his  prose  works, 
his  "Peneillings  by  the  Way"  gave  him  a  reputation, 
both  in  England  and  at  home,  as  a  graceful  and  original 
sketclier,  and  one  of  the  most  attractive  of  the  mai^azine 
writers.  Ilis  sketches  of  Count  D'Orsay,  Moore,  Camj)- 
bell,  Jcrrold,  D'Israeli,  Ilood,  Lamb,  Procter,  Leigh  Hunt, 
Bulwer,  are  witty,  graphic,  and  entertaining.  He  wrote 
two  dramatic  pieces,  but  they  attained  no  success  on  the 
stage.  As  a  poet, Willis's  contemporary  fame  exceeded 
his  posthumous ;  but  a  true  poet  he  was,  aiul  he  would 
have  shown  it  more  clearly  to  the  world  if  ambition  to 
shine  as  a  man  of  societ}'  had  not  withdrawn  him  from 
the  right  path  of  literary  labor.  To  younger  authors 
lie  was  kind  and  generous,  and  left  many  warm  friends 
ainouir  them. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  tiiis. 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  of  an  ohl  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly. 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  tho  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old  ; 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well-uigh  told  : 
It  is  very  true;   it  is  very  true; 

I'm  old,  and  I  "  bide  my  time ;" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  thi.s. 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on!   play  on!   I  am  with  you  there, 

111  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump. 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  1  whoop  tho  smothered  call. 
And  my  fcot  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

1  am  willing  to  die  Avhen  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go — 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 


NAIHAXIEL  PAltEER   WILLIS. 


625 


Bat.  the  grave  is  dark,  ami  the  heart  will  fail 

111  treading  its  gloomy  way; 
And  it  wiles  my  breast  from  its  dreariness 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


THIETY-FIVE. 

'•The  years  of  a  man's  life  ai'e  threescore  and  ten."' 

O,  weary  heart  I   thou'rt  half- way  home  I 

We  stand  on  Life's  meridian  height — 
As  far  from  childhood's  moruiug  come, 

As  to  the  grave's  forgetful  uight. 
Give  Youth  and  Hope  a  parting  tear — ■ 

Look  onward  with  a  placid  brow — 
Hope  promised  but  to  bring  us  here, 

And  Reason  takes  the  guidance  now-  - 
One  backward  look — the  last — the  last ! 
One  silent  tear — for  Youth  is  jiast ! 

Who  goes  with  Hope  and  Passion  back  ? 

Who  comes  with  me  and  Memory  on  ? 
Oh,  lonely  looks  the  downward  track — 

Joy's  music  hushed — Hope's  roses  gone  I 
To  Pleasure  and  her  giddy  troop 

Farewell,  without  a  sigh  or  tear ! 
But  heart  gives  way,  aud  spirits  droop. 

To  think  that  Love  may  leave  us  here  ! 
Have  we  no  charm  when  Youth  is  flown — 
Midway  to  death  left  sad  aud  lone ! 

Yet  stay ! — as  'twere  a  twilight  star 

That  sends  its  thread  across  the  wave, 
I  see  a  brightening  light,  from  far, 

Steal  down  a  path  beyond  the  grave ! 
Aud  now — bless  God  ! — its  golden  lino 

Comes  o'er — aud  lights  my  shadowy  way — 
And  shows  the  dear  hand  clasped  in  mine ! 
But  list !   what  those  sweet  voices  say ! 
"  The  better  laud's  in  sight, 
And,  by  its  chastening  light. 
All  love  from  life's  midway  is  driven 
Save  hers  whose  clasped  hand  will  bring  thee  on  to 
Heaven !" 


THE  SPPJXG  IS  HERE. 

The  Spring  is  here — the  dolicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  aud  flowers; 

Aud  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours — - 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings. 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 
40 


We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  Avoods; 
Aud  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
-     Like  a  cool  sleep  upou  the  pulses  broods. 
Yet  even  there  a  restless  thought  will  steal. 
To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon. 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet. 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet — 

Strange  that  they  fill  not,  with  their  trauquil  tone. 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment,  in  a  world  like  this. 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss. 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream : 

Bird-like,  the  prisoned  soul  icill  lift  its  eye 

And  sing,  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 


ACROSTIC:  SONNET. 

It  may  be  iuteresting  to  compare  this  sonnet  with  one  by 
Percival  (page  4S2)  on  the  same  celebrated  lady.  Willis's  has 
the  advantage  of  conformity  to  the  Petrarchan  model. 

Elegance  floats  about  thee  like  a  dress, 

Melting  the  airy  motion  of  thy  form 

Into  one  swaying  grace ;  and  loveliness, 

Like  a  rich  tint  that  makes  a  picture  warm, 

Is  lurking  in  the  chestnut  of  thy  tress, 

Enriching  it,  as  moonlight  after  storm 

Mingles  dark  shadows  into  gentleness. 

A  beauty  that  bewilders  like  a  spell 

Reigns  in  thine  eye's  clear  hazel,  and  thy  brow, 

So  pure  in  veined  transparency,  doth  tell 

How  spiritually  beautiful  art  thou — 

A  temple  where  angelic  love  might  dwell. 

Life  in  thy  presence  were  a  thing  to  keep, 

Like  a  gay  dreamer  clinging  to  his  sleep. 


TO  A   CITY   PIGEON. 

Stoop  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove  I 
Thy  dailj'  visits  have  touched  my  love. 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  iu  thy  mellow  throat, 

Aud  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eaves. 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshened  leaves  ? 


626 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  I'OKTRY. 


Wby  dost  thou  bauut  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  aiul  sweet? 

How  canst  thou  bear 
'I'liis  noise  of  people — this  sultry  air? 

Thou  alone  of  the  feathered  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  hnnuin  face ; 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee. 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be; 

And  the  "gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird! 
Tliou'rt  nauK'd  with  childhood's  earliest  word! 
Thou'rt  linked  with  all  that  is  fresh  and  wild 
In  tin?  prisoned  thoughts  of  the  city  child  ; 

And  thy  glossy  wings 
Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving  things. 

It  is  no  light  chance :  thou  art  set  apart 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fair. 
That  else  were  sealed  in  this  crowded  air; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read, — to  my  humble  eaves. 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout. 
And  murmur  thy  low,  sweet  music  out ! 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee! 


iJonatljan  i-aturcncc,  3r. 


Lawrence  (1807-183.3)  was  a  native  of  New  York.  Grad- 
uating at  Columbia  College  before  he  was  sixteen,  he  de- 
voted himself  to  the  study  of  the  law  ;  was  admitted  to 
tlie  Bar,  but  died  in  his  twenty-sixth  year.  A  selection 
from  his  writings,  including  poems,  of  wliich  we  give  the 
best,  was  published  in  New  York  in  183C.  It  had  been 
first  privately  printed  by  his  brotlier. 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

The  fcill()\vin<];  linei<  were  siiKKested  by  an  anecdote,  said  to 
liave  been  related  by  Dr.  Godman,of  a  ship-boy,  who,  about  to 
fall  from  the  riggin;:,  was  only  saved  by  the  mate's  exclamation, 
"Look  aloft, you  lubber  !" 

In  the  tempest  of  life  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
.Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail — 


If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  de- 
part— 
Look  aloft  and  bo  lirm,  and  bo  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend,  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow. 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  f<n-  each  woe. 
Should  betray  thee  w  hen  sorrows,  like  clouds,  are 

arrayed. 
Look  aloft  to  the  friendship  which  never  .shall  fade. 

Shoitld  the  visions,  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to 

thine  eye. 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  lly. 
Then  turn,  and,  through  tears  of  repentant  regret. 
Look  aloft  to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  those  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart. 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom,  in  sorrow  depart. 
Look  aloft  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb. 
To  that  soil  where  afifection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  oh !   when  death  comes,  in  terror  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
lu  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  look  aloft,  and  depart. 


loljn  ijoiufti"^  Unjant. 

AMERICAN. 

A  brother  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  John  was  born  in 
Cummington,  Mass.,  July  2'2d,  1807.  He  began  to  write 
verses  while  yet  a  boy.  After  receiving  a  good  educa- 
tion at  a  school  in  Troy,  N.  Y.,  he  went  West  in  1831, 
and  in  1835  purchased  of  the  United  States  Government 
five  hundred  and  twenty  acres  of  superior  land  in  Prince- 
ton, 111.,  where  he  took  up  his  residence,  and  where  he 
attained  to  wealth  and  honors  through  his  own  energet- 
ic labors  and  exalted  cliaracter.  He  held  various  offices 
of  trust.  In  185.5  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published 
in  New  York.  It  abounds  in  evidences  of  the  feeling, 
taste,  and  power  of  expression  of  one  who  coidd  keenly 
appreciate  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  reproduce  them 
in  apt  poetic  forms.  But  the  necessity  of  earning  a  sup- 
port for  a  growing  family  compelled  him,  as  well  as  his 
brother  Arthur,  who  also  settled  in  Princeton,  to  forego 
those  literary  occupations  which  were  congenial  to  their 
tastes. 


THE   VALLEY   BROOK. 

Fre.sh  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood 

A  rivulet  of  the  valley  came. 
And  glided  on  for  many  a  rood. 

Flushed  with  the  morning's  ruddy  flame. 


JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT. 


mi 


The  air  was  fresh  aud  soft  and  sweet ; 

The  slopes  in  Spring's  new  verdure  lay, 
And,  wet  with  dew-drops,  at  my  feet 

Bloomed  the  yonng  violets  of  May. 

No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heard 
Amid  those  pastures  lone  and  still, 

Save  the  faint  chirp  of  early  bird. 
Or  bleat  of  flocks  along  the  hill. 

I  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way ; 

New  scenes  of  beauty  opened  round, 
Where  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay, 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 

"Ah!   happy  valley-stream,"  I  said, 

"  Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers. 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed 
Through  all  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

"  Oh !   could  my  years  like  thine  be  passed 
In  some  remote  and  silent  glen. 

Where  I  could  dwell  and  sleep  at  last 
Far  from  the  bustling  haunts  of  men !" 

But  what  new  echoes  greet  my  ear? 

The  village  school-boys'  merry  call ! 
And  'mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  murmur  of  the  water-fall. 

I  looked  I   the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burnished  steel, 

Where  that  bright  valley-stream  was  stayed 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wlieel. 

Ah !   Avhy  should  1(1  thought  with  shame) 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude. 
When  even  this  stream  without  a  name 

Is  laboring  for  the  common  good? 

No,  never  let  me  shun  my  part 

Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
But,  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart, 

Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 


THE   LITTLE   CLOUD. 

As  when,  on  Carmel's  sterile  steep, 
The  ancient  prophet  bowed  the  knee. 

And  seven  times  sent  his  servant  forth 
To  look  toward  the  distant  sea; — 


There  came  at  last  a  little  cloud 

Scarce  broader  than  the  human  hand. 

Spreading  and  swelling,  till  it  broke 
In  showers  on  all  the  hcrbless  land, — 

And  hearts  Avore  glad,  and  shouts  went  up, 
And  praise  to  Israel's  mighty  God, 

As  the  sere  hills  grew  bright  with  flowers, 
And  verdure  clothed  the  naked  sod, — 

Even  so  our  eyes  have  waited  long; 

But  now  a  little  cloud  appears. 
Spreading  and  swelling  as  it  glides. 

Onward  into  the  coming  years! 

Bright  cloud  of  Liberty !   full  soon, 
Far  stretching  from  the  ocean  strand, 

Thy  glorious  folds  shall  spread  abroad, 
Eucircliug  our  beloved  laud. 

Like  the  sweet  rain  on  Judah's  hills 
The  glorious  boon  of  love  shall  fall. 

And  our  broad  millions  shall  arise 
As  at  an  angel's  trumpet-call. 

Then  shall  a  shout  of  joy  go  up. 
The  wild,  glad  cry  of  freedom  ^me 

From  hearts  long  crushed  by  cruel  hands, 
And  songs  from  lips  long  sealed  and  dumb, 

And  every  bondman's  chain  be  broke, 
And  every  soul  that  moves  abroad 

In  this  wide  realm  shall  know  and  feel 
The  blessed  liberty  of  God. 


SONNET. 

'Tis  Autumn,  and  my  steps  have  led  me  far 

To  a  wild  hill  that  overlooks  a  land 

Wide-spread  and  beautiful.    A  single  star 

Sparkles  new-set  in  heaven.      O'er  its  bright  sand 

The  streamlet  slides  with  mellow  tones  away : 

The  West  is  crimson  with  retiring  day ; 

And  the  North  gleams  with  its  own  native  light. 

Below,  in  autumn  green,  the  meadows  lie. 

And  through  green  banks  the  river  wanders  by. 

And  the  wide  woods  with  autumn-hues  are  bright, — 

Bright — but  of  fading  brightness! — soon  is  past 

That  dream-like  glory  of  the  painted  wood  ; 

And  pitiless  decay  o'ertakes,  as  fast, 

The  pride  of  men,  the  beauteous,  great,  and  good. 


628 


CYCLOl\i:i)lA    OF  JiRlTItill  AND  AMEIIICAX  VOETRY. 


3amcs  (Dtis  Uoclaucll. 


Rockwell  (1S0~-1S;]1)  was  a  native  of  Lebanon,  Conn. 
At  an  early  age  he  was  apprentieed  to  a  printer  in  Uliea, 
N.  Y.,and  began,  while  yet  a  boy,  to  write  for  the  news- 
papers. Afterward  he  labored  a!>  a  journeyman  compos- 
itor in  Boston  till  he  became  an  assistant  editor  of  the 
Statestiian.  He  was  connected  with  the  J'atrlot  of  Provi- 
dence, R.  I.,  at  the  time  of  liis  death.  Sonic  pathetic  lines 
to  his  memory  were  written  by  Whittier. 


THE  LOST  AT  SEA. 

Wife,  v,]\o  in  thy  decj)  devotion 

Puttcst  np  a  prayer  for  one 
Sailing  on  tbo  stormy  ocean, 

Hope  no  more — his  course  is  done. 
Dream  not,  when  upou  tby  pillow, 

Tiiat  he  slumbers  by  thy  side; 
For  bis  corse  beneath  the  bi-llow 

Heavetb  with  the  restless  tide. 

Cliiklreu,  who,  as  sweet  flowers  growiug, 

Laugh  amid  the  sorrowing  rains. 
Know  ye  many  clouds  are  throwing 

Shadows  on  your  sire's  remains? 
Where  tlte  hoarse,  gray  surge  is  rolling 

With  a  mountain's  motion  on. 
Dream  ye  that  its  voice  is  tolling 

For  your  father  lost  and  gone  ? 

When  the  sun  looked  on  the  water, 

As  a  hero  on  his  grave, 
Tingeing  with  the  hue  of  slaughter 

Eveiy  blue  and  leaping  wave, 
Under  the  majestic  ocean, 

Where  the  giant  current  rolled, 
Slept  thy  sire,  without  emotion, 

Sweetlj'  by  a  beam  of  goUl. 

And  the  silent  sunbeams  slanted, 

Wavering  tbrougli  the  crystal  deep, 
Till  their  wonted  splendors  haunted 

Those  shut  eyelids  in  their  sleep. 
Sands,  like  crumbled  silver  gleaming, 

Sparkled  throngh  his  raven  hair; 
But  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dreaming 

Bound  him  in  its  silence  there. 

So  wo  left  him  ;  and  to  tell  thee 
Of  our  sorrow  and  thine  own, 

Of  the  woe  that  then  befell  thee, 
Come  we  weary  and  alone. 


Tliat  thine  eye  is  quickly  shaded, 
That  tby  heart-blood  wildly  flows, 

That  tby  cheek's  clear  hue  is  faded. 
Are  the  fruits  of  these  iiew  Avoes. 

Children,  w  Iiose  ineek  eye.s,  inquiring 

Linger  on  your  mother's  face, — 
Know  ye  that  she  is  expiring. 

That  ye  are  an  orphan  race  ? 
God  be  with  you  on  the  morrow, 

Father,  mother — both  no  more ; 
One  w  ithin  a  grave  of  sorrow, 

One  upou  the  ocean's  floor! 


C)  cnnj  111  0^5  vo  o  r  1 1)  €  o  n  a  f  c  1 1  o  u) . 

AMERICAN. 

Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  Feb.  27th,  1807. 
He  was  graduated  at  Bowdoiu  College  in  1825,  in  the 
same  class  with  Hawthorne  ;  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Modern  Languages  in  1S26 ;  then  passed  four  years  in 
Europe,  and  on  his  return  commenced  the  duties  of  his 
chair.  His  "Outre-Mcr,"  containing  his  notes  of  travel, 
appeared  in  183.5.  The  same  year  he  succeeded  George 
Ticknor  in  the  chair  of  belles-lettres  at  Harvard,  when 
he  again  visited  Europe.  He  gave  up  his  professorship 
in  1854,  and  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  literature. 
His"  Voices  of  the  Night"  appeared  in  1839,  and  secured 
for  him  a  high  rank  among  the  poets  of  the  age.  His 
prose  romance  of  "Hyperion"  ai)i>eared  tlic  same  year. 
It  was  followed  by  "  Ballads,  and  other  Poems,"  in  1841 ; 
"Poems  on  Slavery,"  in  1842  ;  "The  Spanish  Student," 
a  play,  in  1843 ;  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  in  1S45 ; 
"The  Belfry  of  Bruges,"  in  1845;  "Evangeline,"  in  1847; 
"Kavanagh,"  a  novel,  in  1849;  "Seaside  and  Fireside," 
in  1849 ;  "  The  Golden  Legend,"  in  1851 ;  "  The  Song  of 
Hiawatha,"  in  1855;  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish," 
in  1S5S;  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  in  1803;  "Flower 
dc  Luce,"  in  18GG;  a  translation  of" The  Divine  Comedy 
of  Dante,"  in  18G7;  "The  New  England  Tragedies,"  in 
1808;  "The  Divine  Tragedy,"  in  1871;  "Three  Books  of 
Song,"  in  1872;  "  Keramos,  and  other  Poems,"  in  1878; 
besides  many  minor  pioductiuus  that  have  appeared  in 
leading  American  magazines. 

Unlike  some  poets  of  the  most  recent  school  in  vei-se, 
Longfellow  rarely  tries  to  convey  an  idea  which  is  not 
clear  and  intelligible  to  his  own  mind.  He  is  as  honest 
as  Shakspearc,  Milton,  or  Burns  in  this  respect.  The 
notion  that  the  poet  must  suggest  more  than  he  express- 
es IS  a  just  one ;  but  it  has  led  some  writers  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  suggestiveness  lies  in  obscurity  rather 
than  in  such  a  clearly  defined  expression  as  this:  "One 
touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin."  Here  we 
have  the  utmost  paucity  of  words,  and  yet  the  thought 
is  level  to  the  ordinary  understanding.  The  obscure 
may  sometimes  excite  a  lively  imagination  so  as  to  pro- 
duce a  poetical  effect;  but  surely  the  higliest  order  of 
poetry  is  that  which  gives  more  than  it  requires  for  its 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


G21) 


solution.  The  obsciiie  writer  is  often  a  contriver  of  rid- 
dles which  may  be  interpreted  in  diflferent  wa^s  bj-  dif- 
ferent minds.  VThc  true,  the  lastiuj;  poetrj-,  is  tliat  wliieli, 
while  it  goes  to  the  general  heart,  does  not  involve  too 
much  of  a  strain  of  tlie  thinking  fticultj',  It  is  in  his 
shorter  Ij-rical  pieces,  his  baUads,  and  his  tine  descriptive 
touclies  that  Longfellow's  powers  are  brought  out  to 
most  advantage  ;  for  it  is  in  these  that  he  oflenest  com- 
bines the  neatness  and  skill  of  the  consummate  artist 
witli  the  curious  felicity  and  perfect  simplicity  of  the 
genuine  poet.^  Ilis  "Building  of  the  Ship,"  "Rain  in 
Summer,"  "Sea-weed,"  "The  Fire  of  Drift-wood,"  "Re- 
venge of  Rain-in-the-face,"  "Paul  Revcre's  Ride,"  and 
many  other  pieces,  have  in  them,  on  this  account,  the 
elements  of  an  enduring  popularity.  Several  of  his  sou- 
nets  are  among  the  choicest  in  the  language. 

For  some  forty-five  years  he  has  been  almost  continu- 
ousl}-  productive,  either  as  author,  compiler,  or  transla- 
tor ;  and  his  latest  poems  have  shown  an  increase  rather 
than  a  diminution  of  power.  Few  poets  have  lived  to 
reap  such  a  harvest  of  contemporary  fame,  united  to  ad- 
miration and  esteem  for  personal  qualities  and  an  un- 
blemished life,  such  as  the  history  of  the  "irritable 
race"  too  rarely  exhibits.  Longfellow  has  been  twice 
married;  and  in  his  second  marriage  was  blessed  with 
that  experience  of  paternity  which  finds  beautiful  ex- 
pression in  some  of  his  verses.  An  elegant  quarto  edi- 
tion of  his  poems,  finely  illustrated,  appeared  in  Boston 
in  18S0. 


KILLED   AT   THE   FOED. 

lie  is  dead,  the  beautiful   youth, 

Tiie  lieart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth — 

He,  the  light  and  life  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  as  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 

Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  cue  consent, 

The  cheer  of  whose  laugh  and  whose  pleasant  word 

Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discouteut. 

Ouly  last  night,  as  we  rode  along 

Dow'u  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford. 

Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap. 

He  ■was  humming  the  words  of  some  old  song: 

"Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cai), 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  iioiut  of  his  sword." 

Sudden  and  swift  a  -whistling  ball 

Came  out  of  the  Avood,  and  the  voice  was  still : 

Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall. 

And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill ; 

I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 

In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead; 

But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 

We  lifted  him  up  on  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire  and  tlie  mist  and  the  rain 


Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 

And  laid  him  asleep  as  if  on  his  bod  ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's  lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  one  just  over  his  heart  blood-red. 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 

That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 

Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 

Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 

Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 

Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cr^' ; 

And  a  bell  was  tolled  in  that  far-otf  town. 

For  one  Avho  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown — 

And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should  die. 


THE  LAUNCH. 

From  "  The  Building  of  the  Ship." 

Then  the  master, 

W^ith  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below^. 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow. 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  seel  she  stirs! 

She  starts, — she  moves, — she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel : 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound. 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms ! 

And  lo !   from  the  assembled  crowd 
'There  rose  a  shout  prolonged  and  loud. 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, — 
"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray. 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  anus, 
With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms !" 

How  beautiful  she  is!    how  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  sliip ! 

Tiirougli  wind  and  wave  right  onward  steer! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip. 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
Oh,  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 


630 


CTCLOP-JWIA    OF  liRITHiU  AM)  AMEIilCAN  POETRY. 


And  safe  from  all    adversity 
Upon  tlio  bosDiM  ol"  tliat  sea 
Thy  comings  and  tity  goings  bo  ? 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trnst 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust  ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  iinniorlal  still  survives  I 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Sliip  of  State  J 

Sail  on,.0  Uxiox,  strong  and  great! 

Humanity,  witli  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  I 

We  know  -what  master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  ■norkmou  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  wliat  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock  : 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail. 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ? 

lu  spito  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar — 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shoi'c — 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee ; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Onr  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears. 

Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee ! 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 
I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  arr, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  8\Viftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air. 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For  who  hath  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  llio  arrow,  still  unbroke, 
And  the  song  from  beginning  to  cud, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-TIIE-FACE. 

In  that  desolate  land  and  lone. 
Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 


Roar  down  their  mountain  path. 
By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Mnttered  their  woes  and  griefs, 

And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

"  Revenge  !"  cried  Kain-in-the-Face, 
"Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

or  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair!' 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  re-echoed  the  cry 

Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  river-side, 

The  Indian  village  stood ; 
All  was  silent  as  a  dream, 
Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 

And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war-paint  and  his  beads. 
Like  a  bison  among  the  reeds, 

In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Laj',  with  three  thousand  braves, 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves. 

Savage,  unmerciful. 

Into  the  fatal  snare 

The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair, 

And  his  three  hundred  men. 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand ! 
But  of  that  gallant  band 

Not  one  returned  again. 

The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them,  like  the  breath 

And  smoke  of  a  fnruace  fne ; 
By  the  river's  bank,  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine. 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 

But  the  foemau  fled  in  the  night. 
And  Rain-iu-the-Face,  in  his  flight, 

Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a  ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart  that  beat  no  more. 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong? 
Sing  it,  oh  funeral  song, 

With  a  voice  that  is  full  of  tears. 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scath, 

In  the  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years. 


HEXRY  WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW: 


631 


THE   EAINY   DAY. 

This  graceful  little  poem  was  beautifully  set  to  music  by 
William  R.  Dempster,  the  Scottish  composer. 

The  (lay  is  cold  and  dark  aud  dreary ; 
It  rains,  aud  the  Avind  is  uever  ^eary; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gusli  the  dead  leaves  fall — 
Aud  the  daj'  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary — 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  uever  weary; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  past. 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  aud  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining — 
Behiud  tlie  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  : 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all; 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall — 

Some  days  must  be  dark  aud  dreary. 


EAIX  IX  SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  I 

After  the  dust  and  heat. 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowiug  spout 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  aud  wide. 

With  a  muddy  tide. 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  raiu,  the  welcome  rain ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber 

Looks  at  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys. 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 


And  commotion  ; 
And  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  tleets, 
Till  the  treaclierous  pool 
Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
Aud  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide. 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  aud  spotted  hide. 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  aud  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  raiu ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  aud  ^latient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head. 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale. 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  aud  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand. 

From  under  the  shelteriug  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain. 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled, 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said, 


632 


CTCLOFJ^DIA    OF  JJIUTJSU  ASl)  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


For  liis  tliought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  (load, 

Down  through  chasms  and  giillM  jjrofonnd, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  underground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  raiu  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear. 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear. 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange 

Mysterious  ch.ange. 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of^Time. 


SONNET:  THE  POETS. 

O  ye  dead  poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be  fled. 
And  ye,  O  liviug  poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  liviug,  if  neglect  can  kill, — 
Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill. 
With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and  red 
From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon  your  head, 
Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil? 
Yes;  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  song 
Have  something  in  them  so  divinely  sweet, 
It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong: 
Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng. 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat. 


niANTOMS. 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Tlirough  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide. 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  door-way,  on  the  stair. 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 


Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table  than  the  hosts 

Invited  ;   the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  iuofleusive  ghosts. 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is ;  while  unto  mo 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lauds ; 

Owners  aud  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  bands 

Aud  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

The  si)irit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors  dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  eciuipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  aud  desires; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 
And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

The  perturbations,  the  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high. 

Come  from  the  influence  of  that  unseen  star, 
That  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

Aud  as  the  moon,  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud. 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whoso  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd. 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night ; 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light  connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends. 
Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


SONNET :   NATUKE. 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 

Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 

Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 

And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor. 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door. 

Not  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 

By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead. 


HENRT  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


G33 


AYliicli,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him 

more ; 
80  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  oue  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  ns  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay. 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  whi.v  we  know. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior! 

His  brow  was  sad ;   his  eye  beueatli 
Flashed,  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone. 
And  from  his  lips  escajied  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

''Try  not  the  Pass!"  the  old  man  said; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead. 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide!" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware  the  pine-tree's  Avithered  branch! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 


A  traveller  by  the  faithful  hound 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay ; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star. 
Excelsior ! 


HAWTHORNE. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  iiain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms. 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms. 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange; 

Their  voices  I  could  heai". 
And  j'et  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  nuite ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream, 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 
I  only  see — a  dream  within  a  dream — ■ 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  piues. 

I  only  hear  al)ovc  his  jilace  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast. 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion,  and  remote  from  men, 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  talc  half  told. 


634 


CYCLOPMBIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ah !  wlio  sball  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clinv  regain  ? 
The  nnlinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Uufiuisbcd  must  remain ! 
May  20d,  ISW. 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYXN,  HEARD  AT  NAHANT. 

()  curfew  of  the  setting  sun!     O  Hells  of  Lynn! 
()  rcqnicni  of  the  dying  diiy  !     O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  j'on  clond-catheilial  wafted, 
Your  sonnds  aerial  seem  to  lloat,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson  twi- 
light, 
(Vi-r  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The.  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  ont  beyond  the  head- 
land, 
Listens, and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  home- 
ward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

The  distant  light-house  hears,  and  with  his  fl.iniing 

signal. 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges. 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

Till  from  tlie  shuddering   sea,  with  your  wild  in- 
cantations, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 


3ol)n  (Srccnlcaf  llUjittier. 


Whilticr,  a  native  of  Ilavcrliill,  Mass.,  was  born  Decem- 
ber 31st,  1S07.  His  family  were  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
and  he  early  learned  from  tlicm  his  strong  and  life-long 
opposition  to  slavery.  Until  his  eiglitcenth  year  he 
worked  on  bis  father's  farm.  A  born  poet,  with  decided 
literary  tastes,  he  was  indebted  for  bis  education  cliictly 


to  his  own  exertions.  He  was  not  nineteen  when  his 
first  publislicd  jjoem  appeared  in  a  Ncwburyport  paper, 
edited  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison.  The  first  complete 
eolleeliou  of  bis  poems  was  publislicd  in  18.50.  Oilier 
volumes  appeared  later:  "Songs  of  Labor,"  in  1851; 
"The  Cliapel  of  the  Hermits,"  in  1852;  "Tlie  Panora- 
ma," in  1850;  "Home  Ballads,"  in  18G0;  "In  War  Time," 
in  1803;  "  Snow -Bound,"  in  1805;  "The  Tent  on  the 
Beach,"  in  1807;  "Among  the  Hills,"  in  1808;  "The 
Pennsylvania  Pilgrim,"  in  1873. 

Whittier  was  at  differeut  periods  of  liis  life  an  editor, 
and  he  has  put  forth  some  four  or  iive  volumes  in  prose. 
But  it  is  as  a  poet,  and  one  indigenous  to  the  soil  of 
America,  and  true  to  its  traditions  and  associations,  that 
be  will  be  known  to  posterity.  Even  bis  moral  and  di- 
dactic verse  is  distinguished  by  a  lyrical  grace  and  free- 
dom that  overcomes  their  gravity.  His  "Maud  Muller" 
(1855)  is  one  of  the  choicest  of  idyllic  poems,  and  savors 
thoroughly  of  the  native  soil.  In  bis  religious  utterances 
he  shows  an  earnest  and  devotional  spirit,  hopeful  in  its 
views  of  the  destiny  of  the  race,  but  too  broad  for  cir- 
cumscription in  any  sectarian  creed.  As  a  ballad-writer 
he  is  eminently  successful — simple,  graceful,  interestinfr, 
and  never  prolix.  His  "Witch  of  Wenham"  may  be  in- 
stanced as  a  smgularly  beautiful  specimen  in  this  depart- 
ment of  verse.  Amoug  the  tributes  sent  to  him  on  his 
seventieth  birthday  was  the  following  little  jjoem  by 
Lydia  Maria  (Francis)  Child,  born  in  Medford,  Mass.,  in 
1802,  and  the  author  of  "  Tlie  Progress  of  Religious 
Ideas,"  and  other  approved  works,  as  well  as  of  some 
admirable  poems  for  the  young : 

"I  thank  thee,  friend,  for  words  of  cheer, 
That  made  the  path  of  duty  clear, 
When  thou  and  I  were  young,  and  strong 
To  wrestle  with  a  mighty  wrong. 
And  now,  wlien  lengthening  shadows  come, 
And  this  world's  work  is  nearly  done, 
I  thank  tliec  for  thy  genial  ray, 
That  prophecies  a  brigliter  day, 
When  we  can  work,  with  strength  lenewed, 
In  clearer  light,  for  surer  good. 
God  bless  thee,  friend,  and  give  thee  peace, 
Till  thy  fervent  spirit  finds  release  ! 
And  may  we  meet  in  worlds  afar. 
My  Morning  and  my  Evening  Star  !'' 

Whittier  has  resided  the  greater  part  of  bis  life  at 
Amcsbury,  Mass.  He  has  never  been  married,  and  his  life 
has  been  almost  wholly  devoted  to  literary  pursuits.  In 
1877  be  edited  "Songs  of  Three  Centuries,"  a  tasteful 
collection  of  poetry,  British  and  American. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
L'aked  the  nietidow  sweet  with  hay. 

I5eneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  ;ind  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merrj'  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 


JOHN  GEEENLEAF  WHITTIEE. 


G3J 


liiit,  wlu'ii  slic  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  fiom  its  hill-slopo  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vagno  nnrost 
And  a  nameless  longing  tilled  her  breast — 

A  wish,  that  sbe  hardly  dared  to  own. 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Jndge  rode  slowlj'^  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid. 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  Howed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  fdled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks  !"  said  the  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quafted." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing-birds  and  the  humming-bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would*bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  awaj*. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine. 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
ily  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 


"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 

And  all  should  l)less  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fail",  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues;  — 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  jiower. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  : 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red. 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms. 
To  dream  of  meadow's  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain  : 
"Ah,  that  I  Avero  free  again! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hav." 


63G 


CFCLOPJEDIA    OF  lilUTlSlI  AND  AMKUlCAy   I'OETliV 


Slio  ■wotlded  a  nuiii  milearnecl  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  lier  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childliirtli  ])ain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  snninier  snn  shone  hot 
On  the  uew-uiown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein  ; 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  jileased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow-candle  an  astral  burned, 

Aud  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney-lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  Avas  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiuer  and  household  drudge! 

fJod  pity  them  both!  aud  \n{\  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !'■ 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  I 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn. 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  staud 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  llu-m  orchards  sweep, 
Apide  and  i>each  tree  fruited  deep. 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  Fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall- 
Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  aud  foot  into  Frederick  town — 

Forty  Hags  with  their  silver  stars. 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars. 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :   the  sun 
Of  uoou  looked  down,  aud  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  teu ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town. 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jacksoif  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  aud  right 
lie  glanced;   the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

'•Halt!"' — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast; 
"Fire!" — out  blazed  the  rifle  blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  aud  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff', 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  counti-y's  flag!"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame. 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  there  came; 


JOHN  GllEENLEAF  WBITTIER. 


637 


The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !     March  on !''  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marciiing  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  teased 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Eebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!   and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave ; 

Peace  and  order  and  beautj'  draw 
Eouud  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  to\Yn! 


MR.  WHITTIER  TO   HIS   FRIENDS, 

ox  THE   CELEBHATION  OF   HIS   SEVEXTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 

Beside  that  mile-stone  where  the  level  sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low  rays 
On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 
Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  outspnn, 
I  hear,  oh  friends !  your  words  of  cheer  and  praise, 
Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 
Like  him  who,  iu  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph  woke. 
Thanks  not  the  less.     With  not  nnglad  surprise 
J  see  my  life-w^ork  through  your  partial  eyes  ; 
Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught  songs 
A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs. 
You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 
Tlie  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 
12th  mo.,  1377. 


MY  TWO   SISTERS. 

I'lioM  "  Snow-Bound." 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almo.st  sternly  just. 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact. 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 
O,  heart  sore  tried !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee — rest; 
Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat. 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes. 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  gi'een 
Aiul  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill. 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms. 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago : — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
Antl  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet  sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hill-side  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  mo  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad;   the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness ;   all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality. 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 


638 


CYCLOrj^.DIA    OF  BRITISU  AND  AMEUICAX   rOETRY, 


Tliy  love  hath  left  in  trnst  with  me? 
Ami  Avliile  in  life's  late  afteruoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  Bhadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  niglit  that  soon 

Sliall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  ii'd  that  tlion  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angols  are ; 
And  wlieu  the  snnset  gates  nnbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  theo  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  baud? 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard-trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees. 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn ; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read. 

Their  written  words  wo  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor! 
Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trnst 
(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  jnst), 
Tliat  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees! 
W^ho,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away. 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith. 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 


THE  POET'S  PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF. 

FuoM  "  The  Tent  on  the  Beach." 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreanior  born, 

WIio,  with  a  mission  to  fuHil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill. 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weajjon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to  spriiij 
and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 

The  winged  Ilippogriff  Reform; 
Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 

To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 
A  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man. 
He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 


To  liold  his  way  against  the  public  frown. 
The    ban   of  Chureli    and   State,  the   fierce    nioli's 
houndhig  down. 

For  while  he  wrouglit  with  strenuous  will 

Tiie  work  his  hands  had  found  to  do, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dream-laud  blew. 
The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
WHiat  the  strange  voices  whispered  down  ; 
Along  his  task-field  weird  processions  swojjt. 
The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  i)hantoms  stepped. 

The  common  air  was  thick  with  dreams, — 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd; 
Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 

Sang  in  his  ear  ho  sang  aloud ; 
In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes. 
Ho  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes. 
And,  as  the  gay  old  shadows  prompted  him, 
To  homely  moulds  of  rhyme  he  shaped  their  legends 
jirim. 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 

0  friends,  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

niad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  lovo  of  men  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument ; 
Your  logic,  linked  and  strong, 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds ; 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak. 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God!     He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Yc  praise  his  justice;   even  such 
His  i)itying  love  I  deem  ; 


JOHN  GBEENLEAF  WHITTIEB.— CHARLES  DOYNE  SILLERY. 


639 


Yo  scok  a  king  ;   I  fain  would  touch 
The  robe  that  bath  no  scam. 

Yc  SCO  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  woild  of  paia  aud  loss ; 
I  liear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

Aud  iirayer  upou  the  cross. 

More  thau  your  schoolmeu  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas!  I  kuow  : 
Too  dark  ye  cauuot  paiut  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame. 
And  urge,  in  trembliug  self-distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  aud  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin  : 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood. 

To  one  tixed  stake  my  spirit  clings  ; 
I  know  that  God  is  good ! 

Not  mine  to  look  when  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see ; 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below, 

I  dare  not  throne  above  • 
I  know  not  of  His  hate — I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love! 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight. 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 
For  vanished  smiles  I  long ; 

But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 


Aud  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  iintried  pain. 
The  brnisdd  reed  Ho  will  not  break. 

But  strengthen  aud  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have. 
Nor  Avorks  my  faith  to  prove ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  he  gave, 
Aud  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  kuow  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 

I  only  kuow  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers !   if  my  faith  is  vain. 
If  hopes  like  these  betray. 

Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 
The  sure  and  safer  way ! 

Aud  thou,  O  Lord !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be. 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee ! 


(Uljavlcs  Poijnc  Billcrn. 

Sillery  (1S07-1S30)  was  a  native  of  Athloue,  Ireland, 
but  was  brought  up  in  Edinburgh.  His  favorite  pursuits 
were  poetry  and  music.  In  1829  he  published  by  sub- 
scription a  poem  in  nine  cantos,  entitled  "  Vallery,"  aud 
afterward  "  Eldred  of  Erin,"  in  which  tlie  devotional 
sentiment  prevails.  Of  sprightlj'  and  winning  manners, 
lie  was  much  esteemed  in  the  literary  circles  of  the  Scot- 
tish capital.  Poetry,  in  its  every  department,  he  culti- 
vated with  the  devotion  of  an  enthusiast. 


SHE   DIED   IN   BEAUTY. 

She  died  in  beauty !  like  a  rose 
Blown  from  its  parent  stem  ; 

She  died  in  beauty  !   like  a  pearl 
Dropped  from  some  diadem. 

She  died  in  beauty!   like  a  lay 

Along  a  moonlit  lake  ; 
She  died  in  beauty !  like  the  song 

Of  birds  amid  the  brake. 


640 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


She  (lied  iu  beauty!  like  the  snow 
On  Howers  dissolved  awaj' ; 

She  died  in  beauty !    like  a  star 
Lost  ou  the  brow  of  day. 

She  Ih'vs  iu  gh)ry !   like  night's  gems 
Set  round  the  silver  moon  ; 

She  lives  in  glory  !   like  the  suu 
Amid  the  blue  of  June  ! 


Uidjarb  (£ljcnciii,i-  (Trcncl). 

Trench  was  born  in  DubHn  in  1807.  lie  studied  at 
Cambridge,  took  orders  in  the  Cliurch  of  England,  was 
made  Dean  of  Westminster  in  18.50,  and  Arclibisliop  of 
Dublin  in  1864.  He  has  published  theological  discourses, 
two  volumes  on  the  study  of  Words,  and  several  volumes 
of  verse.  Many  of  his  poems  evince  genuine  lyrical 
power  ;  but  the  didactic  prevails  iu  his  style. 


OUE  FATHER'S   HOME. 

I  say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 

To  the  lirst  man  thou  mayest  meet 

Iu  laue,  highway,  or  opeu  street, — 

That  he,  and  we,  and  all  men,  move 

Under  a  canopy  of  love 

As  broad  as  the  bine  sky  above  ; 

That  doubt  and  trouble,  fear  and  pain 
And  anguish,  all  are  shadows  vain  ; 
That  death  itself  shall  not  remain  : — 

That  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 
A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 
Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led,- 

Yet,  if  wo  -will  our  Guide  obey, 
The  dreariest  path,  the  darkest  vay, 
Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day; 

And  we,  on  divers  shores  now  cast, 
Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voyage  past. 
All  in  our  Father's  home  at  last. 

And  ere  thou  leave  him,  say  thou  this 
Yet  one  word  more :    They  only  iniss 
The  winning  of  that  final  bliss, 

Who  will  not  count  it  true  that  love, 
Blessing  not  cursing,  rules  above, 
And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 


And  one  thing  further  make  him  know,- 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so, 
This  linn  faith  never  to  forego, — 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  blessing,  or  with  curses  rife, — 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 


BE  PATIENT. 

Be  patient,  oh,  be  patient ;   put  your  ear  against  the 

earth. 
Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the  seed  has 

birth  ; 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its  little  way, 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken  ground,  and  the 

blade  stands  up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient,  oh,  be  iiatient !  the  germs  of  mighty 
thought 

Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must  under 
ground  be  wrought ; 

But  as  sure  as  there's  a  Power,  that  makes  the  grass 
appear. 

Our  land  shall  be  green  with  Liberty,  the  blade- 
time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient,  oh,  be  patient !  go  and  watch  the  wheat- 
ears  grow, 

So  imperceptibly,  that  eye  can  mark  uor  change  nor 
throe  ; 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is  fully 
grown ; 

And  then  again,  day  after  day,  till  the  ripened  held 
is  brown  ! 

Be  patient,  oh,  be  patient  !  though  yet  our  hopes  are 

green, 
The  harvest-fields  of  Freedom  shall  be  crowned  with 

the  sunny  sheen  ; 
Be  ripening!  be  ripening!  mature  your  silent  way, 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with  fire  on 

Fiee<loin's  harvest-dav  ! 


SONNET:   ON  PRAYER. 

Lord,  what  a  change  within  us  one  short  hour 
Spent  in  thy  presence  will  prevail  to  make — 
What  heavy  burdens  from  our  bosoms  take! 
What  parchdd  grounds  refresh  as  Avith  a  shower! 
We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  seems  to  lower: 


RICHARD   CHENEVIX  TRENCH.— ARTHUR   WILLIAMS  AUSTIN. 


G41 


Wc  rise,  and  all,  the  distant  and  the  near. 
Stands  foitli  in  snnny  ontlino,  brave  and  clear; 
We  kneel,  how  weak,  we  rise,  how  full  of  power! 
Why,  therefore,  shonld  we  do  onrselves  this  wrong, 
Or  others — that  we  are  not  always  strong ; 
That  we  are  ever  overborne  with  care  ; 
That  we  sliouhl  ever  wealc  or  heartless  be, 
Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is  prayer, 
And  joy^and  strength,  and  courage  are  with  thee? 


SPRING. 


Who  was  it  that  so  lately  said, 
All  pulses  in  thine  heart  were  dead, 

Old  earth,  that  now  in  festal  robes 
Appearest,  as  a  bride  new  wed  ? 

Oh,  wrapped  so  late  in  winding-sbeet— 
Thy  winding-sheet,  oh  !   Avhere  is  ded  ? 

Lo !   'tis  an  emerald  carpet  now, 

Where  the  young  monarch,  Spring,  may  tread. 

He  comes,— and,  a  defeated  king, 
Old  Winter  to  the  hills  is  tied. 

The  warm  wind  broke  his  frosty  spear, 
And  loosed  the  helmet  from  his  head  ; 

And  he  weak  showers  of  arrowy  sleet 
From  his  strongholds  has  vainly  sped. 

All  that  was  sleeping  is  awake. 
And  all  is  living  that  was  dead. 

Who  listens  now  can  hear  the  streams 
Leap  tinkling  from  their  pebbly  bed, 

Or  see  them,  from  their  fetters  free, 
Like  silver  snakes  the  meadows  thread. 

The  joy,  the  life,  the  hope  of  earth. 
They  slept  awhile,  thej'  Avere  not  dead : 

O  thou,  who  say'st  thy  sore  heart  ne'er 
With  verdure  can  again  be  spread; 

O  thou,  who  niournest  them  that  sleep, 
Low  lying  in  au  earthly  bed  ; 

Look  out  on  this  reviving  world. 
And  be  new  hopes  within  thee  bred! 
41 


artljur  lllillianiG  Austin. 


Born  in  Cliarlestown,  Mass.,  in  1807,  Austin  was  grad- 
uated at  Cambridge  in  1825,  studied  law,  and  in  1856  was 
made  Collector  of  tlie  port  of  Boston  under  President 
Bucliiuian.  An  excellent  Greek  scholar,  he  has  made 
some  accurate  and  graceful  translations  from  "The 
Greek  Anthology."  In  1875  he  published  a  volume  en- 
titled "  The  Woman  and  the  Queen:  a  Ballad,  and  other 
Specimens  of  Verse." 


FKOM  "THE   GREEK  ANTHOLOGY." 

nUFINUS:    TO   IUIOD.\. 

Rhoda !    to  thee  I  send  a  garland,  wove 

From  flowers  late  gathered  bj"  these  hands  of  mine : 

Here  lily,  celandine,  and  budding  rose, 

The  tender  daffodil,  the  violet  blue ! 

Wheu  crowned  with  these,  abate  thy  lofty  pride: 

Thyself,  the  flowers,  the  garland,  all  will  fade  ! 

SIMMIAS:    EPITAPH   ON   SOPHOCLES. 
Around  this  place  where  Sophocles  reclines, 
Let  ivj^  silent  creep,  and  fruitful  vines ; 
Let  palm-trees  overhang  his  honored  tomb, 
And  flowering  roses  shed  a  sweet  perfume : 
Gifted  with  pleasant  Avords  and  precepts  wise, 
Muses  and  Graces  were  his  choice  allies. 

MAPvIAXUS:    TO  A    STATUE   OF   CUPID   CROWNED. 
Where  is  that  bow  of  yours,  the  wings,  the  dart, 
And  those  shai'p  arrows  meant  to  pierce  the  heart? 
Why  on  your  head  a  wreath,  why  garlands  hold? 
"  Stranger,  think  not  I  am  of  common  mould; 
Not  of  the  earth,  nor  sou  of  earthly  joy, — 
No  common  Venus  owns  me  for  her  boy. 
To  the  pure  mind  of  man  I  send  a  flame, 
And  lead  his  soul  to  heaven,  from  whence  it  came; 
Four  garlands  from  the  Virtues  I  entwine. 
And,  above  all,  the  prize  of  Wisdom  mine!". 

MARIANUS :    THE    LOVE-GROVE  OF   AXIASIA. 
This  Grove  of  Love  hath  charms ;  the  western  breeze 
Sends  soothing  murmurs  through  the  well -pruned 

trees  ; 
On  dewy  meadow  sparkling  violets  grow. 
And  from  a  triple  source  the  waters  flow ; 
Aiul  here  at  noonday  Iris  rolls  its  wave, 
That  fair-haired  wood-nymphs  may  at  pleasure  lave  : 
Exposed  on  all  sides  to  the  Sun's  caress. 
Here  fruitful  vine  and  fertile  olive  bless; 
Here  all  around  the  nightingales  are  heard, — 
Crickets  responding  to  the  tuneful  bird : 


642 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Rogfird,  my  fiieiul,  a  Avell-nicaut,  kind  request : 
Pass  not  my  gate, — I  welcoiiie  such  a  guest. 

ALC.EUS:    SEVENTH    lUAGMKNT.' 
Nor  porches,  theatres,  nor  stately  halls, 
Nor  senseless  equipage,  nor  lofty  walls, 
Nor  towers  of  wood  or  stone,  lujr  workmen's  arts, 
Compose  a  State.    But  men  with  daring  hearts, 
Who  on  themselves  rely  to  meet  all  calls, 
Compose  a  State, — it  needs  not  other  walls ! 


iJames  33allantinc. 

Ballantinc  was  boru  in  Edinburgh  in  180S.  When  he 
was  a  mere  boy  the  loss  of  his  father  compelled  him  to 
work  for  the  family's  support ;  and  he  became  an  accom- 
plished painter  on  jjlass.  An  edition  of  his  poems  was 
published  iu  1856.  They  indicate  a  love  of  the  beauti- 
ful iu  nature,  and  a  devout  faith  that  the  order  of  things 
means  good,  and  not  evil,  for  the  human  race.  He  was 
the  author  of  a  work  on  stained  glass,  which  was  trans- 
lated and  published  in  Germany. 


ITS   AIN   DRAP   O'  DEW. 

Confide  ye  aye  in  Providence, 

For  Providence  is  kind, 
An'  bear  ye  a'  life's  changes 

Wi'  a  calm  an'  tranquil  miiul ; 
Tho'  iiressed  and  hemmed  on  every  side, 

Ha'e  faith,  an'  ye'll  win  through. 
For  ilka  blade  o'  grass 

Keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

Gin  reft  frae  friends,  or  crossed  in  love, 

As  whiles  nae  doubt  ye've  been. 
Grief  lies  deep-hidden  in  your  heart, 

Or  tears  flow  frao  your  e'en, 
Believe  it  for  the  best,  and  trow 

There's  good  in  store  for  you, 
For  ilka  blade  o'  grass 

Keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

In  lang,  lang  days  o'  simmer, 

When  the  clear  and  cloudless  sky 
Refuses  ao  wee  drap  o'  rain 

To  Nature,  parched  and  dry, 
The  genial  Night,  wi'  balmy  breath. 

Gars  verdure  spring  anew. 
An'  ilka  blade  o'  grass 

Keps  its  aiu  drap  o'  dew. 


Sae  lest  'mid  fortune's  sunshine 

We  should  feel  ower  i)roud  an'  hie. 
An'  in  our  pride  forget  to  wipe 

The  tear  frae  poortith's*  e'e. 
Some  wee  dark  clouds  o'  sorrow  come. 

We  ken  na  whence  or  boo, 
But  ilka  blade  o'  grass 

Ke^is  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 


C)curn  JotljcrgiU  (Hljorlcn. 

Chorlcy  (1808-1872)  was  a  native  of  England.  He  was 
a  good  musical  critic,  and  a  poet  of  no  ordinary  ability. 
His  "  Song  of  the  Oak  "  was  set  to  music  by  Henry  Rus- 
sell. He  wrote  several  plays  and  numerous  librettos. 
His  "  Memoirs"  by  Hewlett  appeared  iu  1873. 


THE   BRAVE   OLD   OAK. 

A  song  for  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak. 

Who  hath  ruled  iu  the  greenwood  long ; 
Here's  health  and  renown  to  his  broad  green  crown. 

And  his  tifty  arms  so  strong. 
There's  fear  in  his  frown  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  the  lire  iu  the  west  fades  out; 
And  he  showeth  his  might  on  a  wild  midnight. 
When  the  storms  through  his  branches  shout. 
Then  here's  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak. 

Who  stands  in  his  pride  alone ; 
And  still  flourish  he,  a  bale,  green  tree. 
When  a  hundred  years  are  gone! 

In  the  days  of  old,  when  the  spring  with  gold 

Had  brightened  his  branches  gray, 
Through  the  grass  at  his  feet  crept  maidens  sweet, 

To  gather  the  dew  of  May. 
And  on  that  day  to  the  rebec  gay 

They  frolicked  with  lovesomo  swains ; 
They  are  gone,  they  are  dead,  in  the  church-yard  laid. 

But  the  tree  it  still  remains. 
Then  here's  to  the  oak,  etc. 

He  saw  the  rare  times  when  the  Christmas  chimes 

Were  a  merry  sound  to  hear. 
When  the  squire's  wide  hall  and  the  cottage  small 

Were  filled  with  good  English  cheer. 
Now  gold  hnth  the  sway  we  all  obey. 

And  a  ruthless  king  is  he; 
But  he  never  shall  send  our  ancient  friend 

To  be  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 
Then  here's  to  the  oak,  etc. 


'  See  the  ampUficaliou  of  ibis  fragment  by  Sir  Wilham  Jones. 


'  Scottish  for  poverty. 


LUCRETIA  AND  MARGARET  DAVIDSOX. 


643 


Cucrctia  ani)  illarciarct  iDaDiiison. 

AMERICANS. 

Lucrctia  Jlaria  (1808-1825)  and  Maro-arct  Miller  David- 
son (1823-1838),  sisters,  were  the  daughters  of  Dr.  Oliver 
Davidson  and  Margaret  Miller,  his  wife,  both  persons  of 
culture  and  refinement.  Lucretia  was  born  at  Platts- 
burg,  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Champlain.  She  was  a 
precocious  child  and  an  assiduous  student,  and  began  to 
write  verses  before  she  was  ten  jears  old.  In  18:24  she 
was  sent  to  Mrs.  Willard's  well-known  school  in  Troy. 
Here  she  applied  herself  too  closely  to  study.  Iler  health 
soon  failed,  and  she  died  of  consumption  one  month  be- 
fore her  seventeenth  birthday.  A  volume,  entitled  "Amir 
Khan,  and  other  Poems,"  being  a  collection  of  her  pieces, 
with  a  memoir,  was  published  in  1829  by  Mr.  S.  F.  B. 
Morse.  It  attracted  much  attention,  and  was  very  favor- 
ably noticed  in  the  London  Qaarterhj  ^twicMi,  xiL,  289,  by 
Southey,  who  wrote:  "In  our  own  language,  except  in 
the  cases  of  Chattcrton  and  Kirke  White,  we  can  call  to 
mind  no  instance  of  so  early,  so  ardent,  and  so  fatal  a 
pursuit  of  intellectual  advancement."  She  showed  as 
much  talent  for  drawing  as  for  literary  work. 

Margaret,  the  sister,  was  about  two  years  old  at  the 
time  of  Lueretia's  death.  She  had  the  same  imaginative 
traits,  the  same  ardent,  impulsive  nature,  and  her  life 
seems  like  a  repetition  of  that  of  her  elder  sister.  She 
improvised  stories,  wrote  plays,  and  advanced  so  rapidly 
in  her  studies  that  it  was  necessary  to  check  her  dili- 
gence. She  had  the  most  lively  reverence  for  her  de- 
parted sister,  and  believed  that  she  liad  close  and  inti- 
mate communion  with  her.  At  the  age  of  six  she  took 
pleasure  in  reading  Milton,  Cowpcr,  Thomson,  and  Scott. 
"She  was  at  times,"  says  Irving,  "in  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
from  the  excitement  of  her  imagination  and  the  exuber- 
ance of  her  pleasurable  sensations.  In  such  moods  every 
object  of  natural  beauty  inspired  a  degree  of  rapture  al- 
ways mingled  with  a  feeling  of  gratitude  to  the  Being 
'  who  had  made  so  many  beautiful  things  for  her.'  *=■*-» 
A  beautiful  tree,  or  shrub,  or  flower  would  fill  her  with 
delight;  she  would  note  with  surprising  discrimination 
the  various  effects  of  the  weather  on  the  surrounding 
landscape.  A  bright  starlight  night  would  seem  to  awa- 
ken a  mysterious  rapture  in  her  infant  bosom." 

Margaret  died  even  younger  than  Lucretia;  being  at 
her  death  but  fifteen  years  and  eight  months  old.  The 
wife  of  Southey  (Caroline  Bowles)  addressed  the  follow- 
ing beautiful  sonnet  (1842)  "To  the  Mother  of  Lucretia 
and  Margaret  Davidson  :" 

"  O,  lady  !  greatly  favored  !  greatly  tried  ! 
Was  ever  glory,  ever  grief  like  thine, 
Since  hers,  ihe  mother  of  the  Man  divine— 
The  perfect  one — the  crowned,  the  crncified  ? 
Wonder  and  joy,  high  hopes  and  chastened  pride 
Thrilled  thee;  intently  watching,  hour  by  hour, 
The  fast  unfolding  of  each  human  flowei'. 
In  hues  of  more  than  earthly  brilliance  dyed— 

And  then,  the  blight — the  fading — the  first  tear 

The  sickening  hope — the  doom— the  end  of  all ; 
Heart-withering,  if  indeed  all  ended  here. 
But  from  the  dust,  the  coffin,  and  the  pall. 

Mother  bereaved  !  thy  tearfnl  eyes  upraise 

Mother  of  angels !  join  their  songs  of  praise !" 


Lueretia's  poems,  with  a  memoir  by  Miss  C.  M.  Sedg- 
wick, were  republished  1842;  Margaret's  poems  were  in- 
troduced to  the  public  under  the  kind  auspices  of  Wash- 
ington Irving  in  1841;  and  a  revised  edition  of  both,  in 
one  volume,  appeared  in  1850.  There  was  a  brother.  Lieu- 
tenant L.  P.  Davidson  of  the  United  States  Army,  who  also 
wrote  verses,  and  died  young.  We  regard  Margaret  as 
evincing  the  superior  genius.  Among  her  productions 
is  a  poem  of  some  fourteen  hundred  lines,  entitled  "Le- 
nore."  It  has  a  "Dedication"  to  the  spirit  of  her  sis- 
ter, also  an  "Introduction,"  both  of  which  wc  give  en- 
tire. They  are  quite  equal  to  the  best  work  accomplished 
by  Chattcrton.  A  volume  of  selections  from  the  writings 
of  Mrs.  Davidson,  the  mother  of  these  gifted  children, 
with  a  preface  by  Miss  C.  M.  Sedgwick — all  showing  no 
ordinary  degree  of  literary  ability — appeared  in  1844. 


TO    MY    SISTER. 

Lucretia  M.  Davidson, 

Lucretia  had  an  elder  sister,  and  was  often  moved  by  her 
nmsic;  particularly  by  Moore's  "  Farewell  to  my  Harp."  This 
she  would  ask  to  have  sung  to  her  at  twilight,  when  it  would 
excite  a  shivering  through  her  whole  frame.  On  one  occasion 
she  became  cold  and  pale,  and  was  near  fainting,  and  afterunrd 
poured  her  excited  feelings  forth  in  the  following  address.  Thi.s 
was  in  her  fifteenth  year.    See  Miss  Sedgwick's  Memoir. 

When  evening  spreads  lier  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  tbe  arch  of  heaven ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  iiot  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given  ; 

W^hen  tlio  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright. 
And  looks  around  Avith  golden  eye; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie  ; 

Then,  when  our  thonghts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give, — 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 


The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half-afraid  ; 

O,  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ue'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made ! 

'Twere  tilraost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Tiiose  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day ; 

Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Should'st  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 


644 


CTCLOrJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


PROPHECY:   TO   A   LAUY. 

I.rcriETiA  M.  Davidson. 

I  have  told  a  maiden  of  hours  of  j;iiof ; 
Of  a  lilceding  beart,  of  a  jovlcss  life; 
1  have  road  her  a  tah'  of  future  \\w; 
I  have  marked  her  a  pathway  of  sorrow  lielow  ; 
I  have  read  on  tlie  page  of  her  bk)oniiug  cheek 
A  darker  doom  than  my  tongue  dare  speak. 
Now,  maiden,  for  thee,  I  will  turn  my  eye 
To  a  brighter  path  throngli  futurity. 
The  clouds  shall  pass  from  thy  brow  away. 
And  bright  be  the  closing  of  life's  long  day  ; 
The  storms  shall  murmur  in  silence  to  sleep. 
And  augels  around  thee  tlieir  watches  shall  keep; 
Tiion  shalt  live  in  the  sunbeams  of  love  and  delight. 
And  thy  life  shall  flow  on  till  it  fades  into  uiglit; 
And  the  twilight  of  ago  shall  come  quietly  on  ; 
Thon  wilt  feel,  yet  regret  not,  that  daylight  hath 

llown  ; 
For  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  melt  o'er  thy  soul, 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  Heaven  around  thee  shall  roll, 
Till  sinking  in  sweet  dreamless  slumber  to  rest. 
In  the  arms  of  thy  loved  one,  still  blessing  and  blessed, 
Tliy  soul  shall  glide  on  to  its  harbor  in  Heaven, 
Every  tear  wiped  away — every  error  forgiven! 


DEDICATION    OF   "  LENORE." 

TO   THE    SriHIT   01'   MY   SISTER  LUCUETIA. 

Yet  more  rem.arkable  in  some  respects  than  any  of  tlic  popnie 
liy  Lncretin,  is  tlie  following,  we  think,  written  by  Margarci  be- 
fore her  tiftecnlh  year. 

O  thon,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored! 

Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near ! 
And  wiiilo  I  touch  this  hallowed  harp  of  thine, 

I3eud  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear! 

For  thee  I  pour  this  unalTectcd  lay, 

To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong; 

For  though  thine  earthly  form  hath  passed  away. 
Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childi.sh  song. 

Then  take  this  feeble  tribute!   'tis  thine  own! 

Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heart-strings  o'er ; 
Arous(5  to  harmony  each  buried  tone. 

And  bid  its  wakened  music  sleep  no  more! 

Long  hath  thy  A'oice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 
Hung  o'er  thy  grave  in  death's  unbroken  rest. 

But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  wore  borne  away, 
One  answering  echo  lingered  iu  my  breast. 


O  thon  pure  si»irit !   if  thou  hoverest  near, 

Acceiit  those  lines,  unworthy  though  they  bo, 

Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 
I5y  thoo  inspiit'd,  and  dedicate  to  thee. 


.JOY. 

Margahet  >I.  Davidson. 

Oil!   my  bosom  is  throbbing  with  joy, 
With  a  rapture  too  full  to  express: 

From  within  and  without  I  am  bles.sed  ; 
Ami  the  world,  like  myself,  I  would  bless. 

All  nature  looks  fair  to  my  eye. 

From  beneath  and  around  and  above: 

Hope  smiles  in  the  clear  azure  sky, 

And  the  broad  earth  is  glowing  with  love. 

I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  life. 

On  the  shore  of  its  wide-rolling  sea; — 

I  have  heard  of  its  storms  and  its  strife, 
But  all  things  are  tranquil  to  nie. 

There's  a  veil  o'er  the  future, — 'tis  bright 

As  the  wing  of  a  spirit  of  air; 
And  caeli  form  of  enchautnieut  and  light 

Is  trembling  iu   Iris  hues  there. 

I  turn  to  the  world  of  afl'ection, 

And  warm,  glowing  treasures  are  mine;  — 

To  the  past, — and  my  fond  recollection 
Gathers  roses  from  memory's  shrine. 

But  oh!   there's  a  fountain  of  joy 

More  rich  than  .a  kingdom  beside: 
It  is  holy  ; — death  cannot  destroy 

The  flow  of  its  heavenly  tide. 

'Tis  the  love  that  is  gushing  within  ;  — 

It  would  bathe  tiie  whole  world  in  its  light, 

Which  the  cold  stream  of  time  shall  not  ((ueneh. 
The  dark  frown  of  woe  shall  not  blight. 

Though  age,  with  an  icy-cold  finger. 
May  stamp  his  pale  seal  on  my  brow, 

Still,  still  in  my  bosom  shall  linger 
The  glow  that  is  warming  it  now. 

Youth  will  vanish,  and  Pleasure,  gay  charmer. 
May  depart  on  the  wings  of  to-day; 

But  that  spot  in  my  heart  shall  grow  warmer, 
As  year  after  year  rolls  away. 


LUCRETIA   AND  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


645 


INTRODUCTION   TO   "LEXORE:    A  ROEM." 

The  following,  written  by  Margaret  before  she  was  fifteen 
years  old,  is  among  the  most  remarkable  of  her  poems,  in  vigor 
and  maturity  of  expresi^ion. 

Why  slionlil  /  sing  ?     The  sceues  ■svhicli  roused 

The  bards  of  old  arouse  no  more  ; 
The  reign  of  Roesy  bath  passed, 

Aud  all  her  glowing  dreams  are  o'er: — 
\\\\\  should  I  sing?     A  thousand  harps 

Have  touched  the  self-same  cbords  before, 
Of  love  and  bate  and  lofty  pride, 

And  fields  of  battle  bathed  in  gore! 
Why  should  1  seek  the  burning  fount 

From  Avlience  their  glowing  fancies  sprung  F 
My  feeble  muse  can  only  sing 

What  other,  nobler  bards  have  sung ! 

Thus  did  I  breathe  my  sad  complaint. 

As,  bending  o'er  my  silent  lyre, 
I  sighed  for  some  romantic  theme 

Its  slumbering  music  to  inspire. 
Scarce  had  I  spoke  when  o'er  my  soul 

A  low,  reproving  whisper  came ; 
My.  heart  instinctive  shrank  with  awe. 

And  conscience  tinged  my  cheek  with  shame. 
"Dow^n  with  thy  vain,  repining  thoughts! 

Nor  dare  to  breathe  those  thoughts  again  ; 
Or  endless  sleep  shall  bind  thy  lyre. 

And  scorn  repel  thy  bursting  strain ! 

"  What  though  a  thousand  bards  have  sung 

The  charms  of  earth,  of  air,  or  sky ! 
A  thousand  minstrels,  old  and  young, 

Roured  forth  their  varied  melody! 
What  though,  inspired,  they  stooped  to  drink 

At  Fancy's  fountain  o'er  and  o'er! 
Say,  feeble  warl)ler,  dost  thou  think 

The  glowing  streandet  flows  no  more  ? 
Because  a  nobler  hand  hath  culled 

The  loveliest  of  our  earthly  flowers. 
Dost  thou  believe  that  all  of  bloom 

Hath  fled  those  bright,  poetic  bowers  ? 

"  Know,  then,  tiiat  long  as  earth  shall  roll, 

Revolving  'ueath  yon  azui'c  sky, 
Music  shall  charm  each  imrer  soul, 

And  Fancy's  fount  shall  never  dry! 
Long  as  the  rolling  seasons  change, 

Aud  Nature  holds  her  empire  here ; 
Long  as  the  human  eye  can  range 

O'er  yon  pure  heaven's  expanded  sphere  ; 


Long  as  the  ocean's  broad  expanse 

Lies  spread  beneath  you  broader  sky ; 

Long  as  tlie  playful  moonbeams  dance, 
Like  fairy  forms,  on  billows  high, — 

"So  long,  unbound  by  mortal  chain. 

Shall  Genius  spread  her  soaring  wing; 
So  long  the  pure,  poetic  fount 

Unchecked,  unfettered,  on  shall  spring  ! 
Thou  say'st  the  days  of  song  have  passed, — 

The  glowing  days  of  wild  romance. 
When  War  poured  out  his  clarion  blast. 

And  Valor  bowed  at  Beauty's  glance! 
When  every  hour  that  ouward  sped 

V^as  fraught  with  some  bewildering  tale; 
Wlieu  Superstition's  shadowy  hand 

O'er  trembling  nations  cast  her  veil ; — 

"Thou  say'st  that  life's  unvaried  stream 

In  peaceful  ripples  wears  away  ; 
And  years  produce  no  fitting  theme 

To  rouse  the  Roet's  slumbering  lay : — 
Not  so  !  w^hile  yet  the  hand  of  God 

Each  j'ear  adorns  his  teeming  earth ; 
While  dew-drops  deck  the  verdant  sod, 

Aud  birds  and  bees  and  flowers  have  birth ; 
While  every  day  unfolds  anew 

Some  charm  to  meet  the  searching  eye  ; 
While  buds  of  every  varying  hue 

Are  bursting  'ueath  a  summer  sky ! 

"'Tis  true  that  War's  unspariug  hand 

Hath  ceased  to  bathe  our  fields  iu  gore. 
That  Fate  hath  quenched  his  burning  brand. 

And  tyrant  princes  reigu  no  more; — 
But  dost  thou  think  that  sceues  like  these 

Form  all  the  poetry  of  life  ? 
W^ould  thy  untutored  muse  delight 

In  scenes  of  rapine,  blood,  and  strife  ? 
No!  there  are  boundless  fields  of  thought. 

Where  roving  spirit  never  soared; 
Which  wildest  Fancy  never  sought. 

Nor  boldest  Intellect  explored! 

"Then  bow  not  silent  o'er  thy  lyre, 

But  tune  its  chords  to  Nature's  praise : 
At  every  turn  thine  eye  shall  meet 

Fit  themes  to  form  a  Roet's  lays! 
Go  forth,  prepared  her  sweetest  smiles 

In  all  her  loveliest  sceues  to  A'iew  ; 
Nor  deem,  though  others  there  have  knelt. 

Thou  may'st  uot  weave  thy  garlaud  too  I" 


646 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


— It  pansod  :  I  felt  how  true  the  wonls, 
How  sweet  the  comfort  they  conveyed  ! 

I  chased  my  mourning  thoughts  away — 
I  lieard — I  trusted — I  obeyed  ! 


FROM  "LINES  TO  LUCRETIA." 

Of  the  poem,  written  by  Margaret  Davidson  when  she  was 
not  fourteen  years  okl,  from  which  wc  here  give  an  extract, 
Washington  living  remarks:  "  We  may  liavc  rend  poetry  more 
artificially  perfect  in  its  strncture,  but  never  any  more  truly 
divine  in  its  inspiration." 

My  sister!  with  this  mortal  eye, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thy  form  again  ; 

And  never  shall  this  mortal  ear 

Diink  in  the  sweetness  of  thy  strain  : 

Yet  fancy  wild,  and  glowing  love, 
.  Reveal  thee  to  my  spirit's  view, 
Enwreatlied  veith  graces  from  above, 

And  decked  in  Heaven's  own  fadeless  hue. 

I  hear  thee  in  the  summer  breeze, 
See  thee  in  all  that's  pure  or  lair ; 

Thy  whisper  in  the  murmuring  trees. 
Thy  breath,  thy  spirit  everywhere! 

Thy  iingers  wake  my  youthful  lyre, 
And  teach  its  softer  strains  to  flow  ; 

Thy  spirit  checks  each  vain  desire, 
And  gilds  the  lowering  brow  of  woe. 

When  all  is  still,  and  fancy's  realm 

Is  opening  to  the  eager  view. 
Mine  eye  full  oft,  in  search  of  thee. 

Roams  o'er  that  vast  expanse  of  blue. 

I  know  that  Ihtl-  tliy  liari)  is  mute, 
And  quenched  the  bright  poetic  lire ; 

Yet  still  I  bend  mj'  ear  to  catch 
The  liymnings  of  thy  seraph  lyre. 

Oh  !  if  this  partial  converse  now 

So  joyous  to  my  heart  can  be, 
How  must  the  streams  of  rapture  flow 

When  both  are  chainless,  both  are  free ! 


(Caroline  ^"orton. 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Sheridan  (1808-1877),  daugh- 
ter of  Tliomas  Sheridan,  son  of  the  celebrated  Kichard 
Brinsley  Sheridan,  author  of  "The  Rivals,"  "The  School 
for  Scandal,"  etc.,  was  a  native  of  London.    She  was  one 


of  tlircc  sisters  ;  one  became  Lady  Seymour,  and  the  oth- 
er Mrs.  Blackwood  (afterward  Lady  Uiiflerin).  Tiiey  all 
manifested  a  taste  for  jjoetry.  Caroline  began  to  write 
early;  she  had  inherited  the  literary  gift  both  from  the 
paternal  and  the  maternal  side.  In  her  nineteenth  year 
she  married  Mr.  Norton,  son  of  Lord  (irantley.  This 
imion  was  dissolved  in  1840,  after  Mrs.  Norton  had  been 
the  object  of  suspicion  and  persecution  of  tlie  most  pain- 
ful description.  "The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,"  "The  Un- 
dying One,"  "The  Dream,  and  other  Poems,"  "The 
Child  of  the  L-^Iands,"  are  among  her  productions  in 
verse.  She  also  wrote  novels,  and  entered  into  political 
discussions  on  reformatory  questions.  A  year  or  two 
before  Ikm-  death  she  married  Sir  William  Sterling  Max- 
well (1817-1879),  author  of  "  The  Cloister  Life  of  Charles 
V."  (18.52),  and  other  works.  A  critic  in  the  Quarterlij 
Review  says  of  Mrs.  Norton  :  "  She  has  mucli  of  that  in- 
tense personal  passion  by  which  Byron's  poetry  is  dis- 
tinguished from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper  communion 
with  nature  of  Wordsworth." 


BIXGEN   ON   THE    RHINE. 

A  .soldier  of  the  Legion, 

Lay  dying  at  Algiers; 
Tlu're  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing, 

Tliere  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him, 

While  his  life-blood  ebbed  awaj'. 
And  bent  with  pitying  glances 

To  hear  what  ho  might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered 

As  ho  took  that  comrade's  hand, 
And  he  said,  "I  never  more  shall  see 

My  own,  my  native  land  ; 
Take  a  message  and  a  token 

To  some  distant  friends  of  mine; 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen, 

Fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brotliers  iind  companions, 

When  they  meet  ami  crowd  around 
To  hear  my  mournfid  story, 

In  the  ])leasant  vineyard  ground. 
Tiuit  wo  fought  the  battle  bravely; 

And  when  the  day  was  done. 
Full  nmny  a  corse  lay  ghastly  jialo 

Beneath  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  'mid  llie  dead  and  dying 

Were  some  grown  old  in  Avars, 
Tlie  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts. 

The  last  of  manj*  scars  ; 
But  some  were  j-ouug,  and  suddenly 

Beheld  life's  morn  decline ; 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen, 

From  Bingen  ou  tlie  Rhine. 


CAROLINE  NORTON. 


647 


"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons 

Slmll  comfort  her  old  age, 
And  I  ^Yas  aye  a  truant  bird 

That  thought  his  home  a  cage  ; 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier, 

And,  even  as  a  child. 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell 

Of  struggles  fierce  and  wild  ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us 

To  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would, 

But  kept  my  father's  sword ; 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it 

Where  the  bright  light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingeu — 

Calm  Bingeu  ou  the  Rhine! 

"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me, 

And  sob  with  drooping  head. 
When  the  troops  are  marching  homo  again, 

With  glad  and  gallant  tread ! 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly. 

With  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye. 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier. 

And  not  afraid  to  die. 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love, 

I  ask  her  in  my  name. 
To  listen  to  him  kindly, 

Without  regret  or  shame. 
And  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  plac'e, 

(Mj'  father's  sword  and  mine.) 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingeu, 

Dear  Bingeu  ou  the  Rhine. 

"  There's  another,  not  a  sister — 

In  the  happy  days  gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment 

That  sparkled  in  her  eye ; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry, 

Too  fond  for  idle  scorning — 
Oh !  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart 

Makes  sometimes  heaviest  mouruing ! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life — 

For  ere  the  morn  be  risen 
^Ij^  body  will  be  out  of  pain. 

My  soul  be  out  of  prison — 
I  dreamed  that  I  stood  with  her 

And  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  A'iue-clad  hills  of  Bingeu, 

Fair  Biugen  on  the  Rhiue. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweej)  along ; 
I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 


The  German  songs  Ave  used  to  sing. 

In  chorus  sweet  and  clear ; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river, 

Aud  up  the  slanting  hill 
That  echoing  chorus  sounded 

Through  the  evening  calm  and  still; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  ou  me, 

As  we  passed  with  friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  jiath  beloved  of  yore, 

Aud  well-remembered  walk ; 
Aud  her  little  hand  lay  lightly. 

Confidingly  in  mine — 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Biugen, 

Loved  Bingeu  on  the  Rhiue." 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser. 

His  grasp  was  childish  Aveak, 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look. 

He  sighed,  and  ceased  to  speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him, 

But  the  spark  of  life  had  tied — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion 

In  a  foreign  laud  was  dead ! 
Aud  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly, 

And  calmly  she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field, 

Witli  bloody  corses  strewn — 
Yea,  calmly  ou  that  dreadful  scene, 

Her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine 
As  it  shone  on  distaut  Bingeu, 

Fair  Biugen  on  the  Rhino ! 


THE   CHILD   OF  EARTH. 

Fainter  her  slow  step  falls  from  day  to  day, 

Death's  hand  is  heavy  on  her  darkening  brow ; 
Yet  doth  she  fondly  cling  to  earth,  aud  say, 

"I  am  content  to  die,  but  oh,  not  now! 
Not  while  the  blossoms  of  the  joyous  spring 

Make  the  warm  air  such  luxury  to  breathe  ; 
Not  while  the  birds  such  lays  of  gladness  sing; 

Not  while  bright  flowers   around  my  footsteps 
wreathe. 
Spare  me,  great  God,  lift  up  my  drooping  brow! 
I  am  content  to  die — but  oh,  not  now !" 

The  spring  hath  ripened  into  suumier-time, 
The  season's  viewless  boundary  is  past; 

The  glorious  sun  hath  reached  his  burning  prime  ; 
Oh !  must  this  glimpse  of  beauty  be  the  last  ? 

"  Let  me  not  perish  while  o'er  land  and  lea, 
With  silent  steps  the  lord  of  light  moves  on  ; 


648 


CTCLOPJSDIA    OF  BJIITJSII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Nor  while  the  nmrmiir  of  the  inoinitaiii  hee 

Greets  my  dull  car  with  music  in  its  lone! 
Pale  sickness  dims  my  eye,  and  ch)U(ls  my  brow  ; 
I  am  content  to  die — but  oh,  not  now  !'' 

Summer  is  gone,  and  autnmn's  soberer  hues 

Tint  the  ripe  fruits,  and  gihl  the  waving  corn  ; 
The  Iiuntsman  swift  the  flying  game  pursues. 

Shouts  the  halloo,  aiul  winds  his  eager  horn. 
"Spare  me  awhile  to  Avander  forth  and  gaze 

On  the  broad  meadows  and  the  quiet  stream, 
To  watch  in  silence  while  the  evening  rays 

Slant  through  the  fading  trees  with  ruddy  gleam ! 
Cooler  the  breezes  play  around  my  brow  ; 
I  am  content  to  die — but  oh,  not  now!'' 

The  bleak  wind  whistles,  snow-showers,  far  and  near. 

Drift  without  echo  to   the  whitening  ground; 
Autumn  hath  passed  away,  and,  cold  and  drear. 

Winter  stalks  on,  with  frozen  mantle  bound. 
Yet  still  that  prayer  ascends: — "Oh!   laughingly 

My  little  brothers  round  the  warm  hearth  crowd, 
Our  home-fire  blazes  broad,  and  bright,  and  high, 

And  the  roof  rings  with  voices  glad  and  loud  ; 
Spare  me  awhile !   raise  up  my  drooping  brow ! 
I  am  content  to  die — but  oh,  not  now!" 

The  spring  is  come  again — the  joyful  spring! 

Again    the    banks   with    clustering    flowers    are 
spread  ; 
The  wild  bird  dips  upon  its  wanton  wing — 

The  child  of  earth  is  numbered  with  the  dead! 
"  Theo  never  more  the  sunshine  shall  awake, 

Beaming  all  redly  through  the  lattice-pane; 
The  steps  of  friends  thy  slumbers  may  not  break. 

Nor  fond  familiar  voice  arouse  again  ! 
Death's  silent  shadow  veils  thy  darkened  brow-  ; 
Why  didst  thou  linger? — thou  art  happier  now!" 


Till,  haply  meeting  there,  from  time  to  time, 
Fancies,  the  audible  echo  of  my  own, 
'Twill  be  like  hearing  in  a  foreign  clime 
My  native  language,  spoke  in  friendly  tone, 
And  with  a  sort  of  welcome  I  shall  dwell 
On  these,  my  unripe  musings;   tokl  so  well! 


TO  MY   BOOKS. 

Mrs.  Norton  prefeneel  to  write  her  .^oniiPtR  in  llie  "  Shnksi)c;i- 
rinii  stanza,"  a?,  to  her  miud,  "  abetter  ]Cn;,'lis-h  niotlel  than  tli:il 
adopted  by  Milton." 

Silent  companions  of  the  lonely  hour. 
Friends,  who  can  never  alter  or  forsake! 
Who,  for  inconstant  roving  have  no  power, 
And  all  neglect,  perforce,  must  calmly  take, — 
Let  me  return  to  yon  :   this  turmoil  ending 
Which  worldly  cares  have  in  my  spirit  wrought, 
And  o'er  your  old  familiar  pages  bending 
Refresh  my  mind  with  mauj'  a  tranquil  thought! — 


LOVE   NOT. 

Love  not,  love  not,  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 

Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flowers — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away. 

Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  .1  few  short  hours. 

Love  not,  love  not !    The  thing  yon  love  may  change. 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you  ; 

Tlic  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 
The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not, love  not!     The  thing  you  love  may  die — 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  bine  and  smiling  sky. 
Beam  on  its  grave  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not,  love  not!     Oh  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  hours  as  in  the  years  gone  by ; 

Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head. 
Faultless,  immortal — till  they  change  or  die. 


THE  KING   OF   DENMARK'S  RIDE. 

Word  was  broni;lit  to  the  Danish  King 

{Hurni!) 
Tliat  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suflVriiig, 
And  i)ined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring; 

{Oh!  ride  as  though  you  nrrc  flying  !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl, 
Than  his  rich  crown-jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl : 
And  his  Hose  of  the  Isles  is  dying! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  Mith  speed; 

{Hurry!) 
Ivich  one  nu)untiiig  a  gallant  steed, 
Which  he  kept  for  l)attle  and  days  of  need  ; 

{Oh!   ride  an  though  you  were  flying !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the-  foaming  flank — 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank — 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  luirst — 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  King  rode  first, 
For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying! 


CAROLINE  NORTON.— CHARLES  (TENNYSON)   TURNER. 


649 


His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  b.y  one, 

{Hin-njI) 
They  have  fainted,  and  lixltered,  and  Iiomewaid  gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone — 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying! 
The  King  looked  back  at  that  faithful  cliild  ; 
Wail  AAas  the  face  that  answering  smiled  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 
Then  he  dropped;  and  only  the  King  rode  in 
Where  his  Kose  of  the  Isles  laj'  dying ! 

The  King  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn  ; 

(Silence .') 
No  answer  came  ;    but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  morn. 
Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  -wide  ; 
None  •welcomed  the  King  from  that  weary  ride  ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day. 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary  ! 
The  King  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest. 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast, 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying — 
The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check, 
He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck — 
"  O  steed  !   that  every  nerve  didst  strain. 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 
To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying!" 


Cljavlcs  (ulcnnijson)  (turner. 

Charles  Tennyson  (1808-1S79),  a  native  of  Somersby, 
Lincolnshire,  was  educated,  like  his  illustrious  brother, 
Alfred,  at  the  Grammar  School  of  Louth,  from  which  the 
two  youths  put  forth  in  1837  "Poems  by  Two  Brothers." 
Subsequently  they  removed  to  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, where  another  brother,  Frederick,  the  eldest,  had 
preceded  them.  Some  time  after  leaving  college,  diaries, 
for  family  reasons,  assumed  his  grandmother's  name  of 
Turner.  In  1836  he  took  holy  orders,  and  became  Vicar 
of  Grasby.  He  published  (1830)  "Sonnets  and  Fugitive 
Pieces."  Of  the  sonnets,  Coleridge  says,  in  his  "Table- 
Talk,"  they  "have  many  of  the  characteristic  excellences 
of  those  of  Wordsworth  and  Southey."  A  second  vol- 
ume was  issued  in  18G4;  a  third  in  1868;  in  1873,  "Son- 
nets, Lyrics,  and  Translations  ;"'  and  in  1880,  a  posthu- 
mous volume  of  Turner's  collected  poems.  His  sonnets 
have  the  charm  of  unambitious  simplicity  and  concrete 
clearness.  In  one  of  them,  addressed  (1868)  to  his  brother 
Alfred,  the  poet-laureate,  he  pays  the  following  beautiful 


and  atlVctiouato  tribute  to  the  "In  Memoiiam"  of  the 

latter  : 

"That  book  of  memory 
Which  is  to  grievhif;  heait.s  like  the  i^weet  south 
To  the  parched  meadow,  or  the  dying  tiee; 
Which  fllls  with  elegy  the  craving  moulli 
Of  sorrow— slakes  with  song  hei-  piteous  drouth, 
And  leaves  her  calm,  though  weepiug  sileutly." 


MORNING. 

It  is  the  fairest  sight  in  Nature's  realms 

To  see  on  summer  morning,  dewy-sweet. 

That  very  type  of  freshness,  the  green  wheat, 

Surging  through  shadows  of  the  hedge-row  elms ; 

How  the  eye  revels  in  the  many  shapes 

And  colors  which  the  risen  day  restores ! 

How  the  wind  blows  the  poppy's  scarlet  capes 

About  his  urn!   and  how  the  lark  npsoars ! 

Not  like  the  timid  coru-crake  scudding  fast 

From  his  own  voice,  he  with  him  takes  his  song 

Heavenward,  then  striking  sideways,  shoots  along, — 

Happy  as  sailor-boy  that,  from  the  mast, 

Runs  out  upon  the  yard-arm, — till  at  last 

He  sinks  into  his  nest,  those  clover  tufts  among. 


THE   LATTICE   AT   SUNRISE. 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mused  and  prayed, 
I  saw  my  lattice  praukt  upon  the  wall. 
The  flaunting  leaves  and  flitting  birds  withal, — 
A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade. 
"Thanks  be  to  Heaven,"  in  happy  mood,  I  said; 
"  What  sweeter  aid  mj'  matins  could  befall 
Than  this  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath  made  ? 
What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of  all, 
To  bid  us  feel  and  see  !     We  are  not  free 
To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea : 
His  lustre  piei'ceth  through  the  midnight  glooms; 
And,  at  prime  hour,  behold.  He  follows  me 
With  golden  shadows  to  mj'  secret  rooms!" 


A   BRILLIANT   DAY. 

O,  keen  pellucid  air!   nothing  can  lurk 

Or  disavow  itself  on  this  bright  day  ; 

Tiie  small  rain-plashes  shine  from  far  away. 

The  tiny  emmet  glitters  at  his  work  ; 

The  bee  looks  blithe  and  gay,  and  as  she  plies 

Her  tusk,  and  moves  and  sidles  round  the  cup 

Of  this  spring  flower,  to  drink  its  honey  np. 

Her  glassy  wings,  like  oars  that  dip  and  rise, 


650 


CYCLOFJUDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Gleam  momently.     Purc-bosomcd,  clear  of  fo^, 
The  loiij^  lake  glistens,  while  the  gloiioiia  beam 
liespangles  the  wet  joints  and  lloatinfj;  leaves 
Of  water-plants,  whose  every  \m\\\t  reeeives 
His  light;   and  jellies  of  the  spawning  frog, 
Unmarked  before,  like  i)iles  of  jewels  seem  ! 


LETTY'S  GLOBE. 

0\   SOMK    IiniEtiULAltlTIES   IN   A   FIIiST  LESSON   IN 
GEOGUArilY. 

^Vht■n  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  ;;lad  year, 
And  her  young  artless  words  began  to  How, 
One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colored  sphere 
Of  the  wide  Earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know 
By  tint  and  outline  all  its  sea  and  land. 
She  patted  all  the  world ;   old  empires  peeped 
Between  her  babj^-fingers ;   her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers ;   how  she  leaped. 
And  laughed,  and  prattled,  in  her  pride  of  bliss! 
But  when  we  turned  her  sweet  nnlearn(>d  eye 
On  our  own  Isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  crj^, 
"Oh  yes!   I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there!" 
And  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss. 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 


fjoratius  13onar. 


Bonar  (1 808-1 8G'.)),  a  distinguished  evangelical  hymn- 
writer,  was  a  native  of  Edinburgh.  His  ancestors  for 
several  successive  generations  were  ministers  of  the 
Church  of  Scotland.  Educated  at  the  Uinversity  of 
Edinburgh,  and  ordained  to  the  ministry  at  Kelso  in 
1.837,  he  was  tlic  author  of  several  tlicological  works. 
Latterly  he  ministered  to  the  Chalmers  Memorial  Free 
Church,  Edinburgh.  His  poetical  woi-ks  consist  of  his 
"  Lyra  Consolationis,"  and  "  Hymns  of  Faith  and  Hope," 
of  which  a  third  series  has  been  published. 


HOW  TO  LIVE. 

He  liveth  long  who  livetli  well  ! 

All  other  life  is  short  and  vain: 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  living  most  for  heavenly  gain. 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well! 

All  else  is  being  flung  away  ; 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  true  things  truly  done  each  day, 

Waste  not  thy  being;   back  to  Him 
Who  freely  gave  it,  freely  give ; 


Else  is  that  being  but  a  dream  : 
'Tis  but  to  he,  and  not  to  live. 

Be  what  thou  secmest !   live  thy  creed! 

Hold  up  to  earth  the  torch  divine; 
Be  what  thou  prayest  to  be  made; 

Let  the  great  Master's  steps  be  thine. 

Fill  up  each  hour  with  wjiat  will  la.st ; 

Buy  up  the  moments  as  they  go : 
The  life  above,  when  this  is  jiast, 

Is  the  ripe  fruit  of  life  below. 

Sow  truth,  if  thou  the  true  wouldst  reap ; 

Who  sows  the  false  shall  reap  the  vain ; 
Erect  and  sound  thy  conscience  keep  : 

From  hollow  words  and  deeds  refrain. 

Sow  love,  and  taste  its  fruitage  pure ; 

Sow  peace,  and  reap  its  harvests  bright; 
Sow  sunbeams  on  the  rock  and  moor. 

And  lind  a  harvest-home  of  light. 


THE   INNER   CALM. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 
While  these  hot  breezes  blow; 

Be  like  the  night-dew's  cooling  balm 
Upon  earth's  fevered  brow. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  mo  calm, 

Soft  resting  on  thy  breast ; 
Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 

And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm  ; 

Let  thine  ontstretch<5d  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes,  keep  me  calm,  though  loud  and  rude 
The  sounds  my  ear  that  greet; 

Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude. 
Calm  iu  the  bustling  street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health. 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  pain  ; 
Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth, 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain  ; 

Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  wrong, 
Like  Him  who  bore  my  shame  ^ 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


651 


Calm  'mid  the  threatening,  taunting  throng, 
Wlio  hate  thy  holy  name. 

Calm  when  the  great  worhl's  news  viith  i)ower 

My  listening  spirit  stir : 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear. 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star. 

Which  storms  assail  in  vain, 
Moving  unrnffled  through  earth's  war 

The  eternal  calm  to  jjain  ! 


lUilliam  P.  (l^allagljcr. 


Gallagher  was  born  in  1808  in  Pliiladelpliia,  but  went 
West  at  an  early  age,  learned  the  trade  of  a  printer,  and 
became  connected  with  various  journals,  literary  and 
political.  He  held  several  offices  of  trust  under  govern- 
ment; but  in  18.53  retired  to  a  flirm  near  Louisville,  Ky. 
His  Western  ballads  and  some  of  his  lyrical  pieces  entitle 
him  to  an  honorable  place  among  the  natural  poets  who 
sing  with  the  spontaneousness  of  the  bird.  Esteemed  for 
his  high  personal  qualities,  Gallagher  is  one  of  the  best 
representatives  of  the  American  character  in  literature. 


FROM  "MY  FIFTIETH  YEAR."' 

Beautiful,  beautiful  youth  !   that  in  the  soul 
Liveth  forever,  where  sin  liveth  not, — 

How  fresh  Creation's  chart  doth  still  unroll 
Before  our  eyes,  although  the  little  spot 

That  knows  us  now  shall  know  us  soon  no  more 

Forever!     We  look  backward  and  before. 
And  inward,  and  we  feel  there  is  a  life 

Impelling  us,  that  need  not  with  this  frame 

Or  flesh  grow  feeble,  but  for  aye  the  same 
May  live  on,  e'en  amid  this  worldly  strife, 

Clothed  with  the  beauty  and  the  freshness  still 

It  brought  with  it  at  first;   and  that  it  Avill 
Glide  almost  imperceptibly  away. 
Taking  no  taint  of  this  dissolving  clay; 

And,  joining  with  the  incorruptible 
And  spiritual  body  that  awaits 
Its  coming  at  the  starred  and  golden  gates 

Of  Heaven,  move  ou  with  the  celestial  train 
Whose  shining  vestments,  as  along  they  stray, 
Flash  with  the  splendors  of  eternal  day ; 

And  mingle  with  its  Primal  Source  again. 

Where  Faith,  Hope,  Charitj',  and  Love  and  Truth, 
Dwell  with  the  Godhead  in  immortal  youth. 

1  Contributed  to  Coggeshall's  "Poets  aud  Poetry  of  the  West " 
(Columbus,  Ohio,  1S60). 


LINES, 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelling, 
When  last  the  crocus  bloomed  below, 

Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  telling ; 
Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and  How : 

Again  the  maple  bud  is  swelling. 
Again  the  crocus  blooms  below  : — 

In  heaven  thy  heart  its  love  is  telling, 

.    But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and  flow. 

When  last  the  April  bloom  was  flinging 

Sweet  odors  ou  the  air  of  Spring, 
In  forest  aisles  thy  voice  was  ringing. 

Where  thou  didst  Avith  the  red-bird  sing. 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging  _ 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  is  ringing. 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels  sin<r. 


THE   LABORER. 

Stand  up — erect !     Thou  hast  the  form 
Aud  likeness  of  thy  God ! — -who  more  ? 

A  soul  as  dauntless  'raid  the  storm 

Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 
Aud  pure  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  ? — Tliou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among; 
As  nuich  a  part  of  the  great  plan. 
That  with  creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ?   the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  bj'. 
With  proud  step  and  averted  eye? 
Nay!   nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast. 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  thee 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No  : — uncurbed  passions,  low  desires, 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect. 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 

Forevei',  till  thus  checked  ; 


652 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  A\D  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


These  are  lliiiio  enemies — tLy  -worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  tliy  h)wly  lot: 
Tliy  hihor  and  thy  life  aceursed. 
Oil,  stand  erect!    and  from  tliem  burst! 

And  longer  sufier  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  eiiemy  ! 

The  great! — what  better  they  than  tlion  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not — 'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place — uncertain  as  the  wind! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  Avith  thy  crust 
-Ami  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both— a  noble  mind! 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
True  faitli,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then,  that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod  ! 


FKOM  "MIAMI   WOODS." 

Tiic  antnnui-time  is  with  us!     Its  approach 
Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago. 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  brazen  sun. 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling  corn. 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  purpling  clusters  of  the  juicy  grape, 
Swinging  upon  the  vine.     And  now  'tis  here ! 
And  what  a  change  hath  passed  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature,  where  the  waving  forest  spreads, 
Tlien  robed  in  deepest  green  !    All  tiirough  the  night 
The  subtle  frost  hath  plied  its  mystic  art; 
And  in  the  day  the  golden  sun  hatli  wiought 
True  wonders;    and  the  Avinds  of  morn  and  even 
Have   touched   witli   magic    breath    the   changing 

leaves. 
And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Athwart  the  varied  laiid.scape,  circling  far. 
What  gorgeousness,  wliat  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  cohn-s  bursts  upon  tlie  ravi.shed  siglit  I 
Here,  where  tlie  nmple  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory :    yonder,  where  the  oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 
Is  girt  with  flame-like  parasite,  and  broad 
The  dog-wood  spreads  beneath,  a  rolling  iield 
Of  deepest  crimson;   and  afar,  where  looms 
The  guarldd  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red ! 


Out  in  the  woods  of  Autumn ! — I  have  cast 
Aside  till!  shackles  of  tlie  town,  tinit  vex 
Tlie  fetterless  soul,  and  ecnne  to  hide  myself, 
Miami  !    in  thy  v(!neral)ie  siiades. 
Low  on  tliy  bank,  where  spreads  the  velvet  moss, 
My  limbs  recline.     Beneath  me,  silver-bright. 
Glide  the  clear  waters,  with  a  plaintive  moan 
For  summer's  parting  glories.     High  o'erhead, 
.Seeking  the  sedgy  lakes  of  the  warm  South, 
Sails  tireless  the  unerring  water-fowl, 
Screaming  among  the  cloud-racks.    Oft  from  where, 
Erect  on  mossy  trunk,  the  x»artridge  stands, 
Bursts  suddenly  the  whistle  clear  and  loud. 
Far-echoing  through  the  dim  wood's  fretted  aisles. 
Deep  mui-murs  from  the  trees,  bending  with  brown 
And  ripened  mast,  are  interrupted  now 
By  sounds  of  dropping  nuts ;   and  warily 
The  turkey  from  the  thicket  comes,  and  swift, 
As  flies  an  arrow,  darts  the  pheasant  down. 
To  batten  on  the  autumn  ;   and  the  air. 
At  times,  is  darkened  by  a  sudden  rush 
Of  myriad  wings,  as  the  wild  ]>igeon  leads 
His  squadrons  to  the  banquet. 


(Dlincr  lUcniJcll  C)olmcs. 

AMERICAN. 

Ilolines  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1809,  and  ed- 
ucated at  Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated  in  182'.t. 
His  fatlici-,  the  Kev.  Abdiel  Holmes,  was  the  author  of 
"American  Annals"  (180.^).  Our  poet  studied  medicine 
abroad  sonic  three  years.  He  received  his  degree  of  M.D. 
ill  1830,  and  in  1847  was  appointed  Professor  of  Anatomy 
in  Harvard  College — succeeding  Dr.  Warren.  As  a  lect- 
urer on  medical  science,  he  was  distinguished  and  popu- 
lar. Indeed  his  scientific  t.astes  seem  to  have  equalled 
his  literary.  As  a  microscopist  he  has  had  few  sujieriors 
in  America.  Holmes  began  to  publish  poetry  in  TIte  Col- 
hyian  (1830),  a  magazine  somewhat  on  the  plan  of  The 
EUmUm,  and  containing  pieces  from  John  O.  Sargent, 
William  H.  Simmons,  and  other  undergraduates  of  Har- 
vard; also  from  Epcs  Sargent.  Here  some  of  the  witti- 
est of  Holmes's  early  poems  appeared.  He  contributed 
to  the  Xcw  England  Marjazinc  (1830)  certain  liumorous 
papers,  entitled  "The  Autocrat  of  llie  Breakfast-table." 
These  he  resumed,  some  twenty  years  afterward,  in  the 
Atlantic  Montlih/,  and  the  result  was  the  wittiest  book 
by  which  American  literature  had  yet  been  distinguished. 
It  has  been  as  much  a  favorite  in  England  as  in  his  own 
country,  and  has  been  translated  into  German.  He  sub- 
sequently contributed  two  novels,  "  Elsie  Venner"and 
"The  (iuardian  Angel,"  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

The  lirst  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Bos- 
ton in  18;i6;  a  second  appeared  in  1848;  and  collections 
were  nublished  in  England  in  184.5,  lS."v2, 18.53,  and  1878.  A 
conqjlete  American  collection  appeared  in  1877.   Holmes's 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 


G5:{ 


strength  lies  in  his  lyrics  and  his  short  poems.  Indeed, 
he  has  attempted  no  sustained  flight  of  an  epic  or  dra- 
matic character.  In  his  "Astrixja"  and  other  rhymed 
essays  he  shows  a  mastery  of  the  heroic  measure,  not  ex- 
celled by  Pope  or  Goldsmith  in  its  vigorous  but  melliflu- 
ous flow.  He  belongs,  however,  neither  to  the  old  nor 
the  new  school  of  verse.  He  has  created  a  school  of  his 
own.  In  no  poet  of  the  day  is  the  individuality  more 
marlccd.  In  his  poems  of  wit,  humor,  and  pathos,  which 
form  the  larger  part  of  liis  productions,  he  reminds  us  of 
no  predecessor  or  contemporary ;  aud  in  his  serious  po- 
ems, lilvc  "  The  Nautilus,"  he  is  fresh  and  original,  never 
imitative  in  style  and  thought.  These  qualities  give  to 
his  verse  enduring  elements,  which  must  commend  them 
to  a  late  posterity,  equally  with  the  works  of  the  most 
eminent  poets  among  his  contemporaries,  English  and 
American.  In  his  prose  and  in  his  i)oetry  his  wit  has 
never  a  taint  of  coarseness  or  asperity.  Brilliant,  inci- 
sive, and  delicate  in  style,  it  attains  its  end  only  by  means 
the  most  pure  and  legitimate.  Happy  in  his  domestic 
and  paternal  relations,  and  in  his  host  of  friends,  few 
poets  have  had  so  smooth  a  lot  as  Holmes,  or  such  a 
foretaste  of  that  posthumous  fame  which  his  writings 
must  command.  His  seventieth  birthdaj*  called  forth  a 
grand  entertainment  given  by  his  Boston  publishers,  at 
which  many  of  the  leading  men  and  women  of  letters  in 
the  country  were  present. 


BILL   AXD   JOE. 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  yon  and  I 
AVill  steal  an  lionr  from  days  gone  by, — 
The  shining  days  when  life  -was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  niorniug  dew, — 
The  lust  J"  days  of  long  ago, 
Wlieu  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail. 
Proud  as  a  cockerel'.s  rainbow  tail ; 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Sbanter's  luckless  mare ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe,  and  you  are  Bill. 

You've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize. 

And  grand  you  look  in  peo^de's  eyes. 

With  HON  and  L  L  D 

In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see, — 

Your  fist,  old  fellow  !   off  they  go ! — 

How  are  you,  Bill  ?     How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You've  won  the  judge's  ermined  robe; 
You've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe; 
You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain; 
You've  made  the  dead  past  live  again : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 


The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 
"See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray, — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  flieir  teens! 
Mad,  poor  old  boys !     That's  what  it  means,' 
And  shake  their  heads ;   they  little  know 
The  tiirobbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe! — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side  ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  school-mate  in  his  eyes, — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill, 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame ; 

A  giddy  -wliirlwiud's  fickle  gust. 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 

A  few  swift  years,  and  Avho  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill,  and  -which  was  Joe? 

Tlie  Avcary  idol  takes  his  stand. 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand. 

Wiiile  gaping  thousands  come  and  go, — • 

How  vaiu  it  seems,  this  empty  show ! — 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill ; — 

'Tis  poor  old  Joe's  "God  bless  you.  Bill!" 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears, 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long. 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe? 

No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here. 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day. 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still. 
Hie  jacet  Joe.     Hie  jacet  Bill. 


OLD    IRONSIDES. 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high. 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout. 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 


654 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEBIC  AN  POETRY. 


Her  (lock,  oiico  red  with  lieioes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  tho  vanquished  foe, 
Will  II   wIikIs  were  hurrying  o'er  the  Hood, 

And  waves  were  white  below. 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  con<iiiercd  knee ; — 
The  harities  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  bo  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag. 

Set  every  threadbare  sail. 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, — 

The  lightning  and  tiie  gale ! 


EUDOLPH,  TIIE  HEADSMAN. 

Kudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade. 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 
One  day,  a  i)risoner  justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 
Bare -armed,  swart- visaged,  gaunt    and    shaggy- 
browed, 
Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 
His  falchion  lightened  with  a  suddeu  gleam. 
As  the  pike's  armor  Hashes  in  the  stream. 
Ho  sheathed  his  blade  ;   he  turned  as  if  to  go  ; 
Tlie  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  tho  blow. 
"  Why  strikest  not  ?     Perform  thy  murderous  act," 
The  pi'isouer  said.    (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 
"  Friend,  I  hafe  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied  ; 
"Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 
lie  held  his  snutf-box, — "  Now,  then,  if  you  please!" 
Tiie  prisoner  snitled.  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze. 
Off  his  head  tiuubhd, — bowled  along  the  floor, — 
Bounced  down  the  steps  ; — the  prisoner  said  no  more. 


Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires! 
O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vaiu  desires. 
And  all  tho  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thlue ! 


NEARING  THE  SNOAV-LINE. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 

I  leave  tho  bright  enamelled  zones  below; 

No  more  for  mo  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow. 

Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale; 

Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale. 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  nnmelting  snow; 

Yet  witli  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail. 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  floweriug-line ; 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

During  the  growth  of  the  iinutilas,  parts  of  its  shell  are  pro- 
gressively vacatt'd,  and  these  are  eaccessively  partitioned  off 
into  air-tight  chambers. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

Tho  venturous  bark  that  llings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings. 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream- 
ing hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl  ; 

W^recked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell. 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  tho  silent  toil 

Tliat  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  tho  sjiiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archwaj'  through. 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 

Tiianks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee. 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  borne 
Than  ever  Triton  blow  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  car  it  rings, 
Tlirongh  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  Aoice 
tliat  sings : 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  tho  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  now  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Go!- 


THE   TWO   STREAMS. 

Beliold  the  rocky  wall 
That  (lowu  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  bleudiug,  as  they  full, 
In  rushing  river-tides! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  j)ebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oi-egon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends. 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill. 
Each  widening  torrent  bends, — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee, — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide. 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea! 


TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

I  bring  the  simplest  pledge  of  love. 

Friend  of  my  earlier  days  ; 
Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 

The  heart-beat,  not  the  phrase. 

How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 
We  called  by  school-boj'  names ! 

You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear. 
To  me  are  always  James. 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 

Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds. 
Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 

And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What  blending  thoughts  our  memories  share! 

What  visions  yours  and  mine 
Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 

The  dews  were  golden  wine. 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day. 
Whose  all-awakening  sun 


Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 
The  summits  to  bo  won ! 

The  heights  arc  gained. — Ah,  say  not  so 
For  him  who  smiles  at  time. 

Leaves  his  tired  conu'adcs  down  below, 
And  only  lives  to  climb  ! 

His  labors,— will  they  ever  cease, — 
With  hand  and  tongue  and  pen  ? 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Our  strength  the  clustered  seasons  tax, — 
For  him  new  life  they  mean ; 

Like  rods  around  the  lictor's  axe. 
They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,  the  strong,  we  know,- 
We  mark  them  here  or  there. 

But  he, — we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
We  find  him  everywhere ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
He  strides  through  error's  field ; 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 

Count  not  his  years  while  earth  has  need 

Of  souls  that  Heaven  inflames 
With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead, — 
Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James ! 
April  4th,  ISSO. 


CONTENTMENT. 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I  ask ;  my  wants  are  few ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown-stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ; — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  ; — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three. 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ; — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla  ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land : — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,- 


656 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Some  <f()()(l  bank-stock, — some  note  of  Ii.iml, 

Or  Irilliiij^  lailroiul  sliaic  ;  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortnne  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  bnt  empty  names; — 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, — 
IJnt  only  near  St.  James; — 

I'm  very  snre  I  shonld  not  care 

To  till  our  CJnbcrnator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles ;   'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things;  — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, — - 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, — • 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

"Will  do  for  me; — I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  shall  dress  in  cheap  attire 
(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear) ; — 

I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 
Some  shawls  of  true  cashmere, — 

Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  crinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, — 

I  love  so  much  their  stjle  and  tone, — 
One  Turner,  and  no  more — - 

(A  landscape, — foreground,  golden  dirt; 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,— some  fifty  .score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  lloor ; — 
Some  little  luxury  there 

Of  red  nmrocco's  gilded  gleam. 

And  vellum  rich  as  countrj'  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems, — such  things  as  these, 
■Which  others  often  show  for  pride. 

I  value  for  their  power  to  please. 
And  selfish  churls  deride  ; — 

One  Stradivarins,  I  confess, 

Two  meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn. 

Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share, — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 


Thus  humble  let  me  live  aiul  die. 
Nor  lung  for  ilidas'  golden  touch 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much, — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessings  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content. 


THE   VOICELESS. 

^ye  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber. 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild  llowers  who  will  stoop  to  number  i 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  fame  is  proud  to  win  them ; 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing. 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone. 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story  : 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  niemory-luuiuted  billow. 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  church-yard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break,  and  give  no  sign. 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine. 

Slow-dropped  from  misery's  crushing  presses! 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  paug  were  given. 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 


L'INCONNUE. 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair? 

Such  shonld,  methinks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  nmrtals  bear, 

Were  best  befitting  thee ; 
Aiul  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 
I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair  : 

Ah !   Avhile  we  dream  not  they  beguile. 
Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 

And  she,  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing, 

Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 


ALBERT  PIKE. 


657 


So,  lad}-,  take  the  leaf  that  fall8, 
To  all  but  tliee  uusecu,  unknown ; 

When  evening  sliades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 


aibcrt  Jplke. 


Pike  was  born  in  Boston  in  1809,  but  his  boyhood  was 
passed  at  Newburyport.  He  entered  Harvard  College, 
but  left  before  graduating.  After  teaching  school  for 
awhile,  he  went  South,  and  settled  in  Little  Rock,  Arkan- 
sas, where  he  practised  law  and  published  a  newspaper. 
He  fought  in  the  Mexican  War  against  the  Mexicans,  and 
in  the  Civil  War  on  the  side  of  the  Confederates.  He 
published  in  1834  "Prose  Sketches  and  Poems;"  and  in 
1854,  "Nug?e,  a  Collection  of  Poems."  His  "Hymns  to 
the  Gods,"  in  the  style  of  Keats,  show  a  kindred  poeti- 
cal gift. 


BUENA  VISTA. 

From  the  Rio  Grande's  waters  to  the  icy  lakes  of 

Maine, 
Let  all  exult!  for  we  have  met  the  enemy  again  — 
Beneath  their  steru   old  mountains,  we  have  met 

them  in  their  pride, 
And  rolled  from  Buena  Vista  back  the  battle's  bloody 

tide : 
Where  the  enemy  came  surging,  like  the  Mississippi's 

flood  ;  [with  blood. 

And  the  reaper,  Death,  was  busy,  with  his  sickle  red 

Santa  Anna  boasted  loudly  that,  before  two  hours 

were  past, 
His  lancers  through  Saltillo  should  pursue  us  thick 

and  fast : 
On   came  his  solid  regiments,  line  marching  after 

line  ; 
Lo !  their  great  standards  in  the  sun  like  sheets  of 

silver  shine  ! 
With  thousands  upon  thousands,  yea,  with  more  than 

four  to  one, 
A  forest  of  bright  bayonets  gleams  fiercely  in  the  sun  ! 

Upon  them  with  your  squadrons,  May ! — Out  leaps 
the  flaming  steel ! 

Before  his  serried  column  how  the  frightened  lan- 
cers reel ! 

They  flee  amain. — Now  to  the  left,  to  stay  their  tri- 
umph there, 

Or  else  the  day  is  surely  lost  in  horror  and  despair : 
42 


For  their  hosts  are  pouring  swiftly  on,lilio  a  river 

in  the  sju'lng — 
Our  flank  is  turned,  and  on  our  left  their  cannon 

thundering. 

Now  brave  artillery!   Bold  dragoons! — Steady,  my 

men,  and  calm ! 
Through  rain,  cold,  hail,  and  thunder;    now  nerve 

each  gallant  arm  ! 
What  though  their  shot  falls  round  us  here,  still 

thicker  than  the  hail ! 
We'll  stand  against  them,  as  the  rock  stands  lirm 

against  the  gale. 
Lo ! — their  battery  is  silenced  now :   our  iron  hail 

still  showers  : 
They  falter,  halt,  retreat  1  —  Hurrah!   the  glorious 

day  is  ours ! 

Now  charge  again,  Santa  Anna!  or  the  day  is  surely 

lost ; 
For  back,  like  broken  waves,  along  our  left  your 

hordes  are  tossed. 
Still  louder  roar  two  batteries — his  strong  reserve 

moves  on  ;  — 
More  work  is  there  before  you,  men,  ere  the  good 

fight  is  won ; 
Now  for  your  wives  and  children  stand!  steady, my 

braves,  once  more ! 
Now  for  your  lives,  your  honor,  fight !  as  you  never 

fought  before. 

Ho  !  Hardin  breasts  it  bravely! — McKee  and  Bissell 
tliere 

Stand  firm  before  the  storm  of  balls  that  fills  the 
astonished  air. 

The  lancers  are  upon  them,  too ! — the  foe  swarms 
ten  to  one— 

Hardin  is  slain — McKee  and  Clay  the  last  time  see 
the  sun ; 

And  many  another  gallant  heart,  in  that  last  desper- 
ate fray, 

Grew  cold,  its  last  thoughts  turning  to  its  loved  ones 
far  away. 

Still  sullenly  the  cannon  roared — but  died  away  at 

last :  [ows  fast, 

And  o'er  the  dead  and  dying  came  the  evening  shad- 

And  tlien  above  the  mountains  rose  the  cold  moon's 

silver  shield,  [field  ; — 

And  patiently  and  pityingly  looked  down  upon  the 

And  careless  of  his  wounded,  and  neglectful  of  his 

dead,  '  [fled. 

Despairingly  and  sullen,  in  the  night,  Santa  Anna 


658 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAN  POETRY. 


iTIjomas  lUillcr. 


Miller  (1800-1874)  was  a  native  of  Gaiiisborouu;!!,  Eng- 
land, "  one  of  tlic  liunible,  liapi))',  industrious,  self-taught 
sons  of  genius."  He  was  brought  np  to  the  trade  of  a 
basket-maker;  and  while  thus  obscurely  laboring  "to 
eonsort  with  the  Muse  and  support  a  family,"  he  at- 
tracted attention  by  his  poetical  etfusions.  He  was  as- 
sisted by  Rogers,  the  poet,  and  through  him  obtained  the 
more  congenial  employment  of  a  bookseller.  He  pro- 
duced several  novels,  and  some  poems  that  entitle  him 
to  honorable  mention  among  the  poets  that  have  fought 
their  way  to  notice  from  very  humble  beginnings,  lie 
published  "A  Day  in  the  Woods"  (183(5),  "Gideon  Giles, 
the  Roper"  (1841),  "Fair  Rosamond,"  "Lady  Jane  Grey," 
and  other  novels  ;  also  several  volumes  of  rural  descrip- 
tion, besides  contributing  largely  to  periodical  literature. 


EVENING  SONG. 

How  many  days  with  mnto  adieu 
Have  gone  down  yon  untrodden  sky, 
And  still  it  looks  as  clear  and  blue 
As  when  it  first  was  Lung  on  high. 
The  rolling  sun,  the  frowning  cloud 
That  drew  the  lightning  in  its  rear, 
The  tlnuider  tramping  deep  and  loud, 
Have  left  no  footmark  there. 

The  village-bcUs,  with  silver  chime, 
Come  softened  by  the  distant  shore  ; 
Though  I  have  heard  them  many  a  time, 
They  never  rang  so  sweet  before. 
A  silence  rests  \\\Kn\  the  hill, 
A  listening  awe  pervades  the  air  ; 
The  very  flowers  are  shut  and  still, 
And  bowed  as  if  in  prayer. 

And  in  this  hushed  and  breathless  close. 
O'er  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  sea, 
A  still  low  voice  in  silence  goes, 
Which  speaks  alone,  great  God,  of  thee. 
The  whispering  leaves,  the  far-off  brook. 
The  linnet's  warble  fainter  grown, 
The  liive-bonnd  boo,  the  building  rook, — 
All  these  their  Maker  own. 

Now  Nature  sinks  in  soft  repose, 
A  living  semblance  of  the  grave; 
The  dew  steals  noiseless  on  the  ro.se. 
The  boughs  have  almost  ceased  to  wave  ; 
The  silent  sky,  the  sleeping  earth. 
Tree,  mountain,  stream,  the  humble  sod, 
All  tell  from  whom  they  had  their  birth, 
And  cry,  "  Behold  a  God !" 


^ubrcu)  L^unq. 


Young,  a  native  of  Edinburgh,  was  born  about  1809. 
His  father  was  a  successful  teacher,  and  Andrew  followed 
the  same  occupation  for  a  lime.  The  following  sacred 
song  from  his  i)en,  comi)oscd  early  in  life,  appears  as 
anonymous  in  many  collections. 


THE  HAPPY  LAND. 

There  is  a  happy  laud. 

Far,  far  away. 
Where  saints  in  glory  stand, 

Bright,  bright  as  day. 
Oh,  how  they  sweetly  sing, 
Worthy  is  our  Saviour  King ; 
Loud  let  his  praises  riug — 

Praise,  praise  for  aye. 

Come  to  this  happy  land. 

Come,  come  away  ; 
Why  will  ye  doubting  stand. 

Why  still  delay  ? 
Oh,  we  shall  liappy  be. 
When,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free. 
Lord,  wo  shall  live  with  Thee — 

Blest,  blest  for  aye. 

Bright  in  that  happy  land 

Beams  every  eye  : 
Kept  by  a  Father's  hand. 

Love  cannot  die. 
On  then  to  glorj'  run  ; 
Be  a  crown  and  kingdom  won  ; 
And  bright  above  the  sun, 

Reigu,  reign  for  .aye. 


^Ici-auLicr  tjumc. 

Hume  (1809-1851)  was  a  native  of  Kelso,  Scotland,  the 
son  of  a  respectable  retail  trader.  His  family  moved  to 
London,  and  in  1827  he  got  a  situation  in  a  brewery  in 
Mark  Lane.  He  published  a  volume  of  songs  dedicated 
to  Allan  Cunningham  ;  married  in  1837,  and  hud  six  chil- 
dren. In  1845  a  complete  edition  of  his  "Songs  and 
Poems"  was  published  in  London. 


MY   WEE,  WEE   WIFE. 

My  wee  wife  dwells  in  yonder  cot. 
My  bonnie  bairnies  three  ; 

Oh !   happy  is  the  husband's  lot, 
Wi'  bairnies  on  his  kuee. 


ALEXANDER  RUME.— RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES  {LORD  HOUGHTON). 


659 


Mj^  ^veo,  wee  wife,  my  wee,  wee  wife. 

My  bonuie  bairiiies  three, — 
How  bright  is  day,  how  sweet  is  life, 

When  love  lights  up  the  e'e  ! 

The  king  o'er  me  may  wear  a  crown. 

Have  millions  bow  the  knee, 
But  lacks  be  love  to  share  his  throne, 

How  poor  a  king  is  he ! 
My  wee,  wee  wife,  ray  wee,  wee  wife, 

Mj'  bounie  bairuies  three, 
Let  kings  ha'e  thrones,  'mang  warld's  strife, 

Your  hearts  are  thrones  to  me. 

I've  felt  oppression's  galling  chain, 

I've  shed  the  tear  o'  care. 
But  feeling  ay  lost  a'  its  pain. 

When  my  wee  wife  was  near. 
My  wee,  wee  wife,  my  wee,  wee  wife. 

My  bonnie  bairnies  three, 
The  chains  we  wear  are  sweet  to  bear, — 

How  sad  could  we  go  free ! 


Uicljari)  illonclttou  illilncs 
(CoriT  ^ouciljton). 

Milnes,  who  became  Lord  Houghton  in  18G3,  was  a  na- 
tive of  Yorkshire,  and  born  in  1809.  He  published  "Po- 
etry for  the  People,"  in  1840;  "Palm  Leaves,"  in  18-14; 
edited  the  "Life  and  Remains  of  John  Keats"  in  1848. 
An  edition  of  liis  complete  poetical  works  appeared  in 
1876.  He  made  two  visits  to  the  United  States,  where 
he  left  many  warm  friends.  He  has  fully  vindicated  his 
claim  to  the  name  of  poet.  As  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  (1863)  of  the  House  of  Peers,  he  has 
been  the  efficient  supporter  of  all  measures  for  social 
amelioration  and  reform. 


ALL  THINGS   ONX'E   ARE   THINGS   FOREVER. 

All  things  once  are  things  forever. 
Souls  once  living  live  forever ; 
Blame  not  what  is  only  once. 
When  that  once  endures  forever ! 
Love  once  felt,  though  soon  forgot. 
Moulds  the  heart  to  good  forever ! 
Once  betrayed  from  chilly  faith, 
Man  is  conscious  man  forever : 
Once  the  void  of  life  revealed, 
It  must  deepen  on  forever. 
Unless  God  fill  up  the  heart 
With  himself  for  once  and  ever: 
Once  made  God  and  man  at  once, 
God  and  man  are  one  forever. 


THE  WORTH  OF  HOURS. 

Believe  not  that  your  inner  eyo 

Can  ever  in  just  measure  try 

The  worth  of  hours  as  they  go  by : 

For  everj^  man's  weak  self,  alas ! 

Makes  him  to  see  them  while  they  pass, 

As  through  a  dim  or  tinted  glass. 

But  if,  with  earnest  care,  you  would 
Mete  out  to  each  its  part  of  good. 
Trust  rather  to  your  after  mood. 

Those  surely  are  not  fairly  spent. 
That  leave  your  spirit  bowed  and  bent, 
In  sad  unrest  and  ill  content. 

And  more,  though  free  from  seeming  harm 
Yon  rest  from  toil  of  mind  or  arm. 
Or  slow  retire  from  pleasure's  charm — 

If  then  a  painful  sense  comes  on 
Of  something  wholly  lost  and  gone, 
Vainly  enjoyed,  or  vainly  done — 

Of  something  from  your  being's  chain 
Broke  off,  not  to  be  linked  again 
By  all  mere  memoiy  can  retain — - 

LTpon  your  heart  this  truth  may  rise — 
Nothing  that  altogether  dies 
Suffices  man's  just  destinies. 

So  should  we  live,  that  every  hour 
May  die  as  dies  the  natural  flower, 
A  self-reviving  thing  of  power  j 

That  every  thought  and  every  deed 
^lay  bold  within  itself  the  seed 
Of  future  good  and  future  need  ; 

Esteeming  sorrow,  whoso  employ 
Is  to  develop,  not  destroy. 
Far  better  than  a  barren  joy. 


YOUTH   AND   MANHOOD. 

Youth,  that  pursuest  with  such  eager  pace 

Thy  even  way, 
Thou  pantest  on  to  wiu  a  mournful  race ; 

Then  stay  !  oh,  stay ! 


660 


CYCLOPMDIA   OF  BlUTISE  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


rausc  and  Inxiiiiato  in  tliy  snnny  plain  ; 

Loitor — unjoy  ; 
Once  past,  thou  never  wilt  eoinc  back  again 

A  second  boy. 

Tlie  hills  of  manhood  wear  a  noble  face, 

W'JKMi  seen  iVoni  afar  ; 
The  mist  of  lij;ht  from  which  they  talcc  their  grace, 

Hides  what  they  are; 

The  dark  and  dreary  path  those  cliffs  between 

Thou  canst  not  know, 
And  how  it  leads  to  regions  never  green, 

Dead  fields  of  snow. 

Pause,  while  thou  may'st,  nor  deem  that  fate  thy 
gain, 

Which,  all  too  fast, 
Will  drive  thee  forth  from  this  delicious  plain 

A  man  at  last. 


I  WANDERED  BY  THE   BROOK-SIDE. 

I  wandered  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill, 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still. 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshojiper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird  ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart. 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree, 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade. 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word  ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

W^as  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not — no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, 
The  little  stars  sat,  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 
The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred  ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart, 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast,  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind. 


A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind; 

It  drew  me  nearer,  nearer, 
We  did  not  speak  one  word ; 

For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts, 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


FROM   "THE  LONG-AGO." 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 

Frecpient  pearls  of  beauty  lie, 
Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 

Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high : 
Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 

Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe ; 
Nothing's  altogether  ill 

In  the  griefs  of  Loug-ago. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines. 

Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 
Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 

Through  the  golden  mist  of  years : 
Death,  to  those  who  trust  iu  good, 

Vindicates  his  hardest  blow; 
Oh,  we  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago! 

Though  the  docun  of  swift  decay 

Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong, 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 

Lingers  sad  and  overloug — 
Still  the  weight  will  find  a  leaven, 

Still  the  spoiler's  hand  is  slow. 
While  the  future  has  its  heaven, 

Aud  the  past  its  Loug-ago. 


(fticiar  ailau  IJoc. 


Poo  is  one  of  the  small  class  of  poets  whose  posthu- 
mous fiunc  has  lartjely  exceeded  tliat  of  their  lifetime. 
It  rests  chiefly,  iu  his  case,  on  one  striking  poem,  "The 
Raven,"  whicli  seems  to  have  done  for  Iiim  what  the 
"Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-yard"  did  for  Gray.  Poe 
was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  on  the  19th  of  January,  1809, 
aud  died  in  Baltimore  in  1849.  His  father,  David  Poe, 
of  Baltimore,  while  a  law-student,  fell  in  love  with  Eliza- 
beth Arnold,  an  English  actress,  married  her,  and  went 
himself  upon  the  stage.  Edgar,  ii  bright  and  handsome 
youth,  at  an  early  age  lost  his  jiarcnts,  and  was  adopted 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Allan,  of  Virginia,  who,  wealthy 
but  childless,  took  him  with  them  to  England,  ami  sent 
him  to  school  at  Stokc-Newinjjrtou.    Returning  to  Amer- 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE. 


661 


k-a  in  his  eleventli  year,  lie  entered  tlie  University  of  Vir- 
}>'inia,  wlicre  lie  became  the  foremost  scholar  of  his  class. 
His  unruly  habits  caused  him  to  be  expelled.  He  then 
quarrelled  with  Mr.  Allan,  and  started  for  Europe  to  fight 
for  the  Greeks.  But  Greece  he  never  saw.  He  shaped 
his  course  northward  instead  of  southward,  and  drifted 
as  far  as  St.  Petersburg,  where  the  ambassador  of  the 
United  States,  Mr.  Middleton,  found  him  in  a  state  of 
destitution,  and  provided  him  with  the  means  of  return- 
ing home.  Mr.  Allan  now  procured  for  him  an  appoint- 
ment as  cadet  at  "West  Point;  but  disliking  the  routine 
of  a  military  education,  Poe  soon  qualified  himself  for 
dismissal  by  just  the  necessary  amount  of  insubordina- 
tion. Meanwhile  his  benefactor  had  married  a  young- 
wife,  and  the  wayward  young  man  was  cut  off  from  all 
hopes  of  further  pecuniary  supplies  from  the  quarter  on 
which  he  had  hitherto  relied  for  help. 

In  1S29  he  published,  at  Baltimore,  a  thin  volume  enti- 
tled "Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  other  Poems:"  it  con- 
tains little  of  any  enduring  value.  In  1833  he  obtained  a 
prize  offered  by  the  Baltimore  Saturday  Visitor  for  a  sto- 
ry. This  introduced  him  to  John  P.  Kennedy,  a  well- 
known  lawyer  and  man  of  letters,  through  whose  good 
offices  he  became  editor  of  the  Literary  Messenger,  a  re- 
spectable monthly  magazine  published  at  Richmond  ;  but 
with  this  work  his  connection  lasted  only  two  years.  At 
Richmond  he  married  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,who 
died  after  a  union  of  some  ten  years.  Removing  to  Phil- 
adelphia, he  edited  Burton'' s  21agazine,  and  then  Graham'' s 
Magazine.  His  "  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque  " 
liad  meanwhile  appeared.  In  1844  he  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  New  York,  where  the  present  writer  was  brought 
into  frequent  commuuication  with  him.  Personally  he 
was,  as  "Willis  called  him,  a  "sad-mannered  gentleman," 
grave  and  somewhat  reticent.  He  had  more  the  appear- 
ance and  bearing  of  a  sedate  clergyman  than  of  a  writer 
of  romance.  While  editing  the  Keio  World  weekly,  we 
bought  and  published  some  of  his  i^rose  pieces,  and,  but 
for  lack  of  means,  would  have  been  glad  to  engage  him 
permanently  as  a  contributor.  Referring  to  our  inabili- 
ty to  oblige  him  on  one  occasion, he  said,  "If  you  could 
have  done  it,  S.,  I  would  have  immortalized  you — yes, 
immortalized  you,  sir."  Perhaps  he  was  here  wiser  than 
he  knew.  We  had  done  for  him  what  we  could.  Like 
Shakspeare  and  other  men  of  genius,  he  seems  to  have 
had  previsions  of  a  posthumous  renown  far  exceeding 
what  he  could  hope  for  in  his  lifetime.  The  movement 
for  the  erection  of  his  statue  iu  Central  Park,  New  York, 
is  one  of  the  latest  proofs  of  the  veracity  of  his  anticipa- 
tions. 

Poe's  great  poetical  hit,  "The  Raven,"  appeared  first 
in  Colton's  Whig  Review  for  February,  1845.  The  same 
year,  in  company  Mith  the  late  Charles  F.  Brigsrs,  an 
estimable  gentleman  well  known  to  us,  he  started  The 
Broadway  Journal.  The  partnership  soon  ended,  and  Mr. 
Briggs's  account  of  his  experience  in  it  is  not  flattering 
to  his  wayward  associate.  It  corroborates  the  estimate 
of  Poe's  character  given  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  who 
knew  him  personally,  and  wrote  of  him : 

"Three-fifths  of  him  genius  and  two-fifths  sheer  fudge, 
****** 
Who  has  written  some  things  quite  the  best  of  their  kiiul, 
But  the  heart  somehow  seems  all  squeezed  oat  by  the  raiud." 


Poe  struggled  on  single-handed  wifli  his  newspaper  en- 
terprise for  about  a  year,  when  it  became  extinct.  He 
next  wrote  for  Godey^s  Lady^s  Book  a  series  of  random 
sketches  of  the  New  York  literati,  iu  which  the  bias  of 
merely  personal  partialities  is  quite  apparent.  In  1847-'48 
he  became  affianced  for  a  short  time  to  Mrs.  Whitman, 
of  whom  some  account  will  be  found  on  page  583  of  this 
volume.  The  present  writer,  avIio  had  long  known  her 
through  an  intimate  mutual  friend,  had  frecpient  corre- 
spondence with  her  up  to  within  a  year  of  her  death  ;  and 
perhaps  the  strongest  point  in  Poe's  favor  is  the  loyal, 
enthusiastic  attachment  of  this  gifted  lady,  thoroughly 
sincere,  clear-sighted,  and  cultivated  as  she  was,  to  his 
memory.  She  could  not  tolerate  a  word  prejudicial  to 
his  honor.  In  opposition  to  the  estimate  of  some  of  his 
male  friends,  she  believed  iu  his  heart  as  well  as  in  his 
head.  Poe  was  far  from  being  habitually  intemperate; 
his  countenance  at  once  contradicted  the  supposition. 
But  he  was  almost  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  eflect  of  a 
very  slight  quantity  of  the  lightest  intoxicating  drink. 
In  the  autumn  of  1849,  while  in  Baltimore,  he  fell  into 
bad  company,  was  tempted,  overcome,  became  a  wander- 
er about  the  streets,  and  was  finally  taken  to  a  hos^sital, 
where  he  died  October  7th. 

Whatever  dispute  there  may  be  as  to  his  qualities  as  a 
man,  there  can  be  none  as  to  his  rare  aud  unique  genius 
as  a  poet.  What  he  has  written  is  slight  in  quantity,  and 
some  of  that  of  little  value;  but  the  dross  is  readily  tol- 
erated in  consideration  of  the  release  of  so  much  pure 
gold.  He  had  that  force  and  vividness  of  imagination 
which  made  him  for  the  moment  keenly  sensitive  to  the 
high-strung  emotions  to  which  he  gave  utterance  in  most 
harmonious  verse.  That  these  emotions  were  often  fu- 
gitive does  not  seem  to  have  impaired  his  power  of  im- 
parting to  them  a  rare  beauty  and  intensity  of  expres- 
sion. While  the  fervor  lasted  he  was  sincere.  His  re- 
markable lines  to  S.  W.  (Mrs.  Whitman)  are  an  example. 
Analyze  them — throw  off  the  first  effect — and  they  issue 
in  a  glitter  of  sensuous  but  poetical  foncies,  highly  hy- 
perbolical, yet  cold  as  icicles,  and  having  hardly  one  touch 
of  nature.  The  poem  of  "  The  Bells,"  while  it  shows  the 
same  power  over  the  unreal,  fails  as  a  work  of  art  in  the 
frequent  repetition  of  the  word  bells,  where  the  sibilant 
plural  destroys  all  the  metallic,  onomatopoetic  quality 
of  sound  that  would  have  been  appropriate.  But  Poe's 
posthumous  fame  seems  to  be  increasing  rather  than  di- 
minishing. The  best  of  his  writings  have  been  translated 
into  all  the  principal  European  languages,  and  the  pub- 
lic interest  in  his  life  and  his  literary  productions  seems 
to  be  unabated.  That  lie  anticipated  the  celebrity  has 
already  been  suggested. 


TO   S.  IT.  W. 

I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago  : 

I  must  not  say  how  many — but  not  many. 

It  was  a  July  midnight;   and  from  out 

A  fnll-orbed  moon  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring, 

8onght  a  precipitant  pathway  up  through  heaven, 

There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 

With  quietude,  aud  sultriness,  aud  slumber,    . 


6612 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Upon  tlie  iiptiiriied  faces  of  a  tliotisand 
Roses  that  <;iow  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  Avind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe — 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death  — 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
Tliat  smiled  and  died  iu  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 
I  saw  thee  half  reclining;   wliile  the  moon 
Fell  on  the  faces  of  the  upturned  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturned — alas!   in  sorrow. 

Was  it  not  Fate  that,  on  this  July  midnight — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gato 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses? 
No  footstep  stirred  ,•  the  hated  world  all  slept. 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused — I  looked — 
And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared, 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted!) 
The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out : 
The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths. 
The  hapjiy  llowers  and  the  repining  trees, 
Were  seen  no  more  ;   the  very  roses'  odors 
Died  iu  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs ; 
All,  all  expired  save  thee — save  less  than  thou : 
Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes — 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 
I  saw  but  them— they  were  the  world  to  me. 
I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours — 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  euwritten 
Upon  tliose  crystalline,  celestial  spheres ! 
How  dark  a  woe,  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride! 
How  daring  an  ambition!   yet  how  deep — , 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love! 

liut  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud. 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 
Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  homo  that  night, 
Tliey  have  not  left  mo  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 
They  follow  me,  they  lead  mo  through  the  years. 
They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 
Their  oCQco  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 
My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  in  their  electric  fire — 
And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 
They  nil  my  soul  with  beauty  (which  is  hope). 
And  are  far  up  in  Heaven,  the  stars  I  kneel  to 


In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 
AVhilc  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 
Vennses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 


THE   BELLS. 
I. 
Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  thoy  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinabnlatiou  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bolls,  bells,  bells — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

II. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells — 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  hapi)iness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  iu  tune, 
Wliat  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  tiie  moon! 
Oh,  from  put  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !   how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  till!  iliyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 


Hear  the  loud  alanuii  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
W^hat  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  aft'right ! 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


663 


Too  tniicb  horiiiieil  to  speak, 
They  can  only  sluiek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
111  a  clamorous  appealing  to  tlie  mercy  of  the  lire, 
III  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  lire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 
How  thej^  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  I 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells,    [bells — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells  !  [pels  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com- 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  aftright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone : 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  tluoats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people. 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling. 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 
They  are  Ghouls ; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Kolls 


A  pa?an  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pa;an  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  picans  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Eunic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ; 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


THE   EAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered,  weak  and  wearj', 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore. 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping. 

Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember, 

It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — fdled  me  with  fantastic 
Terrors  never  felt  before  ; 


6G4 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


So  that  now,  to  still  tlio  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
•'  'Tis  some  visitor  eutreating 

Entranco  at  luj^  cliamber  door — 
Some  lato  visitor  entreating 

Entranco  at  my  chamber  door ; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Prescutly  my  soul  grew  stronger ; 

Hesitating  then  no  longer, 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  dooi-. 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you," — 

Here  I  opened  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 
Long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before : 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken. 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whispered  word,  "  Lenore  !" 
This  I  whispered,  and  au  echo 

Murmured  back  the  word,  "  Lenore !"' 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  tho  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  mo  burning. 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment. 

And  this  mystery  explore  ; 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more !" 

Open  hero  I  flung  the  shutter, 
Wlien,  with  many  a  Hirt  and  llutter. 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Kaven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  ho ; 
Not  au  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 


'Just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  tho  countenance  it  wore, 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Kaven, 

Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered — 
Not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, 

"  Other  friends  have  liowu  before — ■ 
On  the  morrow  lie  Avill  leave  me. 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 
By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  uttera 

Is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster        ^ 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  tho  dirges  of  his  Hope  tho 

Melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  'Nevermore' — of  'Nevermore.'" 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE.— JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE. 


665 


Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushiouefl  seat  in 
Fiout  of  bird,  and  bust,  and  door; 

Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 

I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly. 
Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking,  ''  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burned  into  my  bosom's  core ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining. 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining, 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser. 
Perfumed  from  an  xmseeu  censer. 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  footfalls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee, 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee, 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaif  this  kiud  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Prophet,"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  tliis  home  by  Horror  hauuted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil — 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

By  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 


Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Bo  that  word  our  sign  of  jiarting, 
Bird  or  tiend !"  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  tliy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !— 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart. 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  I" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting. 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sittiug 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming 

Tlirows  his  shadow  on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Sliall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


TO  FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

Thou  wonldst  be  loved  ? — then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  tliy  more  tlian  beauty. 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 


iFolju  Stuart  Blackic. 

Blackie,  the  son  of  a  banker,  was  born  in  Glasgow  in 
1809.  He  was  educated  partly  at  Aberdeen  and  partly  at 
the  University  of  Edinburgh.  In  1839  he  went  to  tlie 
Continent,  studied  at  Gottingen  and  Berlin,  and  passed 
fifteen  months  in  Italy.  In  1834  appeared  his  transla- 
tion of  Goethe's  "Faust."  He  contributed  to  various 
periodicals,  and  wrote  a  deeply  earnest  article  on  Jung 
Stilling,  the  German  Spiritualist.  In  18.53  he  was  elect- 
ed to  the  chair  of  Greek  in  Edinburgh  University.  In 
1853  he  travelled  in  Greece,  and  learned  to  speak  modem 


660 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(ircek  fluently.  In  1857  he  published  "Lays  and  Le- 
{:;end3  of  Ancient  Greece,  with  other  Poems;"  in  1861, 
"Lyrical  Poems;"  and  in  1800  a  translation  of  Homer's 
"Iliad."  His  "Natural  History  of  Atheism"  (1878) 
shows  high  culture,  breadth,  and  insight.  His  volume 
entitled  "Songs  of  Religion  and  Life"  (1876)  was  repub- 
lished in  New  York.  In  versatility  he  stood  conspicu- 
ous among  the  literary  men  of  his  day.  His  writings 
evince  deep  religious  feeling,  earnestness,  and  simplicity, 
\mited  to  great  liberality  of  thought. 


THE   HOPE   OF  THE  HETERODOX. 

In  tbee,  O  bless6d  God,  I  liopc, 

In  Thee,  iu  Thee,  in  Tbee! 
Thongb  banned  by  Presbyter  and  Tope. 

My  trust  is  still  iu  Thee. 
Thou  wilt  not  cast  thy  servant  out 

Because  be  chanced  to  see 
With  bis  own  eyes,  and  dared  to  doubt 

What  praters  preacb  of  Thee. 
Ob  uo  !   no  !   no  ! 

For  ever  and  ever  and  aye, 

(Thongb  Pope  and  Presbyter  bray). 

Thou  Avilt  not  cast  away 
An  honest  soul  fiom  Thee. 

I  look  around  on  eartb  and  sky, 

And  Tbee,  and  ever  Thee, 
With  open  heart  and  open  eye 

How  can  I  fail  to  see  ? 
My  ear  drinks  iu  from  field  and  fell 

Life's  rival  floods  of  glee : 
Where  finds  the  priest  bis  private  bell 

Wlieu  all  is  full  of  Tbee  ? 
Ob  no!   uo!   uo  I 

Tiiougb  flocks  of  geese 

Give  Heaven's  bigb  ear  no  peace  : 

I  still  enjoy  a  lease 

Of  bappy  tbougbts  from  Tliec. 

My  faitb  is  strong ;   out  of  it.self 

It  grows  erect  and  free  ; 
No  Talmud  on  the  Kabbi's  sbelf 

Gives  amulets  to  me. 
Small  Greek  I  know,  nor  Hebrew  much, 

But  this  I  i)lainly  see : 
Two  legs  without  the  Bishop's  crutch 

God  gave  to  tliee  and  me. 
Oh  no  !   no !   no  ! 

The  Church  may  loose  and  bind, 

But  Mind,  immortal  Mind, 

As  free  as  wave  or  wind, 

Came  forth,  O  God,  from  thee ! 


O  juons  quack  !   tl)y  jiills  are  good  ; 

But  mine  as  good  may  be, 
And  healthy  men  on  healthy  food 

Live  without  you  or  me. 
Good  lady  !   let  the  doer  do ! 

Thought  is  a  busy  bee, 
Nor  honey  less  what  it  doth  brew, 

Though  very  gall  to  thee. 
Oh  no  !    no  !   no  ! 

Though  Couucils  decree  and  declare, 

Like  a  tree  in  open  air, 

The  soul  its  foliage  fair 

Spreads  forth,  O  God,  to  Thee .' 


BEAUTIFUL  WORLD. 

Beautiful  world!    thongb  bigots  coudcnm  thee, 
My  tongue  finds  uo  words  for  the  graces  that  gem 

tlice ! 
Beaming  with  suuny  light,  bountiful  ever, 
Streaming  with  gay  delight,  full  as  a  river! 

Bright  world!   brave  world!   let  cavillers  blame 

tbee! 
I  bless  thee,  and  bend  to  the  God  who  did  frame 
thee! 

Beautiful  world !   bursting  around  me. 
Manifold,  niillion-hued  wonders  confound  me! 
From  earth,  sea,  and  starry  sky,  meadow  and  moun- 
tain, 
Eagerly  gushes  life's  magical  fountain.  . 

Bright  world!  brave  world!  though  witlings  may 

blame  thee, 
Wouderfnl  excellence  only  could  frame  tbee  ! 

The  bird  in  the  greenwood  his  sweet  hymn  is  trolling, 
The  fish  iu  bine  ocean  is  spouting  aud  rolling! 
Light  things  on  airy  wing  wild  dauces  weaving, 
Clods  with  new  life  iu  spring  swelling  and  heaving! 
Thou  (iniek-teeming  worhl  I  though  scoflcrs  may 

blame  tbee, 
I  wonder,  and  worship  the  God  who  coukl  frame 
tbee ! 

Beautiful  world!   what  poesy  measures 

Thy    strong -flooding  passious,  thy   light -trooping 

pleasures  f 
Mustering,  marshalling,  striving  aud  straining. 
Conquering,  triumphing,  ruling  aud  reigning! 
Tliou  bright  -  armied  world,  so  strong,  who  can 
tame  thee  ? 
I       Wonderful  power  of  God  only  could  frame  tbee  ! 


JOHN  S.  BLACEIE.— JOSEPH  A.  ALEXANDER.— ELIZABETH  B.  BEOWNING. 


667 


Beautiful  world !   while  godlike  I  deem  thee, 

No  cold  wit  shall  move  me  with  bile  to  blaspheme 

thee! 
T  have  lived  in  thj-  light,  and  when  Fate  ends  my 

stoiy, 
May  I  leave  on  death's  cloud  the  trail  of  life's  glory ! 
Wondrous  old  world  !   no  ages  shall  shame  thee ! 
Ever  bright  with  new  light  from  the  God  who  did 
frame  thee  I 


TO   THE   MEMORY  OF   SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

And  thou,  too,  gone !  one  more  bright  soul  away 
Tu  swell  the  mighty  sleepers  'neath  the  sod  ; 
One  less  to  honor  and  to  love,  and  saj', 
Who  lives  with  thee  doth  live  half-way  to  God ! 
j\Iy  chaste-souled  Sydney  !  thou  wast  carved  too  tine 
For  coarse  observance  of  the  general  eye  ; 
But  who  might  look  iuto  thy  soul's  fair  shriue 
Saw  bright  gods  there,  and  felt  their  presence  nigh. 
Oh!   if  we  owe  warm  thanks  to  Heaven, 'tis  when 
In  the  slow  jn'ogress  of  the  struggling  years 
Our  touch  is  blessed  to  feel  the  ionise  of  men 
Who  walk  in  light  and  love  above  their  peers 
White-robed,  and  forward  point  with  guiding  hand, 
Breathing  a  heaven  around  them  where  they  stand  ! 


AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Philadelphia,  Alexander  (1809- 18C0)  be- 
came a  Professor  in  tlie  Theological  Seminary  at  Prince- 
ton ;  his  specialty  being  in  Oriental  literature.  He  was 
accomplislicd  in  almost  every  department  of  letters,  was 
master  of  seven  languages,  and  near  to  being  a  proficient 
in  many  more.  His  articles  in  the  Princeton  Review  re- 
main an  evidence  of  his  varied  powers  and  attainments. 
His  elaborate  work  on  the  Prophecies  of  Isaiah  (1846-'47) 
was  republished  in  Glasgow. 


THE   POWER   OF   SHORT   WORDS. 

Think  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big  round  word, 

Or  that  the  brief  and  plain  must  needs  be  weak. 
To  whom  can  this  be  true  who  ouce  has  heard 

The  cry  for  help,  the  tongue  that  all  men  speak, 
When  want,  or  woe,  or  fear  is  in  the  throat. 

So  that  each  word  gasped  out  is  like  a  sliriek 
Pressed  from  the  sore  heart,  or  a  strange,  wild  note 

Sung  by  some  fay  or  fiend  ?     There  is  a  strength 
Which  dies  if  stretched  too  far  or  .spun  too  fine, 

Which  has  more  height  than  breadth,  more  depth 
than  length. 


Let  but  this  force  of  thought  and  speech  be  mine. 
And  he  that  will  may  take  the  sleek  fat  phrase 

Which  glows  and  burns  not,  though  it  gleam  and 
shine  ; 
Light,  but  not  heat — a  Hash,  but  not  a  blaze ! 

Nor  mere  strength  is  it  that  the  short  word  boasts  : 

It  serves  of  more  than  fight  or  storm  to  tell — 
The  roar  of  waves  that  clash  on  rock-bound  coasts, 

The  crash  of  tall  trees  when  the  wild  winds  swell, 
The  roar  of  guns,  the  groans  of  men  that  die 

On  blood-stained  fields.  It  has  a  voice  as  well 
For  them  that  far  oft"  on  their  sick-beds  lie  ; 

For  them   that  weep,  for  them  that  mourn  the 
dead ; 
For  them  that  laugh,  and  dance,  and  clap  the  hand  ; 

To  Joy's  quick  step,  as  well  as  Grief's  slow  tread, 
The  sweet,  plain  words  we  learn  at  first  keep  time  ; 

And  though  the  theme  be  sad,  or  gay,  or  grand, 
With  each,  with  all,  these  may  be  made  to  chime, 
In  thought,  or  speech,  or  song,  in  prose  or  rhyme. 


^Ihabctlj  Barrett  I3roii)mng. 

Miss  Barrett  was  born  in  London  in  1809,  married  Rob- 
ert Browning,  the  poet,  in  1840,  and  died  at  Florence  in 
1861.  Her  father  was  a  wealthy  Loudon  merchant,  and 
she  had  the  advantage  of  a  superior  education.  She  be- 
gan to  write  both  in  prose  and  verse  at  the  age  of  ten, 
and  at  seventeen  published  a  volume  of  poems.  In  18oo 
appeared  her  translation  of  the  "Prometheus  Bound"  of 
^Eschylus.  In  1838  she  put  forth  "The  Seraphim,  and 
other  Poems,"  winch  M-as  followed  by  "The  Romaunt 
of  the  Page,"  1839.  About  this  time  the  breaking  of  a 
blood-vessel  kept  her  for  some  years  a  prisoner  to  her 
room.  In  1844  she  sent  forth  a  collected  edition  of  her 
poems  in  two  volumes.  In  1850  and  1853  new  editions 
appeared.  In  1851  she  published  "  Casa  Guidi  Windows," 
a  poem  which  reviews  the  state  of  Italy.  lu  1856  "Au- 
rora Leigh,"  the  longest  of  her  poems,  appeared.  It  is 
rather  a  novel  in  blank  verse  than  a  ])oem,  and  is  of  very 
unequal  merit.  In  1800  "Poems  before  Congress"  were 
published — suggested  by  the  political  events  of  the  time. 
This  was  the  last  work  from  her  pen.  Her  delicate  con- 
stitution gave  way,  and,  to  the  grief  of  a  large  circle  of 
friends  and  admirers  of  her  genius,  she  died.  Her  re- 
mains were  interred  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Flor- 
ence. All  her  works  show  intellectual  power  of  the  high- 
est order,  and  will  compare  Aworably  with  the  best  pro- 
ductions of  masculine  genius.  She  was  a  Spiritualist  in 
the  modern  sense  of  the  woixl,  having  satisfied  herself  of 
the  genuineness  of  certain  phenomena,  which  were  sufl3- 
cient  for  her  convictions  as  to  spiritual  realities.  "Such 
is  the  influence  of  her  manners,"  wrote  Miss  Mitford, 
"  that  those  who  know  her  best  are  apt  to  lose  sisrlit  of 
her  learning  and  her  genius,  and  to  think  of  her  only  as 
the  most  charming  person  that  they  have  ever  met." 


668 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


SONNET:   CHEERFULNESS  TAUGHT  BY  KEA- 
SON. 

I  tliiiik  wo  aro  too  ready  with  conii>laiiit 

III  tliis  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no  liopo 

ludeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 

Of  yon  gray  blank  of  sky,  we  might  be  faint 

To  niiise  upon  eternity's  constraint 

Kouud  our  aspirant  souls.     But  since  the  scope 

Must  widiBU  early,  is  it  well  to  droop 

For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint  ? 

Oh,  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted, — 

And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road, 

Singing  beside  the  hedge.     What  if  the  bread 

Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  tlion  unshod 

To  meet  the  flints? — At  least  it  may  be  said, 

"  Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank  tbeCj  God !" 


COWPEE'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the 

heart's  decaying: 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid 

their  praying: 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  luimbleuess,  as  low  as  silence, 

languish ! 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she 

gave  her  anguish. 

O  poets!   from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  poured  the 

deathless  singing ! 
O  Christians  !  at  your  cross  of  hope,  a  hopeless  hand 

was  clinging! 
O  men!  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths 

beguiling, 
Groaned  inl^'  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died 

while  ye  were  smiling! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read  tluough  dim- 
ming tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on 
the  glory  ; 

And  how,  when  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wan- 
dering lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken- 
hearted : 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vo- 
cation ; 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker 
adoration : 


Nor  ever   shall   he  be,  in  praise,  Ity  wise   or  good 

forsaken, 
Named  softlj',  as  the  household  name  of  one  Avhom 

(!od  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn  to  think 

upon  him. 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God  whose 

heaven  hath  wou  him — 
Who  sutiered  once  the  madness-cloud  to  His  own 

love  to  blind  him. 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where  breath  and 

bird  could  (ind  him, 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain  such  quick 

poetic  senses 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  harmonious 

influences! 
Tlio  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept  his  Avithin 

its  number. 
And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed  him 

like  a  slumber. 

Wild,  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share 
his  home-caresses, 

Uplooking  to  his  hunuin  eyes  with  sylvan  tender- 
nesses ; 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint,  from  false- 
hood's ways  removing. 

Its  -women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him,  true 
and  loving. 

And  though  in  blindness  lie  remained  unconscious 
of  that  guiding. 

And  things  provided  came  without  the  sweet  sense 
of  providing, 

Ho  testifled  this  solemn  truth,  while  frenzy  deso- 
lated : 

Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy,  whom  only  God  created  ! 

Like  a  sick   child   that   knoweth   not  his  mother 

Avhile  she  blesses 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of 

her  kisses ; 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around, — "My  mother! 

Where's  my  mother  ?" — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks  could  come  from 

any  other ! — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  beud- 

ing  o'er  him. 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  unweary 

love  she  bore  him ! — 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


669 


Thus  Avoke  the  poet  from  the  dream  liis  life's  long 

fever  gave  him, 
Beueatli  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes,  Avhich  closed  iu 

death  to  save  him ! 

Thus?     Oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth  can  image 

that  awaking, 
Wherein  ho   scarcely  heard  the   chant   of  seraphs 

ronud  him  breaking, 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  sonl  from  body 

parted, 
Cut  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew,  "^l/y  Savionr! 

not  deserted !"' 

Deserted!  who  hath  dreamed  that  when  the  cross 
in  darkness  rested, 

Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face,  uo  love  was  mani- 
fested ? 

What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er  the  aton- 
ing drops  averted  ? 

What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul,  that 
one  should  be  deserted? 

Deserted!  God  could  separate  from  His  own  es- 
sence rather: 

And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the  righteous 
Son  and  Father; 

Yea,  once,  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry  his  universe 
hath  shaken — 

It  went  up  single,  echoless, "My  God,  I  am  forsaken !" 

It   went   up  from    the   Holy's   lips   amid   his   lost 

creation, 
That  of  the  lost  no  son  should  use  those  Avords  of 

desolation ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope,  should 

mar  not  hope's  fruition. 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his  rapture 

in  a  vision ! 


THE   SLEEP, 
"lie  giveth  his  beloved  sleep."— Psalm  csxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep — 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this — 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved, 


The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse. 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows? — 

"He  giveth  His  belovdd  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep, 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
Tiie  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

"  He  giveth  Hh  belovdd  sleep." 

"  Sleeji  soft,  beloved !"  we  sometimes  say. 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep : 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 

"  He  giveth  Ilis  belovdd  sleep." 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices! 
O  delved  gold,  the  -wallers  heap ! 

0  strife ;   O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 

Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

"  He  giveth  His  belovdd  sleep." 

Yea !   men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 

Confirmed,  in  such  a  rest  to  keep ; 
But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
"  He  giveth  His  belovdd  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  jugglers  leap, — 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose, 

Who  "giveth  His  belovdd  sleep!" 

And,  friends,  dear  friends, — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 

He  giveth  His  belovdd  sleep." 


670 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  know  yon  have  asked  for  the  costliest  thing 

Kvor  made  by  the  haiul  above — 
A  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life, 

And  a  woman's  wondeifnl  love? 

Do   you   know  you   have   asked  for  lliis   priceless 
thing 

As  a  child  might  ask  for  a  toy  ? 
Demanding  what  others  have  died  to  win, — 

Witli  the  reckless  dash  of  a  boy. 

You  have  written  my  lesson  of  duty  out, 
Man-like  you  have  questioned  me — 

Now  stand  at  the  bar  of  my  woman's  soul, 
Until  I  shall  question  thee. 

You  require  your  mutton  shall  always  be  hot. 
Your  socks  and  your  shirts  shall  be  whole; 

I  require  your  heart  to  be  true  as  God's  stars. 
And  pure  as  heaven  your  soul. 

You  re(|uire  a  cook  for  your  mutton  and  beef; 

I  require  a  far  better  thing; 
A   seamstress    you're    wanting    for    stockings    and 
shirts — 

I  look  for  a  man  and  a  king  : — 

A  king  for  a  beautiful  realm  called  home, 

And  a  man  that  the  maker,  God, 
Shall  look  upon  as  he  did  the  first, 

And  say,  "  It  is  very  good." 

I  am  fair  and  young,  but  the  rose  will  fade 
From  my  soft,  young  cheek  one  day — 

Will  you  love  then,  'mid  the  falling  leaves. 
As  you  did  'mid  the  bloom  of  May  ? 

Is  your  heart  an  ocean  so  strong  and  deep 

I  may  launch  my  all  on  its  tide  ? 
A  loving  woman  finds  heaven  or  hell 

On  the  day  she  is  made  a  bride. 

I  re(|uire  all  things  that  are  grand  and  true. 

All  things  that  a  man  should  be; 
If  you  give  this  all,  I  would  stake  my  life 

To  be  all  j'ou  demand  of  me. 

If  you  cannot  do  this — a  laundress  and  cook 

You  can  hire  with  little  to  pay ; 
But  a  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life 

Arc  not  to  bo  vvou  that  way. 


SONNET:   FUTURITY. 

And,  oh  bclovM  voices,  upon  which 

Ours  iwssionately  call,  because  ere  long 

Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that  song 

Wc  sang  togetlicr  softly,  to  enrich 

The  jioor  world  with  the  sense  of  love,  and  witch 

The  heart  out  of  things  evil, — I  am  strong, — 

Knowing  ye  are  not  lost  for  aye  among 

The  hills,  with  last  yeai-'s  thrush.    God  keeps  a  niche 

In  heaven  to  hold  our  idols:   and  albeit 

He  brake  them  to  our  faces,  and  denied 

That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their  white, — 

I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  complete, — 

The  dust  shook  from  their  beaut}', — glorified 

New  Menmons  singing  in  the  great  God-light. 


SONNET :   INSUITTCTENCY. 

When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse 

Some  inward-  thought,  my  soul  throbs  audibly 

Along  my  pulses,  yearning  to  be  free. 

And  something  farther,  fuller,  higher,  rehearse, 

To  the  individual,  true,  and  to  the  universe. 

In  consummation  of  right  harmony. 

But,  like  a  wind-exposed,  distorted  tree. 

We  are  blown  against  forever  by  the  curse 

Which  breathes  through  nature.     Oh,  the  world  is 

weak — 
The  eittnence  of  each  is  false  to  all ; 
And  what  we  best  conceive,  we  fail  to  speak. 
Wait,  soul,  until  thine  ashen  garments  fall! 
And  then  resume  thy  broken  strains,  and  seek 
Fit  peroration,  without  let  or  thrall. 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

Uiuler  the  title  of  "Sonnets  from  the  Portiii;rnese,"  Jtrs. 
Browning  wrote  .1  series  of  forty-throe  orit,'in;il  love -poems 
addressed  to  Robert  drowning,  her  futnre  husband.  Of  these 
remarkable  productions  we  give  four  specimeD!<. 

VI. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thj'  shadow,  nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  Iiand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore, — 
Thy  touch  upon  my  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  iu  mine 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.— LADY  DUFFERIN. 


671 


^Yitll  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  uame  of  thine, 
And  sees  ■within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


If  thou  ninst  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
"I  love  her  for  her  smile  ...  her  look  ...  Iier  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  ...  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day" — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee — and  love  so  wrought. 
May  be  nnwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  jiity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry. 
Since  one  might  well  forget  to  weep  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  on  through  love's  eternity. 


I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 

To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee. 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length,  and  say, 

"Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee  ; 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 

As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of  tears, 

Tanght  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside. 

Through  sorrow's  trick.   I  thought  the  funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified, — 

Take  it  thou, — finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 

The  ki.ss  niv  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 


I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company 

Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 

And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought  to  know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 

But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 

Of  this  world's  dust, — their  lutes  did  silent  grow. 

And  I  my.self  grew  faint  and  blind  below 

Their  vanishing  eyes.   Then  tiiou  didst  come  ...  to  he, 

Beloved,  what  they  seemed.     Their  shining  fronts, 

Their  songs,  their  splendors  ...  (better,  yet  the  same, 

As  river-water  hallowed  iuto  fonts  ...) 

Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 

My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants — 

Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams  to  shame. 


Cabij  Puffcrin. 

Helen  Selin;i  Sheridan,  daus^hter  of  Thomas  Sheridan, 
S'randdaughter  of  Riehard  Hrinsley  Sheridan,  and  sister 
of  Mrs.  Norton,  married  the  Hon.  Price  Bhxckwood,  only 
son  of  the  fourth  Lord  Diitt'erin,  and  became  Lady  Duf- 
ferin  on  the  death  of  her  liusband's  father.  Ilcr  son, 
Frederick  Temple  Blackwood,  Earl  of  Dufferin  (born 
1826),  is  known  as  an  accomplished  statesman,  the  author 
of  "Letters  from  High  Latitudes,"  and  other  works.  lie 
was  for  a  time  Governor-general  of  Canada.  Lady  Duf- 
ferin (1807-1867)  first  published  "The  Lament  of  the 
Irish  Emigrant"  about  the  year  18.38,  when  she  was  the 
"Hon.  Mrs.  Price  Blackwood."  It  is  one  of  the  most 
tenderly  beautiful  idyls  in  the  language.  It  was  set  to 
an  appropriate  melody  by  Wm.  R.  Dempster,  a  Scottish 
vocalist  and  composer  well  known  in  the  United  States. 


LAMENT   OF  THE   IRISH   EMIGRANT. 

I'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
On  a  bright  May  mornin',  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride ; 
The  corn  was  spriugiu'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then. 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear. 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  : 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek  ; 
And  I  still  keep  listenin'  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane. 
And  the  little  church  stands  near, — 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 
I  see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, — - 

For  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely,  now,  Mary, — 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends! 
And  yon  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride : 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


672 


CYCLOVJlDIA    of  JJlllTISU  A^'V  AMEllWAN  VOETRY. 


Yours  wuH  the  good,  bravo  heart,  Miiry, 

Tliut  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow, — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same. 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

Wheu  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawiu'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word. 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore, — 
Oh,  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  ISIary, — kind  and  true ! 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

lu  the  land  I'm  going  to ; 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there, — 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair ! 

And  ofteu  iu  those  graud  old  woods 

I'll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes. 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
An<l  tlie  springin'  corn,  and  tlic  bright  May  morn, 

Whin  first  you  were  my  bride. 


Ualpl)  C)or)t. 

AMERICAN. 

Hoyt  (1808-1878)  was  a  native  of  the  city  of  New  York. 
lie  studied  for  the  ministry,  took  orders  (1843),  and  be- 
came Rector  of  the  Episcopal  "Church  of  the  Good 
Shepherd."  He  published  in  1841  "  Tlie  Chant  of  Life, 
and  other  Poems;"  and,  in  1859,  "Sketches  of  Life  and 
Landscape."  His  poetic  vein  is  peculiar  and  oii!i:inal, 
but  some  of  the  best  of  his  poems  would  be  improved  by 
abridiiniciit. 


Imploring  me,  imploring  you, 

SuiM('  Will-o'-wisp  to  help  pursue: 

All  I    hajilcss  world,  what  Avill  it  do? 
Imploring  nu-,  imploring  you. 
For  sonuithing  new  ! 

Each  pleasure,  tasted,  fades  away. 

It  fades  away  : 
Nor  you  nor  I  can  bid  it  stay, — 

A  d(!W-drop  trembling  ou  a  spray ! 
A  rainbow  at  the  close  of  day ! 
Nor  you  nor  I  can  bid  it  stay  ; — 
It  fades  away. 

The  rose,  once  gathered,  cannot  i)lease, — 

It  cauuot  i)lease  : 
Ah  !  simple  maid,  a  rose  to  seize 

That  only  blooms  to  tempt  and  tease, 
With  thorns  to  rob  the  heart  of  ease ; — 
Ah  I   simple  maid,  a  rose  to  seize — 
It  cannot  please ! 

So  pants  for  change  the  fickle  fair. 

The  fickle  fair : 
A  feather  floating  in  the  air. 

Still  wafted  here,  aiul  wafted  there, — 
No  charm,  no  hazard  worth  her  care ! 
A  feather  floating  iu  the  air, — 
The  fickle  fair ! 

How  sad  his  lot,  the  hapless  swain, — 

The  hapless  swain  ! 
With  care  and  toil,  iu  heat  and  rain. 

To  speed  the  plough  or  harvest-wain ; 
Still  reaping  only  iields  of  grain. 

With  care  and  toil,  in  heat  and  rain, — 
The  hapless  swain  ! 

Youth,  weary  youth, — 'twill  soon  be  inist, — 
'Twill  soon  be  past ! 


STANZAS  FROM  "NEW." 

Still  sighs  the  world  for  something  new, 
For  something  new  ; 


Tlic  dream  fulfilled, — rank,  fortune,  fame — 

Kank,  fortune,  fame  ! — 
Vain  fnel  for  celestial  flame! 

He  wins  and  wears  a  glittering  name; 
Yet  sighs  his  longing  soul  the  same! 
Vain  fuel  for  celestial  flame, 
Kank,  fortune,  fame ! 


BALPH  HOYT.— WILLIAM  BARNES.— SAMUEL   WILLIAM  PARTRIDGE. 


G7:5 


Indulgent  Heaven,  oh  grant  but  tliis, — 

Oh  grant  but  this, — 
The  boon  shall  bo  enough  of  bli.ss  : 

A  home,  with  true  aiVection's  kiss, 
To  ;nencl  whate'er  may  hap  amiss, — ■ 
The  boon  shall  be  enough  of  bliss  : 
Oh  grant  but  this  I 

The  Ellen  tv'ou  : — insatiate  still  ; 

Insatiate  still  I 
A  -wider,  fairer  range  he  will ; 

Some  mountain  higher  than  his  hill  ; 
Some  prospect  Fancy's  map  to  fill ; — 
A  wider,  fairer  range  he  will — 
Insatiate  still! 

Still  siglis  the  world  for  something  new, 

For  something  new : 
Imploring  me,  imploring  you,    . 

Some  Will-o'-wisp  to  help  pursue  : 
Ah!   hapless  world,  what  will  it  do? 
Imploring  me,  imploring  you, 
For  something  new  ! 


lUilliam  Barnes. 

Barnes,  clergyman,  poet,  and  philologist,  was  born  in 
1810.  He  is  the  author,  among  other  works,  of  "  Poems 
of  Rural  Life  in  the  Dorset  Dialect,"  "A  Grammar  and 
Glossary  of  the  Dorset  Dialect,"  "An  Anglo-Saxon  De- 
lectus." An  edition  of  the  "Rural  Poems,"  with  illus- 
trations by  Hammatt  Billings,  an  American  artist,  was 
published  in  Boston  in  18(39. 


PLOKATA   VERIS  LACHRYMIS. 

Oh  now,  my  true  and  dearest  bride, 
Since  thou  hast  left  my  lonely  side, 
My  life  has  lost  its  hope  and  zest. 
The  sun  rolls  on  from  east  to  west, 
But  brings  no  more  that  evening  rest, 
Thy  loving-kindness  made  so  sweet, 
And  time  is  slow  that  once  was  fleet, 
As  day  by  day  was  waning. 

The  last  sad  day  that  showed  thee  lain 
Before  me,  smiling  in  thy  pain, 
The  sun  soared  high  along  his  way 
To  maik  the  longest  summer  day. 
And  show  to  me  the  latest  play 
Of  thy  sweet  smile,  and  thence,  as  all 
The  days'  lengths  shrunk  from  small  to  small. 
^fty  j«y  began  its  waning. 
43 


And  no\V  'tis  keenest  pain  to  see 
Whate'er  I  saw  in  bliss  with  thee. 
The  softest  airs  that  ever  l)]ow, 
Tlie  fairest  days  that  ever  glow, 
llnfelt  by  thee,  b<it  bring  me  woe. 
And  sorrowful  I  kneel  in  prayer. 
Which  thou  no  longer  now  canst  share, 
As  day  by  day  is  waning. 

How  can  I  live  my  lonesome  days? 
How  can  I  tread  my  lonesome  Avays  ? 
How  can  I  take   my  lonesome  meal  ? 
Or  how  outlive  the  grief  I  feel  ? 
Or  how,  again,  look  on  to  weal  ? 
Or  sit,  at  rest,  before  the  heat 
Of  winter  fires,  to  miss  thy  feet, 

When  evening  light  is  waning. 

Thy  voice  is  still  I  loved  to  hear. 

Thy  voice  is  lost  I  held  so  dear. 

Since  death  unlocks  thy  haiul  from  mine, 

No  love  awaits  me  such  as  thine  : 

Oh  !   boon  the  hardest  to  resign  ! 

But  if  we  meet  again  at  last 

In  heaven,  I  little  care  how  fast 

My  life  may  now  be  waninjr. 


SONNET:   RURAL  NATURE. 

Where  art  thou  loveliest,  O  Nature,  tell! 

Oh,  where  may  be  thy  Paradise  ?     Where  grow 

Thy  happiest  groves?     And  down  what  woody  dell 

Do  thy  most  fancy-winning  waters  flow? 

Tell  where  thy  softest  breezes  longest  blow  ? 

And  where  thy  ever  blissful  mountains  swell 

Upon  whose  sides  the  cloudless  sun  may  throw 

Eternal  summer,  while  the  air  may  quell 

His  fury.     Is  it  'ueath  his  morning  car. 

Where  jewelled  palaces,  and  golden  thrones, 

Have  awed  the  Eastern  nations  through  all  time  ? 

Or  o'er  the  Western  seas,  or  where  ;ifar 

Onr  winter  sun   warms  up  the  southern  zones 

With  summer?     Where  can  be  the  happy  climes? 


iSamucl  lUilliam  Partvibiic 

Partridge  is  a  native  of  London,  born  November  23d, 
1810.  He  became  a  publisher,  having  his  establishment 
in  Paternoster  Row.  His  little  poem,  "  Not  to  Myself 
Alone,"  has  been  wondcrfidly  popular.  It  has  been  oft- 
en quoted  from  the  pulpit,  and  has  found  a  place  in  many 


674 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


oi  the  school  reading-books  of  the  UiiitedStates.  It  oe- 
eurs  ill  "  Our  EiiLilish  Months,  a  Poem  on  the  Seasons  in 
Enijland."  I'ai-tridjre  is  also  the  author  of  a  eollection 
of  pornis  entitled  "  Voiees  from  the  Garden,  or  tiie  Chris- 
tian Laiiiruaue  of  Flowers." 


"  NOT  TO   MYSELF   ALONE." 

"  Not  to  myself  uloue," 
The  little  opening  Flower,  transported,  cries, 
"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  bud  and  bloom  ; 
With  fragrant  breath  the  breezes  I  i)erfiime, 
And  gladden  all  things  with  my  rainbow  dyes: 
The  Ijee  conies  sipping,  every  eventide, 

His  dainty  fill ; 
The  butterfly  within  my  cnp  doth  hide 
From  threatening  ill." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  circling  Star, with  honest  pride,  doth  boast; 
"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  rise  and  set : 
I  write  upon  night's  coronal  of  jet 
His  power  and  skill  who  formed  our  myriad  host: 
A  friendly  beacon  at  heaven's  open  gate, 

I  gem  the  sky, 
That  man  might  ne'er  forget,  in  every  fate, 
Hia  homo  on  high." 

"Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  heavy-laden  Bee  doth  murmuring  hum, — 
"Not  to  myself  alone  from  llower  to  llower, 
I  rove  the  woods,  the  garden  and  the  bower. 
And  to  the  hive  at  evening  weary  come  : 

For  man,  for  man,  the  luscious  food  I  pile 

With  busy  care. 
Content  if  this  repay  my  ceaseless  toil — 
A  scanty  share." 

"Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  soaring  Bird  with  lusty  pinion  sings, 
"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  raise  my  song : 
I  clieer  the  drooping  with  my  warbling  tongue. 
And  bear  the  mourner  on  my  viewless  wings; 
I  bid  the  hymnless  churl  my  anthem  learn. 

And  God  adorer ; 
I  call  the  worldling  from  his  dross  to  turn, 
And  sing  and  soar." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 
'I'he  Streamlet  whispers  on  its  pebbly  way, 

"Not  to  myself  alone  I  sparkling  glide; 

I  scatter  health  and  life  on  every  side. 
And  strew  the  fields  with  herb  and  liowerct  gay. 


I  sing  unto  tins  common,  bleak  and  bare, 

My  gladsome  tune  ; 
I  sweeten  and  refresh  the  languid  air 

In  droughty  June." 

Not  to  myself  alone, — 
O  Man,  forget  not  thou — earth's  honored  priest ! 
Its  tongue,  its  soul,  its  life,  its  pulse,  its  heart — 
lu  earth's  great  chorus  to  sustain  thy  part. 
Cliiefest  of  guests  at  Love's  ungrudging  feast. 

Play  not  the  niggard;  spurn  thy  native  clod. 

And  self  disown  : 
Live  to  thj^  neighbor,  live  unto  thy  (jlod. 
Not  to  thvself  alone. 


Jolju  i'rantis  lUallcr. 

Waller  (born  1810),  for  many  years  editor  of  The  Dub- 
lin UnivernUij  3fu(/azuie,  has  published  "The  Slingsby  Pa- 
pers "  (18.52),  "  Poems "  (1854),  "Pictures  of  English  Lit- 
erature," etc.  (1870).  lie  has  contributed  largely  to  pe- 
riodical literature,  and  was  editor  of  "The  Imperial  Dic- 
tionary of  Universal  Biography." 


KITTY   NEIL. 

"Ah!   sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel. 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  with  spinning  : 
Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore-tree  ; 

Half  the  parish   is  there,  and  the  dance  is  be- 
ginning. 
The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harve.st-moon 

Shines  sweetly  and  cool  ou  the  dew-whitened  val- 
h.y  ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  wi(li  the  soft  loving  things 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green-shaded  alley." 

With  a  l)lush  and  a  smile  Kilty  rose  up  the  while. 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair,  glan- 
cing; 

'Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues. 
So  she  couldn't  but  choose  to  go  oil"  to  the  dancing. 

And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are  seen. 
Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his  choos- 

And  Pat  without  fail  leads  out  sweet  Kitty  Neil. 
Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought  of  re- 
fusing. 

And  Felix  Magee  put  his  pipes  to  his  knee. 

And  with  flourish  so  free  .sets  each  couple  in  mo- 
lion  : 


JOHN  FRANCIS    WALLER.— MRS.  LOUISA   S.  MCCORD. 


675 


With  a  cheer  and  a  bound  the  hids  pattei-  the  ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swaus  on  tlie 
ocean. 
Cliocks  bright  as  the  rose,  feet  light  as  the  doe's. 

Now  coyly  retiring,  uow  boldly  advancing: 
Search  the  world  all  around  IVoni  the  sky  to  the 
ground. 
No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish  lass  dan- 
cing. 

Sweet  Kate,  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes  of  deep 
blue. 
Beaming  huniidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so 
mildly, 
Your  fair  turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  rounded  form. 
Nor  feel   his  heart  warm,  and   his   pulses  throb 
wildly  ? 
Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet  sweet 
love  : 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye  as  he  cries,  with  a  sigh, 
'•  Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your  feet, 
love !'' 


illrs.  Louisa  5.  ilUCovb. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  McCord  (1810-1879)  was  the  daughter  of  Langdon 
Cheves,  a  distinguished  lawyer  and  statesman,  who  as 
member  of  Congress  helped  Clay  and  Calhoun  to  carry 
the  declaration  of  war  in  1812.  She  inherited  much  of 
her  father's  intellectual  vigor,  and  wrote  ably  on  politics 
and  political  economy,  translating  Bastiau's  well-known 
work.  She  married  a  prominent  lawyer,  the  well-known 
author  of  "McCord's  Keports."  Her  first  essay  in  poe- 
try was  a  little  volume  entitled  "  My  Dreams,"  published 
in  1848.  This  was  followed  in  1851  by  "  Cuius  Gracchus," 
a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  abounding  in  striking  i^assages, 
full  of  noble  thought  aptly  expressed.  Though  not  writ- 
ten for  the  stage,  it  has  many  flashes  of  dramatic  power. 
Born  to  affluence,  literature  was  to  her,  however,  a  pas- 
time rather  than  a  pursuit.  A  devoted  daughter  of  the 
State  of  her  birth,  proud  of  its  history,  and  sensitive  to 
its  honor,  she  generously  gave  her  aid  to  the  South  in 
its  struggle  for  independence,  sincerely  believing  she  was 
on  the  side  of  right.  Her  only  son,  Cheves  McCord,  fell 
gallantly  in  battle.  To  the  mother's  heart  it  was  a  fatal 
blow.  She  was  a  large  contributor,  both  in  money  and 
personal  effort,  to  the  hospitals  and  other  institutions, 
and  she  lived  to  be  cheered  by  the  dawn  of  brighter 
prospects  for  South  Carolina. 


AVHAT   USED   TO   BE. 

Happiness  that  ne'er  was  fading. 
Dreams  that  darkness  ne'er  was  shadii 


Flowers  that  were  not  born  to  wither; 

These  are  things  I  used  to  see  ! 
Fancy,  aye  the  future  wooing, 
Hope,  her  heavenward  course  pursuing, 
Pluming  each  unrnflled  feather ; 

These  are  things  that  used  to  be! 

But  alas!   their  transient  being. 
To  the  future's  uight  was  fleeing; 
And  when  brightest  they  were  fading,— 

Those  bright  things  I  used  to  see! 
Life,  uo  more  such  iileasures  giving ; 
Memory,  with  our  present  striving, 
All  her  stock  of  joys  uuladiug, 

Points  lis  to  what  used  to  be. 

But  doth  uot  this  past  deceive  us, 
Cheating  thus,  with  joys  that  leave  us, 
Souls  which  have  a  higher  duty 

Than  those  things  I  used  to  see  ? 
These  were  toys  for  youthful  folly  ; 
Life  has  duties  high  and  holy, 
Kobed  in  Truth's,  not  Fancy's,  beauty, 

Like  those  things  that  used  to  be. 

Duties  holy — duties  binding — 
AVhere  the  soul,  its  errors  finding, 
Reason's  light  from  Truth  deriving, 

Learns,  those  things  it  used  to  see 
Were  but  beacon-lights,  to  guide  us 
Where  life's  battle-fields  betide  us; 
Where,  in  nobler  efforts  striving, 

We  forccet  what  used  to  be. 


THY  WILL  BE   DONE. 

Thy  will  be  doue !   Almighty  God, 
Our  weakness  knows  uo  other  prnyer 

But  this  :  "  God's  will  be  done  !" 
We  cannot  shape  our  future  good  ; 
To  mark  thy  mercy's  bounds  we  fear: 

Father!   thy  will  be  doue! 

Still  to  our  weakness  clinging  fast. 
With  naught  to  point  or  guide  our  way, 

We  cry  "  God's  will  be  doue  !" 
And  'mid  the  storm  of  life, — the  blast 
Of  warring  tempest,  still  we  say, 

''Father!   thy  will  be  done!" 

And  this  the  surest  charm  to  lull 
The  tempest  in  its  ragiug  might, 


676 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(Jrciit  God!    thy  will  Uf  (lone! 
.SliDiikl  iinivcisal   iiiitiirc   (';ill 
'J\)  wreck  niid  iniii,  -  'mid   i(s  Ni^ht, 

Fatlicil    tliy  Avill  be  done  I 

W('  know  Hint  'I'lioii  ciiiist   ^iiidc  iis 
And  if  \V(i  live,  or  if  we  die, 

Tliy   will,  t)h  (lod!    be  done  I 
Our  weakness  seeks  on  tliee  to  rest, 
It  loves  to  eliiij--  to  tlice  and  ery, 

"Father!    tliv  will  be  done!" 


n'st  ; 


PASSAGES  FROM  "CAIUS  GRACCHUS." 

OlilGIN   OK  GREAT   THOUGHTS, 
rrom  liead  and  heart  alike  great  tlKUii'lits  arc  born  ; 
'J'lic  truly  noble  cannot  sever  them: 
I'd  shun  the  man  wlio  at  Ins  nature  scofi's, 
And,  tranijilini;-  on  his  own  divinity. 
Feels  not  the  consciousness  of  hnmaii  greatness. 

THI-:  PEOPLK's  hi:ai;t. 
It  is  a  noble  duty  to  awake 

The  heart  of  truth,  tliat  shunbers  in  them  still. 
It  is  a  glorious  right  to  rouse  the  sonl, 
Tlie  reasoning  heart  tliat  in  a  nation  sleeps! 
And  AVisdom  is  a  laggard  at  her  task, 
When  but  in  closet  speculations  wrapped 
She  doth  forget  to  sliare  her  thought  abroad. 
And  make  mankind  her  heir. 

TlilTH   THliOfGH    STRUGGLE. 
Each  dirty  rivulet  its  ripple  1)riiigs, 
Which  in  the,  swccjung  current  nungling,  drops 
Its  dust  and  dross.      Its  jiurer  part  goes  on, 
And  on,  and  on, — until  at   last  the  whole. 
liy  the  great  alchemy  of  reason,  Hows 
Pure — as  it  must  be,  from  its  origin! 
Thought  sprang  from  God;  and  all  bcstained  with 

earth, 
Struggling  and  cree])ing  still,  at  last   tlu!  truth 
Is  forced  upon  the  <iay!     The  world's  great  mind, 
Though  stund)ling  oft  in  error,  must  at  last 
Work  out  its  vexed  problem,  and  jxMCection. 
Wionght  ironi  reflected  deity  in  man, 
Hurst  8un-like  from  the  mist  of  error  forth. 

KG  GOOD   EFIORT   VAIN. 

For  the  right, 
Man,  even  in  despair,  should  ever  strive: 
The  very  etl'ort,  howsoever  vain. 
Is  always  something  jjaincd.     To  the  irreat  work 


It  warms  the  blood  of  the  world  Avliich  wrestles  on 
Still  against  failuie,  like  the  strong  man  struggling. 
Until  the  end  of  truth  at  last  is  reached. 


DEDICATION   OF  '-CAIUS   GRACCHUS." 

io   MY    SUN. 

'i'oo  young  thou  art  to  read  a  mother's  hcjirt ; 
Too  young  to  guess  that  <iuenchless  fount  of  love 
Which  ever  gushes  forth  in  joy  and  woe. 
Limitless,  always !     If  care-worn  and  .sad, 
I}y  want  or  sickness  bowed  almost  to  earth, — 
Or  yet  if  triiimjdiing  in  life's  success. 
Flattered,  beloved,  adnured, — the  mother  finds 
(He  she  true  woman  with  a  true  woman's  heart) 
No  moment  when  that  heart  can  idlj^  rest 
From  the  long  love  which  ever  fetters  it 
la  bondage  to  her  child! — My  boy,  thine  eye 
Some  day  perchance  may  fall  upon  tlie.se  lines, 
And,  catching  here  the  shadow  of  my  love, 
Thy  soul  may  guess  its  fulness,  and  may  feel, 
Through  every  struggle  in  this  changing  life. 
That,  like  a  guardian  angid  hovering  round. 
To  comfort,  check, — to  pity,  or  to  blame, — 
To  chide,  to  hope,  to  pray, — it  watching  stands, 
But  never  to  condemn! — A  mother's  heart 
]\Iight  throb  itself  away  in  patient  Avoe, — 
Might  bnjak  to  end  its  pang, — but  never,  never, 
Could  deem  her  child  a  thing  of  vice  or  shame. 
God  bless  thee,  boy!  and  make  thee  staiidess,  i)ure. 
Upright,  and  true,  e'en  as  my  thought   doth   jiaint 
thee ! 


iUarciarct  J'ullcr. 

AMERICAN, 

Sarah  Margaret  Fuller  (1S10-18.')0)  is  better  known  by 
her  maiden  'name,  thougii  she  became,  by  marriage  at 
Home  in  1S47,  llie  Marchioness  Ossoli.  She  was  born  in 
Cambildge,  Mass.,  May  23d.  Educated  by  her  father, 
she  became  eminent  for  her  rapid  attainments  in  litera- 
ture, her  aeqiuremcnt  of  langunges,  her  general  learning, 
and  her  brilliant  conversational  powers.  In  1840  slie 
edited  The  Dial;  in  bS44,  became  connected  with  the  New 
York  Tribune;  and  in  lH4(i  went  to  Italy  as  the  corre- 
spondent of  that  journal.  In  May,  18.")0,  she  embarked 
with  her  liusl)and  and  infant  son  at  Leghorn,  in  the  ship 
y^'^i-c'iM//,  f  ir  New  York,  and  perished  with  them  in  the 
wreck  of  liiat  vessel  on  Fire  Island.  Her  life  was  writ- 
ten by  R;dph  Waldo  Emerson,  William  Henry  Cliannint;, 
and  James  Freeman  Clarke,  each  contributing  his  indi- 
vidual view  of  her  character.  She  was  a  woman  of  de- 
cided genius,  but  had  so  eonlident  an  estimate  of  her  own 
powers,  that  lier  manner  was  at  times  too  supercilious 


MARGARET  FULLER.— JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


677 


toward  inferior  or  undeveloped  minds.  Slie  wrote  but 
little  poetry;  but  wliut  she  wrote  is  marlied  by  the  idi- 
osyncrasies of  an  independent  tliinlver.  She  published 
"  Summer  on  tlie  Lakes  "  (184:5),  "  At  Home  and  Abroad  " 
(1840)5'liiKl  several  minor  worlcs.  She  laelied  personal 
attractions,  but  in  spite  of  this  defect  won  the  admira- 
tion of  some  of  the  most  gifted  of  her  contemporaries. 


SONNETS. 


I.   OliPHEUS. 


Each  Orpheus  must  to  the  depths  descend, 

For  ouly  thus  the  poet  can  be  wise, — 

Must  make  the  sad  Persephone  Ills  friend, 

And  buried  love  to  second  life  arise; 

Again  his  love  must  lose  through  too  much  love, 

Must  lose  his  life  t)y  living  life  too  true. 

For  what  he  sought  below  is  passed  above, 

Already  done  is  all  that  he  would  do ; 

Must  tune  all  being  with  his  single  lyre, 

Must  melt  all  rocks  free  from  their  primal  pain. 

Must  search  all  Natuie  with  his  one  soul's  fire, 

Must  bind  anew  all  forms  in  heavenly  chain. 

If  he  already  sees  what  he  must  do, 

Well  may  he  shade  his  eyes  from  the  far-shining  view. 

II.    BEETHOVEN. 
Most  intellectual  master  of  the  art. 
Which,  best  of  all,  teaches  the  mind  of  man 
The  universe  in  all  its  varied  plan — 
What  strangely  mingled  thoughts  thy  strains  impart  I 
Here  the  faint  tenor  thrills  the  inmost  heart, 
There  the  rich  bass  the  Reason's  balance  shows ; 
Hero  breatlies  the  softest  sigh  that  Love  e'er  knows  ; 
There  sudden  fancies,  seeming  without  cliart, 
Float  into  wildest  breezy  interludes ; 
The  past  is  all  forgot — hopes  sweetly  breathe. 
And  our  whole  being  glows — when  lo !   beneath 
The  flowery  brink,  Despair's  deep  sob  concludes! 
Startled,  we  strive  to  free  us  from  the  chain, 
Notes  of  high  triumph  swell,  and  we  are  thine  again! 


ON  LEAVING  THE   WEST. 

Farewell,  ye  soft  and  sumptuous  solitudes! 

Ye  fairy  distances,  ye  lordly  woods. 

Haunted  by  paths  like  those  that  Poussiu  knew, 

When  after  his  all  gazers'  eyes  he  di'cw  : 

I  go — and  if  I  never  more  may  steep 

An  eager  heart  in  yovir  enchantments  deep. 

Yet  ever  to  itself  that  heart  may  say. 

Be  not  exacting — thou  hast  lived  one  day — 


Hast  looked  on  that  which  matches  with  thy  mootl, 
Impassioned  sweetness  of  full  being's  flood, 
Where  nothing  checked  the  b(dd  yet  gentle  wave. 
Where  naught  repelled  the  lavish  love  that  gave. 

A  tender  blessing  lingers  o'er  the  scene 
Like  some  young  mother's  thought,  fond,  yet  serene, 
And  through  its  life  new-born  our  lives  have  been. 
Once  more  farewell — a  sad,  a  sweet  farewell ; 
And  if  I  never  must  behold  you  more, 
In  other  worlds  I  will  not  cease  to  tell 
The  rosary  I  here  have  numbered  o'er; 
And  bright-haired  Hope  Avill  lend  a  gladdened  ear, 
And  Love  will  free  him  from  the  grasp  of  Fear, 
And  Gorgon  critics,  while  the  tale  they  hear. 
Shall  dew  their  stony  glances  Avith  a  tear, 
If  I  but  catch  one  echo  from  your  spell: 
And  so  farewell — a  grateful,  sad  farewell ! 


iJaincG  Jrccman  Clarke. 

AMERICAN. 

Clarke  was  born  in  1810,  in  Hanover,  N.  H.,  where  his 
parents,  residents  of  Boston,  were  accidentally  on  a  visit. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1829,  and  at  the  Cam- 
bridge Divinitj'  School  in  1833.  He  Mas  pastor  of  a  So- 
ciety in  Louisville,  Ky.,  from  1833  to  1840.  He  then  re- 
turned to  Boston,  where  he  became  highly  popular  as  v, 
preacher.  He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  ser- 
mons, which  have  had  a  wide  circulation.  He  has  writ- 
ten original  poems  of  high  merit  as  well  as  translations, 
verj' happily  executed.  On  his  seventieth  birthday  (April 
4, 1880),  in  reckoning  up  the  personal  friends  to  whom 
he  had  been  intelleetuallj^  indebted,  Mr.  Clarke  remark- 
ed:  "I  am  especially  thankful  to  Margaret  Fuller.  From 
her  I  learned  the  power  that  is  in  us  all,  the  mighty  pow- 
ers of  the  human  soul.  She  roused  me  to  the  value  of 
life ;  she  taught  mc  how  to  live  for  an  end,  and  a  good 
one."  See  the  poem  by  Holmes  (page  055)  on  Clarke's 
birthday. 


PRAYER  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

WRITTEN    IN    HER    COOK    OF   DEVOTIONS    JUST    BEFORE 
HER   EXECrriON. 

"O  Doniine  Deus!  eperavi  in  te; 
O  care  mi  Jesii  I  muic  libera  ine. 
In  dura  catena,  in  iiiisci'a  pcBna, 

Desidero  te. 
Langueiulo,  gemeudo,  et  gemiflectendo, 
Adoio,  iniploro,  ut  libcres  inei" 

Oh  Master  and  Maker!   mj-  hope  is  in  thee. 
My  Jesus,  dear  Saviour!   now  set  my  soul  free. 
From  this  my  hard  prison,  my  spirit  upri-sen. 

Soars  upward  to  thee. 
Thus  moaning,  and  groaning,  and  bending  the  knee, 
I  adore,  and  implore  that  thou  liberate  me. 


678 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE  KULE  WITH  NO  EXCEPTION. 

AFTf:U  THE   (JLnMAN   OF   GOETIIE. 

Tell  me,  friend, —as  yon  are  bitlden, — 
Wliat  is  hardest  to  be  hidden  '? 
Fire  is  hard.     The  sinoko  betrays 
Its  i)lace,  by  day — by  night,  its  blaze. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden, — 
Fii;i:  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 

I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden ! 
Love  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 
Do  your  best,  you  can't  conceal  it ; 
Actions,  looks,  and  tones  reveal  it. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden, — 
Love  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 

I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden ! 

Poetry  cannot  be  hidden. 

Fire  may  smonlder,  love  be  dead ; 

But  a  Poem  must  be  read. 

Song  intoxicates  the  Poet ; 

He  will  sing  it,  he  will  show  it. 

He  must  show  it,  he  must  sing  it. 
Tell  the  fellow  then  to  bring  it! 
Though  he  knows  you  can't  abide  it, 
'Tis  impossible  to  hide  it. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden, — 
Poems  never  can  be  hidden. 


WHITE-CAPPED  WAVES. 

White-capped  waves  f;ir  round  the  Ocean, 
Leaping  in  thanks  or  leaping  in  play, 

All  your  bright  faces,  in  happy  commotion, 
Make  glad  matins  this  summer  day. 

The  rosy  light  through  the  morning's  portals 
Tinges  your  crest  with  an  August  hue, 

Calling  on  us,  thought-prisoned  mortals, 
Thus  to  live  in  tlie  moment  too. 

For,  graceful  creatures,  yon  live  by  dying, 
Save  your  life  when  you  lling  it  away, 

Flow  through  all  forms,  all  forms  defying, 
And  in  wildest  freedom  strict  rule  obey. 

Show  us  your  art,  oh  genial  daughters 
Of  solemn  Ocean,  thus  to  combine 

Freedom  and  force  of  rolling  waters 
With  sharp  observance  of  law  divine. 


A  REMINISCENCE. 

"C'dtait  en  Avril,  It-  Diinnnche." — En.  PAii.LEnON. 

'Twas  April;   'twas  Sunday;    the  day  was  jl|ir, — 

Yes!   sunny  and  fair. 

And  how  happy  was  I ! 
Yon  wore  the  white  dress  you  loved  to  wear; 
And  two  little  ilowers  were  hid  in  your  hair — 

Yes!   in  your  hair — 

On  that  day — gone  by  ! 

Wc  .sat  on  the  moss;   it  was  shad}'  and  dry; 

Yes!  shady  and  dry; 

And  we  sat  in  the  shadow. 
Wc  looked  at  the  leaves,  we  lot>ked  at  the  sky ; 
We  looked  at  the  brook  which  bubbled  near  by,- 

Yes!   bubbled  near  by. 

Through  the  quiet  meadow. 

A  bird  sang  on  the  swinging  vine, — 

Yes!   on  the  vine, — 

And  then, — sang  not ; 
I  took  your  little  white  hand  in  mine; 
'Twas  April ;  'twas  Sunday  ;  'twas  warm  suushiue,- 

YesI   warm  sunshine: 

Have  vou  forgot  ? 


A  SHELTER  AGAINST  STORM  AND  RAIN. 

"  Wci-  Wcnig  sucht,  der  fludet  Viel." 
After  the  German  of  Rlckeut.' 

(^nly  a  shelter  for  my  head  I  sought, 

One  stcnmy  winter  night; 
To  me  the  blessing  of  my  life  was  brought, 

Making  the  whole  world  bright. 
How  shall  I  thank  thee  for  a  gift  so  sweet. 

Oh  dearest  Heavenly  Friend  ? 
I  sought  a  resting-place  for  weary  feet. 

And  found  my  journey's  end. 

Only  the  latchet  of  a  friendly  door 

My  timid  lingers  tried ; 
A  loving  heart,  with  all  its  precious  store. 

To  mo  was  opened  wide. 
I  asked  for  shelter  from  a,  passing  shower, — 

My  sun  shall  always  shine! 
I  would  have  sat  bo.side  the  hearth  an  hour,-- 

Aud  the  whole  heart  was  miue! 


'  For  tliis  Kraceful  versiou,  Mr.  Clarke  was  indebted  to  Lis 
dan^hter  Lilian. 


JAMES  F.  CLARKE.— WILLIAM  H.  CHANNING.— EDMUND  H.  SEARS. 


679 


THE   PERFECT   WHOLE. 
After  the  German  of  Geibel. 

Live  ill  that  Whole  to  which  all  parts  belong; 
Thus  Beauty,  Action,  Truth,  shall  be  thy  dower. 
Compose  thyself  in  God,  and  so  be  strong, 
Since  only  iu  life's  fulness  is  its  power. 
As,  in  a  plant,  leaves,  flowers,  and  fruits  must  grow 
Out  of  one  germ,  each  centred  in  the  whole, — 
So  must  Love,  Thought,  and  Deed  forever  How 
Forth  from  one  fountain  iu  the  human  soul. 


lUUliam  Cjcnrn  (Hljannlng. 

AMERICAN. 

Clianning,  tlic  nephew  and  biograijhcr  of  the  cele- 
brated divhic,  Dr.  William  Ellery  Channiiig,  and  the  sou 
of  Francis  Dana  Clianniug,  was  born  in  Boston,  Maj'  2.5tli, 
1810.  His  biograph\'  of  his  nncle  is  Avritten  with  mark- 
ed ability.  His  transhitions  from  the  Germau'are  render 
ed  with  great  skill.  Clianning  was  settled  for  some  time 
over  a  Unitarian  Church  in  Liverpool ;  then  became  a 
resident  of  London.  In  1880  he  revisited  his  native 
country,  and  forwarded  the  movement  for  a  memorial 
church  at  Newport,  R.  L,  in  commemoration  of  his  uncle. 
His  daughter  is  the  wife  of  Edwin  Arnold,  the  gifted  Eng- 
lish poet. 

MIGNON'S   SONG. 
Feom  Goethe. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  flowers  of  citron  bloom  ? 
The  golden  orange  glows  through  leafy  gloom  ? 
From  the  blue  heavens  the  breezes  float  so  bland  ? 
The  myrtles  still,  and  tall  the  laurels  stand? 
Know'st  thou  the  land  ? 

Oh  there, — oh  there  ! 
Loved  one,  with  thee  I  long  to  wander  there. 

Know'st  thon  the  house  ?   Its  roof  the  columns  bear, — 
The  polished  floors,  the  halls  so  bright  and  fair. 
Where  marble  tigures  standing  look  on  me; 
"Thou  poorest  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee?" 
Know'st  thou  the   house  ? 

Oh  there, — oh  there  I 
With  thee,  kind  guardian,  oh  could  I  be  there!" 

Know'st  thon  the  mountain  peak?  the  airy  bridge, 
Where  loaded  mules  climb  o'er  the  misty  ridge  ? 
In  hollows  dwell  the  serpent's  ancient  brood ; 
Tlie  rent  crag  rushes  down  the  foaming  flood  : 
Kuow'st  thou  the  mount  ? 

Oh  there, — oh  there 
Leadeth  our  way — O  father,  lead  us  there! 


(!:i)imini)  tjamiltou  Scars. 

AMERICAN. 
.  Sears  (1810-1870)  was  a  native  of  Berkshire,  Mass.  He 
graduated  at  Union  College,  Schenectady,  N.  Y.,  in  1834, 
and  at  the  Theological  School  iu  Cambridge  iu  1837.  He 
became  a  Uintariau  minister,  and  preached  at  Wayland, 
Mass.,  till  1865,  when  he  became  pastor  over  tlie  Society 
in  Weston.  He  was  the  author  of  "  Atlianasia,  or  Fore- 
gleams  of  Inmiortality,"  a  wOrk  highly  esteemed  both 
in  England  and  America  ;  also,  "  Tlie  Fourth  Gospel  the 
Heart  of  Christ."  He  visited  England  iu  1873,  where  he 
was  received  with  much  kindness  in  religious  circles. 
O.  W.  Holmes,  the  poet,  pronounces  the  hymn  we  quote 
to  be  "one  of  the  finest  and  most  beautiful  ever  written." 


CHRISTMAS   SONG. 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 

Come  Heaven's  melodious  strains, 
Where  wild  Jndea  stretches  far 

Her  silver-mantled  plains ; 
Celestial  choirs  from  courts  above 

Shed  sacred  glories  there ; 
And  angels  with  their  sparkling  lyres 

Make  music  on  the  air. 

The  answering  hills  of  Palestine 

Send  back  the  glad  reply. 
And  greet  from  all  their  holy  heights 

The  day-spring  from  on  high  : 
O'er  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 

There  comes  a  holier  calm. 
And  Sharon  waves,  in  solemn  praise, 

Her  silent  groves  of  palm. 

"  Glory  to  God  !"'     The  lofty  strain 

The  realm  of  ether  fills: 
How  sweeps  the  song  of  solemn  joj' 

O'er  Judah's  sacred  hills ! 
"  Glory  to  God  !"     The  sounding  skies 

Loud  Avitli  their  anthems  ring: 
"  Peace  on  the  earth  ;    good-will  to  men. 

From  Heaven's  eternal  King !"' 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem  ! 

The  Saviour  now  is  born: 
More  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  flrst  Christmas  morn  ; 
And  brighter  on  Moriah's  brow, 

Crowned  with  her  temple-spires, 
Which  first  proclaim  the  new-born  light. 

Clothed  with  its  Orient  fires. 

This  day  shall  Christian  lips  be  mute, 
And  Christian  hearts  be  cold  ? 


680 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Oil, 'catch  tlio  antlieiii  that  IVoiu  heaven 
O'er  .Tiuhih's  iiiouiitaiiis  rollcil ! 

Willi   nii;li(ly  liiirst  from  soraph-hariis 
Tlic  high  and  sulciiiii  hay, — 

"  Glory  to  God  I   on  earth  he  peace  ; 
Salvation  comes  to-day  !" 


THE   ANGKLS'   SONG. 

It  canie  niion  the  niidnij;ht  clear, 

That  glorious  song  of  old, 
From  angels  hending  near  the  earth 

To  touch  their  harps  of  gold  : 
"Peace  to  the  earth,  good-will  to  men 

From  Heaven's  all-gracious  King  :"' 
The  world  in  solemn  stillness  laj' 

To  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Still  through  the  cloven  sky  they  come, 

With  peaceful  wings  unfurled  ; 
And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats 

O'er  all  the  weary  Avorld  : 
Ahove  its  sad  and  lowly  plains 

Tliey  bend  on  heavenly  wing, 
And  ever  o'er  its  Babel  sounds 

The  blessdd  angels  sing. 

Yet  with  the  woes  of  sin  and  strife 

The  world  has  sutfered  long ; 
Beneath  the  angel  strain  have  rolled 

Two  thousand  years  of  wrong ; 
And  men,  at  Avar  with  men,  hear  not 

The  love-song  which  they  bring : 
Oh  !   hush  the  noise,  ye  men  of  strife. 

And  hear  tht^  angels  sing! 

And  ye,  beneath  life's  crushing  l()a<l 

Whose  forms  are  bending  low. 
Who  toil  along  the  climbing  way 

With  painful  steps,  and  slow, — 
Look  now  I   for  glad  and  golden  hours 

Come  swiftly  on  the  wing: 
Oh  !  rest  beside  the  weary  road, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing! 

For  lo  !   the  days  arc.  hastening  on, 

By  jirophet-bards  foretold, 
When  with  the  ever-circling  years 

Comes  round  the  age  of  gold  ; 
When  Peace  shall  over  all  the  earth 

Its  ancient  splendors  fling, 
And  the  whole  world  send  back  the  son 

Which  now  the  angels  sing. 


^IfrcLi  tLcmnjson. 

Tlie  third  son  of  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson, 
D.D.,  Alfred,  was  born  in  tlic  paisouage  of  Soincrsby 
(near  Spilsby),  in  Lincolnshire,  in  1810.  He  received  his 
early  education  at  the  school  of  his  native  town.  From 
theuec  both  he  and  his  elder  brothers,  Frederic  and 
Charles,  proceeded  to  Cambridge,  entering  at  Trinity 
College  wlicn  Dr.  Whcwell  was  tutor.  In  1S29  Alfred 
won  the  Chancellor's  Medal  for  his  poem  in  blank  verse, 
entitled  "Timbuetoo."  While  at  Cambridge,  Charles 
(who  subsequently  took  the  name  of  Turner)  and  Alfred 
published  privately  a  small  volume  of  poems,  which  was 
favorably  noticed  by  Coleridge.  In  1830  Alfred  put  forth 
a  volume  entitled  "Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical."  It  con- 
tained, among  other  pieces,  "Claribel,"  the  "Ballad  of 
Oriana,"  "Lilian,"  and  "The  Merman."  It  commanded 
no  immediate  success,  though  the  discerning  few  saw  in 
it  the  promise  of  a  new  and  original  poet. 

In  1833  another  volume  appeared,  and  from  that  time 
Tennyson's  fume  began  to  broaden  and  flourish.  It  was 
greatly  increased  by  the  appearance  in  1843  of  a  collec- 
tion of  his  smaller  pieces,  with  the  addition  of  "Locksley 
Hall,"  "Go'diva,"  "Lady  Clara  Verc  dcVcre,"  the  "Lord 
of  Burleigh,"  the  "Two  Voices,"  "Dora,"  "St.  Simon 
Stylites,"  etc.  His  position  among  contemporary  poets 
was  now  established.  Whatever  has  appeared  since  has 
only  extended  and  confirmed  his  reputation.  In  1847, 
"The  Princess"  was  published;  in  18.50,  the  author's 
genius  culminated  in  "In  Memoriam,"  the  most  mem- 
orable of  all  his  works,  and  the  best  sustained  poem  of 
the  kind  in  all  literature.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  memo- 
I'y  of  his  college  chum,  Arthur  Hallam,  son  of  the  histo- 
rian, and  betrothed  to  the  poet's  sister  Emil}'.  Charlotte 
Bronte  characterized  the  work  as  "beautiful  but  monot- 
onous ;"  but  the  poet's  skill  is  shown  in  making  his  one 
theme  so  replete  with  interest  and  with  profound  rcilec- 
tions  on  the  destiny  of  man.  Wordsworth  died  in  18.50, 
and  the  office  of  Poet-laureate  was  conferred  upon  Ten- 
nyson, with  a  pension  of  £200  per  annum.  In  1852  ap- 
peared his  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton." In  IS.5.5,  "Maud"  was  published;  in  1858,  the 
"Idyls  of  the  King;"  in  18G4,  "Enoch  Arden  ;"  in  1875 
and  1870,  his  dramas  of  "Queen  Mary"  and  "Harold." 

For  many  years  Tennyson  has  lived  in  the  midst  of  his 
family  in  retirement  at  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
not  wholly  secure,  liowcver,  from  the  intrusive  curiosity 
of  tourists  and  visitors  to  tlie  island. 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

Sweet  Einnui  Moreland,  of  yonder  town, 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way. 

"And  Inive  you  lost  your  heart?''  she  said; 
"And  are  you  nmrricd  yet,  Edward  Gray?" 

Sweet  Ihnnni  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turned  away : 

"  Sweet  Emma  Morelaiul,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 


ALFRED   TENNYSOX. 


681 


"  Ellen  Ailair  she  loved  mo  Avell, 

Agaiust  ber  fatliei's  and  mother's  ^vill: 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  liom-  and  wept 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  tied  over  the  sea 
Filled  I  was  with  folly  and  spite, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day  : 
'You're  too  .slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'  To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

"  There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass — 
Whispered,  '  Listen  to  my  despair : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did  : 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair !' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 

On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 
'  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray !' 

'*  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree  : 

But  I  will  love  110  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

'•  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turned  away : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray !" 


GO  NOT,  HAPPY  DAY. 

From  "  Mavd." 

Go  not,  happy  day,  from  the  shining  fields, 

Go  not,  hapj\v  day,  till  the  maiden  yields. 

Rosy  is  the  West,  rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks,  and  a  rose  her  mouth. 

When  the  happy  Yes  falters  from  her  lips, 

Pass  and  blush  the  news  o'er  the  blowing  ships. 

Over  blowing  seas,  over  seas  at  rest, 

Pass  the  happy  news,  blush  it  through  the  West, 

Till  the  red  man  dance  by  his  red  cedar-tree. 

And  the  red  man's  babe  leap,  beyond  the  sea. 

Blush  from  West  to  East,  blush  from  East  to  West, 

Till  the  West  is  East,  blush  it  through  the  West. 

Rosy  is  the  West,  rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks,  and  a  rose  her  mouth. 


WELCOME   TO  ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH   7th,  1863. 

Sea-king's  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welconjo  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  .fleet! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet, 

Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers  I 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  x^rayer! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours ! 

W^arble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 

Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers ! 

Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air! 

Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire! 

Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 

Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land's  desire  ! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 

Roll  as  the  ground-swell  dashed  on  the  strand. 

Roar  as  the  sea  Avhen  he  welcomes  the  laud, 

And  Avelcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire, 

The  sea-king's  daughter,  as  happy  as  fair, 

Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea — 

O  joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the  throne. 

Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  lis  your  own  ; 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  Avhatever  we  be. 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


ASK   ME  NO  MORE. 

From  "  The   Princess  :    A  Medlet."' 

Ask  me  no  more;    the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoojt  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape  ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answered  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

I  "  The  Prhicess "  is  a  story  of  a  prince  and  princess  con- 
tracted by  tlieii-  parents  without  havinj;  seen  each  other.  The 
lady  rei)iuliates  the  alliance;  bnt  after  a  series  of  adventures 
and  incident?,  somewhat  improbable  aiidlncoherent,  she  relent.s 
and  surrenders.  The  mixtuie  of  modern  ideas  wilh  those  of 
the  age  of  chivalry  makes  "The  Princess"  truly  a  medley. 


682 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Ask  luo  no  more  ;   what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,  O  uij'  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die ! 

Ask  nie  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thco  live; 
Ask  rae  no  more. 

Ask  mo  no  more;  thy  fate  and  mine  are  sealed 
I  strove  against  the  stream,  and  all  in  vain  ; 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  tlie  main  ; 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  1  yield; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


TO  , 

AFTER   READING   A   LIFE   AND   LETTERS. 

"Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakspcare's  Epitaph. 

Yon  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name — 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now — 
And  gained  a  laurel  for  your  brow. 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim  : 


But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice — ■ 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Through  troops  of  unrecording  fricuds — ■ 

A  dccdful  life,  a  silent  A'oice : 

And  you  have  missed  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown : 
Hereafter  neither  knave  uor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die. 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him  ere  ho  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show  ! 

Break  lock  and  seal !  betray  the  trust ! 

Keep  nothing  sacred:  'tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

Ah,  shameless !  for  he  did  but  sing 

A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazoned  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

lie  gave  the  people  of  his  best ; 

His  worst  be  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 

My  Shakspeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest  I 


Will)  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be, 
Tiio  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
Tiie  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire, 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates. 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd .' 


GARDEN  SONG. 
I. 
Come  into  the  garden,  ^Slaud, 

For  the  l)lack  bat,  night,  has  flown  ; 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  Avafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves. 
On  a  bed  of  daft'odil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  the  light,  and  to  die. 


All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

Tiie  tlute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jes.samine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV. 

I  .'iaid  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 

Witii  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

Slie  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  awav. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine, 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those. 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
Bnt  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


ALFRED   TEXNYSOK 


683 


Ami  the  soul  of  tlio  rose  went  into  my  blooil, 

As  tlie  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow,  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  AYOod  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  wallvs  have  left  so  sweet 
That,  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs, 

lie  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  wliich  we  meet, 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

VIII. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  iiimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
I?ut  the  rose  w^as  awake  all  night  for  your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

Thej'  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


Queen  rose  of  the  rose-bud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  ne.ir ;" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late ;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear," 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 


She  is  coining,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  lier  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


1)E   I'KOFUNDIS. 

Out  of  the  Deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  l)(>ep  : 
Where  all  that  was  to  be  in  all  that  was 
Whirled  for  a  million  feons  through  the  vast. 
Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous  eddying  light — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  Deep! 
Through  all  this  changing  world  of  changeless  hiw, 
And  every  phase  of  ever  heightening  life. 
And  nine  long  months  of  ante-natal  gloom. 
With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent — her  dark  orb 
Touched  with  earth's  light — thou  comest,  Darling 

Boy; 
Our  Own;   a  babe  in  lineament  and  limb 
Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect  man  ; 
Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and  mine  in  one, 
Indissolubly  married,  like  our  love  ; 
Live  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and  serve 
This  mortal  race,  thy  kin,  so  well  that  men 
May  bless  thee,  as  we  bless  thee,  O  young  life, 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark  ;   and  may 
The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion  lives 
Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy  course 
Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random  youth 
Unshattered — then  full  current  through  full  man  ; 
And  last,  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest  fall, 
By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly  dying  power, 
To  that  last  Deep  where  we  and  thou  are  still. 
18S0. 


BUGLE  SONG. 

From  "The  Princess." 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls. 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow!    set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
Blow,  bugle;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying! 

Oh  liark,  oh  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 

Oh  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff"  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 

Blow!  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 

Blow,  bugle;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying! 

Oh  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky; 

They  faint  on  hill,  or  field,  or  river : 
Our  fchoes  roll  from  sonl  to  soul. 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow!   set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying! 


684 


CYCLOrAiDlA    OF  JilllTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


THE   FOOLISH   VIliGlNS. 

I'liOM    "lUVLS   OF   TlIK    KlNr.."' 

Late,  late,  SO  late!    and  dark  the  iiij;lit  and  chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late !   but  we  can  eiitoi-  still. 

Too  late,  too  late!   ye  eaiiiiot  enter  now. 

No  li<;lit  had  wo:   for  that  Me  do  repent; 
And  learninj;;  this,  the  Bride<j;rooni  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  !   ye  rannot  enter  now. 

No  light:   so  late!    and  d.iik  and  eliill  (he  night! 
Oh  let  us  in,  that  we  may  lind  tlie  light! 
Too  late,  too  late!    ye  cannot  enter  now. 

Have  ^ve  uot  heard  the  Biidegrooin  is  so  sweet? 
Oh  let  us  in,  thongli  late,  to  kiss  liis  feet! 
No,  iio,  too  late !   ye  cannot  enter  now. 


CHARGE    OF   THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward  i\w  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !"  lie  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade !" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  Ijlundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  rei>ly, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  Avhy, 
Theirs  hut  to  do  and  die, — 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  f>f  them. 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well  ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  tlie  month  of  Hell 

Rode  the,  six  hundred. 

I  This  ArtlinrJMn  ronimicc,  publislied  in  1S5S,  consists  of  fonr 
poems  (Enid,  Vivien,  El.iine,  and  Ouinevre),  written  in  pure, 
flowing  blank  verso,  and  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Prince 
Albert  iu  some  noble  lines. 


I'lashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  iu  air, 
Sabiing  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  ill  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Keeled  from  the  sabre-stroke. 

Shattered  and  sundered  : — 
Then  they  rode  back  —but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Caiiuou  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered  : 
Stormed  at  ■with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered ! 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hmidred! 


TURN,  FORTUNE,  TURN  THY   WHEEL. 

KiioM  "  Idyls  oi'  tiik  Kinc" 

Tiiin,  I'^ortune,  Inrn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  prond  ; 
Turn  tli.\'  wild  wheel  through  sunshine,  storm,  and 
cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Tnin,  Fori  one,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down  ; 
Our  hoanl  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

Smile,  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands; 
Frown,  and  Ave  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands; 
l'"(>r  man  is  man,  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  lliy  wheid  above  the  staring  crowd; 
Thy  wheel  and  tlion  are  shadows  iu  the  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 


ALFRED   TENNTSOK 


685 


STANZAS'   FROM  "IN  MEMORIAM." 

I  I'livy  not  ill  any  mooils 

TIio  captive  void  of  uoble  rage, 
The  linnet  boru  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  sunnner  Avoods ; 


'  Tennyson  h:i3  made  the  Stanza  of"  In  Mcniorinni"  so  jie- 
cnliarly  his  own,  thnt  the  vei'ses  of  other  poets  who  employ  it 
now  seem  like  imitations.  Bnt  the  Stanza  was  used  by  Ben 
Jonson.  It  also  appears  in  the  following  remarkable  poem, 
taken  from  the  Lnttiell  Collection  of  Broadsides.  There  is  no 
indication  of  date  or  authorship;  but  the  general  tone  of  tlie 
composition,  the  allusions  to  the  national  desire  for  a  free  Par- 
liament, tlie  mention  of  a  commonwealth,  and  the  absence  of 
any  reference  to  royalty,  show  that  they  must  have  been  wiit- 
ten  by  a  Kepublican  in  the  spring  of  IGOO,  during  the  temporary 
dictatorship  of  General  Monk : — 

EXGLAXD'S   VOTE   FOR   A   FHEE   ELECTION   AXI)   A   FREE 
PARLIAMENT. 

Great  God  of  Nations,  and  their  Right, 
By  whose  high  Auspice  Brittain  stands 
So  long,  though  first  'twas  built  on  Sands, 

And  oft  had  sunk  but  for  Thy  might; — 

In  her  own  Mainland-storms  and  Seas, 

Be  present  to  her  now  as  then. 

And  let  not  proud  and  factious  men 
Oppose  thy  will  with  what  they  please. 

Onr  Free  full  Senate's  to  be  made: 

O,  i)ut  it  to  the  publick  voice 

To  make  ,i  legal  worthy  choice, 
Excluding  such  as  would  invade 

The  Commonwealth.    Let  whom  we  name 
Have  Wisdome,  Foresight,  Fortitude, 
Be  more  with  Faith  than  Face  endued; 

And  study  Conscience  above  Fame;  — 

Such,  as  not  seek  to  get  the  Start 
In  State,  by  Faction.  Power,  or  Bribes, 
Ambition's  Bands.     But  move  tlie  Tribes 

By  Virtue,  Modesty,  Desert; — 

Such  as  to  Justice  will  adhere. 

Whatever  great  one  it  offend; 

And  fi-om  the  embraced  Truth  not  bend 
From  Envy,  Hatred,  Gifts,  or  Fear  ;— 

That  by  their  Deeds  will  make  it  known 

Whose  Dignity  they  do  sustain  ; 

And  Life,  State,  Glory,  all  they  gain. 
Count  it  Great  Brittaiu's,  not  their  own. 

Such  the  old  Bruti,  Decii  were 
The  Cippi,  Curtii,  who  did  give 
Themselves  for  Rome:   and  would  not  live, 

As  men,  good  only  for  a  year. 

Such  were  the  great  Camilli  too, 
The  Fabii,  Scipios;  that  still  thought 
No  work  at  price  enough  was  bought, 

That  for  their  country  they  could  do: 

And  to  her  honour  so  did  knit, 

As  all  their  Acts  wore  understood 

The  Sinews  of  the  Publick  Good, 
And  they  themselves  one  soul  with  it. 

These  men  were  truly  Magistrates; 
Those  neither  piactised  Force,  nor  Forms, 
Nor  did  they  leave  the  helm  in  storms, 

And  such  they  are  make  happy  States. 


I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  liehl  of  time, 
Unfettered  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes: 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest. 
The  heart  that  never  pliglited  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth, 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall; 

I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

-Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Thau  uever  to  have  loved  at  all. 

0  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Slayst  seem  to  have  reached  a  purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 
Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadowed  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  tlirough  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good. 
Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  Idood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine ! 

See  thou,  that  countcst  reason  ripe 

In  holding  by  the  law  within, 

Tliou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin. 
And  ev'u  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lessened  in  liis  love? 

1  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue: 
Sliall  love  be  l)lamed  for  want  of  faith? 
Tlicro  must  be  wisdom  Avitli  great  Dcatli  : 

The  dead  shall  look  nn;  through  and  tlirough. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climlj  or  fall: 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger,  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


686 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Oil,  yet  we  trust  that  soiiicIkiw  good 
Will  bo  the  final  «;oal  of  ill, 
To  paugs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood. 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete  ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Uchuld !    ^\('  know  not  anything; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream:   but  what  am  I? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying  for  the  ligiit: 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

*  #  ^  *  ^ 

The  wisli  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, — 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have. 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 

So  careless  of  the  single  life. 

That  I  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  <leeds. 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

Slie  often  l)rings  but  one  to  bear — 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod  ; 

And,  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs. 

That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God. 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  gropo, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  I^ord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 
#  «  #  «  * 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long: 
Thou  docst  expectant  nature  wrong; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 


What  stays  thee  from  tlie  clouded  noons? 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 
Or  .sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

iJring  orcliis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire. 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew. 

Laburnums,  dropi»ing-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud. 

And  Hood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

1  shall  not  see  thee.  Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land 

Where  first  he  walked  when  clasped  in  clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  maj^  come 
W^here  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb  ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

Oh,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  nnconjectnred  bliss, 
Oil,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss, 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter;   hear 

The  wish  <oo  strong  for  words  to  iiainc  ; 
That  in  this  l)liudness  of  the  frame, 

M3'  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 
With  what  divine  afiectious  bold. 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead  I 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day. 

Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say,  I 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast. 

Imaginations  calm  ami  fair, — 

The  memory  like  a  dondless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest! 

But  when  the  he.irt  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits. 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  tlie  household  jar  within. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


687 


You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  sconi, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  teuder  over  drowning  flies, — 

You  tell  nic  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :    one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtile  question  versed. 
Who  touched  a  jarring  lyre  at  tirst, 

I5ut  ever  strove  to  make  it  true: 

Perplexed  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds. 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts,  and  gathered  strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind. 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind. 

And  laid  them  :   thus  he  came  at  length 

To  tind  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
^Vhich  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud. 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Although  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

King  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  clouds,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

King  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

King  out  the  old.  ring  iu  the  new, — 
Ring,  happy  bells,  aci'oss  the  snow  : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

King  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  niiiul, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
King  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

King  in  redress  to  all  mankiud. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
King  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
King  out.  ring  out,  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring:  the  fuller  minstrel  iu. 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  ami  Idood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  si)ite  ; 
King  iu  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

King  iu  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Kiug  out  the  thousand  Avars  of  old, 

King  iu  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  iu  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land  ; 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless ; 

Our  dearest  faith,  our  ghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All ;   within,  without ; 
The  power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye ; 
Xor  through  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun  : 

If  e'er,  when  faith  had  fallen  asleeji, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  iu  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  brc.nst  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath,  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answered,  "I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  iu  doubt  and  fear: 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries. 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  nnm  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  through  nature,  moulding  men. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  setting  thou  :nt  fair. 

What  art  thou  then?     I  cannot  guess; 
But  though  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  difl'usivc  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less. 


(588 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POEfRY. 


My  lovo  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  viister  passion  now  ; 

Tlion<jh  mixed  with  God  and  Nainic  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  tliee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  hnt  ever  nij^h; 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  : 
I  prosper,  circled  with   thy   voice; 

I  shall  not  lost^  thee,  thuii;;li  1  die. 


TEAKS,  IDLE   TEAKS. 

l-uoM  "  The  Phincess." 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  ; 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  l()()king  on  the  happy  antnnin  iiclds, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a.  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld. 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  scjuare ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
Aud  sweet  as  those  by  helpless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;   deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  morel 


FROM  "THE   (iOLDEN   YEAR." 

We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all  things  move; 
The  Sun  Hies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun  ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheeled  in  her  elli|isi'; 
And  hunuin  things  retmning  on  themselves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

Ah,  thougli  the  times  when  some  new  thought  can 

bud 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore 
Have  ebb  aud  flow  comlitioniug  their  march, 
Aud  slow  and  sure  conies  up  the  golden  year, — 


When  wealth  no  nion?  shall  rest  in  mounded  lieajis, 

Hut  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 

111   iii.iny  sfifanis  to  fiittcti   lower  lands, 

And  light  sliail  s|ncad,  and   man  be  liker  man. 

Through  all  the  seasons  of  the  golden  year. 

Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  '    wrens  be  wrens  ? 
If  all  the  w<nld  wens  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year.' 

Fly,  happj',  happy  sails,  and  bear  the  Press — 
Fly,  happy  with  the  mi.ssion  of  the  Cross; 
Knit  land  to  land,  aud,  blowing  havenward, 
With  silks,  aud  fruit.s,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll. 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

15ut  we  grow  old.      Ah,  when  shall  all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  peace 
Ijie  liice  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart   the  sea. 
Thrcjiiiih  all  the  circle  of  the  "ulden  vear? 


Iamc5  CjauLiasrii)  |3cvl\ius. 

AMERICAN. 

Perkins  (1810-1S40),  a  iiativi'  of  Boston,  was  bred  to 
mercantile  pursuits,  but  not  liiulinii'  tlieiu  congenial,  went 
to  Cincinnati  and  studied  law.  Tliis  lie  forsook  for  lit- 
erature, edited  various  publications,  and  contributed  to 
reviews  and  luiigazines.  lie  liiially  accepted  the  offlcc 
of  minister-at-hirgo  in  Cincinnati,  aud  gave  a  practical 
direction  to  the  charities  of  tiie  city,  lie  was  the  lirsl 
President  of  the  Cincinnati  Historical  Society  (1844). 
Of  a  highly  sensitive  teinperament,  he  was  thrown  into 
a  state  of  nervous  agitation  by  the  supposed  loss  of  his 
ciiildreu,  and,  wiiilc  thus  depressed,  leaped  from  a  ferry- 
boat into  the  river,  and  was  drowned. 


ON   LAKE   MICHIGAN. 

Sink  to  my  heart,  bright  e\ening  .skies! 

Yc^  M  aves  that  round  me  roll, 
With  all  your  gidden,  crimson  dyes; 

Sink  «leep  into  my  soul  I 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars, — that  eDiue 

So  silently  at  even. 
To  make  this  world  awhile  your  home, 

And  bring  us  nearer  he.aven, — 
Sjieak  to  my  spirit's  listening  ear, 

Willi  your  calm  tones  of  beauty, 
And  to  my  darkened  mind  make  clear 

My  errors  and  my  duty. 


JAMES  HANDASYD  PERKINS.— THEODORE  PARKER. 


689 


Sink  to  my  heart,  sweet  eveuiug  skies! 

Ye  darkeuiug  waves  that  roll 
Aroiiiul  me, — ye  departing  dyes, — 

Sink  to  my  inmost  soul ! 
Teach  to  my  heart  of  hearts  the  truth. 

Unknown,  though  known  so  well, 
That  in  each  feeling,  act,  and  thought 

God  works  by  miracle. 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars,  that  come 

So  quietly  at  even. 
Teach  me  to  use  this  world,  my  home. 

So  as  to  make  it  heaven ! 


THE   UPRIGHT   SOUL. 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid, 
A  noble  woman,  true  and  pure. 

Who  in  the  little  while  she  staj'ed 
Wrought  works  that  shall  endure. 

It  was  not  anything  she  said — 

It  was  not  anything  she  did : 
It  was  the  movement  of  her  head, — 

The  lifting  of  her  lid; — 

Her  little  motions  when  she  spoke, — 
The  presence  of  an  upright  soul, — 

The  living  light  that  from  her  broke, — 
It  was  the  perfect  whole  ! 

We  saw  it  in  her  floating  hair. 
We  saw  it  in  her  laughing  eye  ; 

For  every  look  and  feature  there 
Wrought  works  that  cannot  die. 

For  she  to  many  spirits  gave 

A  reverence  for  the  true,  the  pure. 

The  perfect, — that  has  power  to  save. 
And  make  the  doubting  sure. 

Slie  passed — she  went  to  other  lauds, 
She  kuew  not  of  the  work  she  did  ; 

The  wondrous  product  of  her  hands 
From  her  is  ever  hid. 

Forever,  did  I  say  ?     Oh,  no  I 

The  time  must  come  when  she  will  look 
Upon  her  pilgrimage  below  ; 

And  fiud  it  in  God's  book, — • 

That,  as  she  trod  her  path  aright, 

Power  from  her  very  garments  stole; 
44 


For  such  is  the  mysterious  might 
God  grants  the  upright  soul. 

A  deed,  a  word,  mw  careless  rest, 

A  simple  tiionglit,  a  common  feeling, 

If  He  be  present  in  the  breast, 
Has  from  Him  powers  of  healing. 

Go,  maiden,  with  thy  golden  tresses. 
Thine  azure  eye  and  changing  cheek. 

Go,  and  forget  the  one  who  blesses 
Thy  presence  through  the  week ; — 

Forget  him :    he  will  not  forget. 
But  strive  to  live  and  testify 

Thy  goodness,  when  Earth's  sun  has  set. 
And  Time  itself  rolled  by. 


i^ljcoborc  |3arl\cr. 


Known  rather  as  a  preacher  than  a  poet,  Parker  (1810- 
1800)  gave  evidence  of  rich  poetic  sensibility  not  only  in 
his  discourses  but  in  some  few  poems  that  he  left.  He 
was  a  native  of  Lexington,  Mass.,  passed  a  year  at  Har- 
vard College,  and  entered  the  Cambridge  Divinity  School 
in  1834.  He  was  a  great  linguist,  an  ardent  reformer,  and 
one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  the  advocates  of  a  simple 
theism  in  religion.  His  large  collection  of  books — over 
1.3,000  volumes — w.as  given  by  him  to  the  Boston  Public 
Library'. 


THREE   SONNETS. 

I.   THE   WAY,  THE   TRUTH,  THE   LIFE. 

O  Thou  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of  men. 

Who  once  appear'dst  in  humblest  guise  below, 

Sin  to  rebuke,  to  break  the  captive's  chain. 

To  call  thy  brethren  forth  from  want  and  woe ! — 

Thee  would  I  sing.     Tiiy  truth  is  still  the  light 

Which  guides  the  nations  groping  on  their  way. 

Stumbling  and  falling  in  disastrous  night. 

Yet  hoping  ever  for  the  perfect  day. 

Yes,  thou  art  still  the  life  ;   thou  art  the  way 

Tlie  holiest  know, — light,  life,  and  way  of  heaven  ; 

And  they  who  dearest  hope  and  deepest  pray 

Toil  by  the  truth,  life,  way,  that  thou  hast  given  ; 

And  in  thy  name  aspiring  mortals  trust 

To  uplift  their  bleeding  brothers  from  the  dust. 

II.    THE    SAVIOUR'S   GOSPEL. 

O  Brother,  who  for  us  didst  meekly  wear 

The  crowu  of  thorns  about  thy  radiant  brow, — 


690 


CYCLOPMDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


What  jjospel  from  the  Father  didst  thou  bear, 
Our  hearts  to  cheer,  uiaking  us  happy  now  ? 
"  'Tis  this  alone,"  the  immortal  Saviour  cries : 
"  To  lill  thy  lieart  with  ever-active  love, — 
Love  for  tlie  wicked  as  in  sin  he  lies, 
Love  for  thy  brother  here,  thy  God  above, — 
Aiul  thus  to  find  thy  earthly,  heavenly  prize. 
Fear  nothing  ill ;  'twill  vanish  in  its  day  : 
Live  for  the  good,  taking  the  ill  thou  nnist ; 
Toil  with  thy  might  ;    with  nianlj'  labor  pray; 
Living  and  loving,  learn  thy  God  to  trust, 
And  he  will  shed  upon  thy  soul  the  blessings  of  the 
just." 

III.    TIIK    HIGHEIl   GOOD. 

Fathei",  I  will  not  a.sk  for  wealth  or  fame. 
Though  once  they   would  have  joyed  my  carnal 

sense  : 
I  shudder  not  to  bear  a  hated  name, 
Wanting  all  wealth,  myself  my  sole  defence. 
Hut  give  me,  Lord,  eyes  to  behold  the  truth  ; 
A  seeing  sense  that  knows  the  eternal  right ; 
A  heart  with  pity  tilled,  and  gentlest  ruth  ; 
A  manly  faith  that  makes  all  darkness  light ; 
Give  me  the  power  to  labor  for  mankind  ; 
Make  me  the  mouth  of  such  as  cannot  speak  ; 
Eyes  let  me  be  to  groping  men,  and  blind ; 
A  conscience  to  the  base ;  and  to  the  weak 
Let  me  be  hands  and  feet ;  and  to  the  foolish,  mind ; 
And  lead  still  farther  on  such  as  thy  kingdom  seek. 


HYMN. 

In  darker  days  and  nights  of  storm. 
Men  knew  thee  but  to  fear  thy  form  ; 
And  in  the  reddest  lightning  saw 
Thine  arm  avenge  insulted  law. 

In  brighter  days  we  read  thy  love 
In  flowers  beneath,  in  stars  above ; 
And  in  the  track  of  every  storm 
Behold  thy  beauty's  rainbow  form. 

And  in  the  reddest  lightning's  path 
We  see  no  vestiges  of  wrath. 
But  always  wisdom,- — perfect  love. 
From  flowers  beneath  to  stars  above. 

See,  from  on  high  sweet  influence  rains 
On  palace,  cottage,  mountains,  plains  ; 
No  hour  of  wrath  shall  mortal  fear, 
For  thou,  the  God  of  Love,  art  here. 


lllillis  (O^anlorb  Clark. 


Clark  (1810-1841)  was  regarded  as  quite  a  poetical  ce- 
lebrity iu  his  day.  IIu  was  twin  brotlier  of  Lewis  Gay- 
lord  Clark,  editor  Un-  nearly  thirty  years  of  the  Kniclier- 
hoc.kcr  Mafjazinv,  and  who  died  in  1873— a  deliglitful  com- 
panion and  anuable  man,  whose  specialty  was  a  quick, 
discriminating  humor,  rising  often  into  wit.  Tiny  were 
born  at  Otiseo,  N.  Y.  Willis  settled  in  Philadelphia, 
where  he  edited  the  Gazette,  undL  wrote  poems,  a  complete 
edition  of  which  was  published  in  New  York  in  1847. 
He  also  contributed  a  scries  of  literary  miscellanies,  un- 
der the  title  of  "  Ollapodiana,"  to  his  brother's  magazine. 
These  were  collected  intoa  volume,  and  published  in  1844. 


"THEY  THAT  SEEK  ME  EARLY  SHALL  FIND 
ME." 

Come,  while  the  blossoms  of  thy  years  are  brightest. 

Thou  youthful  wanderer  iu  a  flowery  maze ; 
Come,  while  the  restless  heart  is  bounding  lightest, 

And  joy's  i)uro  sunbeam  trembles  in  thy  ways ; 
Come,  while  sweet  thoughts,  like  summer  buds  un- 
folding, 

Waken  rich  feelings  in  the  careless  breast; 
While  yet  thj'  hand,  the  ephemeral  wreath  is  holding. 

Come  and  secure  interminable  rest. 

Soon  will  the  freshness  of  thy  days  be  over, 

And  thy  free  buoyancy  of  soul  be  flown ; 
Pleasure  will  fold  her  wing — and  friend  and  lover 

Will  to  the  embraces  of  the  worm  have  gone  ! 
Those  who  now  love  thee  will  have  i>assed  forever — 

Their  looks  of  kindness  will  be  lost  to  thee; 
Thou  wilt  need  balm  to  heal  thj'  spirit's  fever, 

As  thy  sick  heart  broods  over  years  to  be! 

Come,  while  the  morning  of  tliy  life  is  glowing. 

Ere  the  dim  phantoms  thou  art  chasing  die; 
Ere  the  gay  spell,  which  earth  is  round  thee  throwing. 

Fades  like  the  crimson  from  a  sunset  sky. 
Life  is  but  shadows — save  a  promise  given 

That  lights  the  future  with  a  fadeless  ray; 
Come,  touch  the  sceptre — win  a  hope  iu  Heaven — 

And  turn  thy  spirit  from  this  world  away. 

Then  will  the  shadows  of  this  brief  existence 

Seem  airy  notliings  to  thine  ardent  soul — 
And,  shadowed  brightly  in  the  forward  distance, 

Will,  of  thj'  patient  race,  appear  the  goal ; 
Homo  of  the  weary,  where  in  glad  reposing. 

The  spirit  lingers  iu  unclouded  bliss. 
While  o'er  his  dust  the  curtained  grave  is  closing: — 

Who  would  not  early  choose  a  lot  like  this? 


JAMES  ALDBICH.— MARTIN  FABQUHAB   TUPPEB.—BOBEBT  MILLEB. 


G91 


3amcs  Qiihvid). 

AMERICAN. 
Aldrich  (1810-1856)  was  a  native  of  Suffolk  County, 
N.  Y.  He  engaged  early  in  mercantile  pursuits,  but  left 
them  for  literature,  and  was  employed  as  a  writer  for 
various  periodicals.  Gentle,  amiable,  and  refined,  he  was 
much  esteemed  sociallj',  as  well  as  for  his  delicate  wit 
and  keen  sense  of  humor. 


A  DEATH-BED. 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away, 

lu  statue-like  repose. 

Bnt  wheu  the  sun  in  all  his  state 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies. 
She  passed  through  Glory's  morning-gate, 

And  walked  in  Paradise. 


TO   ONE   FAR  AWAY. 

Swifter  far  than  swallow's  flight 
Homeward  o'er  the  twilight  lea, 

Swifter  than  the  morning  light, 
Flashing  o'er  the  pathless  sea, — 

Dearest !   in  the  lonely  night. 
Memory  flies  away  to  thee ! 

Stronger  fiir  thau  is  desire. 
Firm  as  truth  itself  can  be. 

Deeper  than  earth's  central  fire. 
Boundless  as  the  circling  sea, — 

Yet  as  mute  as  broken  lyre 
Is  my  love,  dear  wife,  for  thee ! 

Sweeter  far  than  miser's  gain. 
Or  than  note  of  fame  cau  be 

Unto  one  who  long  in  vain 
Treads  the  path  of  chivalry, 

Are  my  dreams,  iu  which  again 
My  fond  arms  encircle  thee ! 


fllartin  jTarquIjar  Supper. 

Tupper  was  born  in  London  in  1810,  and  had  a  collegi- 
ate education  at  Oxford.  He  tried  the  law,  but  gaveit 
up  for  literature.  He  wrote  "Proverbial  Philosophy," 
which  first  appeared  in  1838;  but  supplements  to  it  ap- 
peared in  1843  and  1867.    Its  success  was  remarkable. 


In  the  United  States  alone  the  sale  of  the  first  two  series 
reached  five  hundred  thousand  copies.  Suddenly  the 
wind  shifted,  and  Tupper  was  as  unjustly  depreciated  as 
-he  had  been  praised.  He  became  the  butt  of  the  news- 
papers, English  and  American.  He  made  two  visits  to 
the  United  States.  W.  C.  Bryant,  the  poet,  stood  his  firm 
friend  to  the  last.  We  give  one  of  the  best  of  the  pas- 
sages we  find  in  "Proverbial  Philosophy." 


CARPE   DIEM. 

Oh,  bright  presence  of  To-day,  let  me  wrestle  witli 

thee,  gracious  angel ! 
I  will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me ;  bless 

me,  then.  To-day! 
Oh,  sweet  garden  of  To-day,  let  me  gather  of  thee, 

precious  Eden ; 
I  have  stolen  bitter  knowledge,  give  me  fruits  of 

life  To-day. 
Oh,  true  temple  of  To-day,  let  me  worship  iu  thee, 

glorious  Zion ; 
I  fiud  none  other  place  nor  time  than  where  I  am 

To-day. 
Oh,  living  rescue  of  To-day,  let  me  run  into  thee, 

ark  of  refuge ; 
I  see  none  other  hope  uor  chance,  but  standeth  in 

To-day. 
Oh,  rich  banquet  of  To-day,  let  me  feast  upou  thee, 

saving  manna ! 
I  have  none  other  food  nor  store  but  daily  bread 

To-day. 


llobcrt  illillcr. 

A  native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland,  and  educated  for  the 
legal  profession,  Miller  (1810-1834)  contributed  verses  to 
the  periodicals,  but  did  not  live  to  collect  them  into  a 
volume.    He  did  not  reach  the  age  of  twenty-five. 


WHERE  ARE  THEY? 

The  loved  of  early  days. 

Where  are  they  ? — where  ? 
Not  on  the  shining  braes, 

The  mountains  bare  ; — 
Not  where  the  regal  streams 

Their  foam-bells  cast — 
Where  childhood's  time  of  dreams 

And  sunshine  passed: — 

Some  in  tlie  mart,  and  some 

In  stately  halls. 
With  the  ancestral  gloom 

Of  ancient  walls; 


692 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Soiuo  where  the  tempest  sweeps 

The  tlesort  waves ; 
Some  whore  the  myrtle  weeps 

On  Roman  graves! 

And  pale  young  fares  gleam 

With  solemn  eyes : 
Like  a  remembered  dream 

The  dead  arise ; 
lu  the  red  track  of  war, 

The  restless  sweep ; 
In  snnlit  graves  afar, 

The  loved  ones  sleep. 

The  braes  arc  diglit  Avith  dowers, 

The  monutain  streams 
Foam  past  nio  in  the  showers 

Of  sunny  gleams ; 
But  the  light  hearts  that  cast 

A  glory  there, 
In  the  rejoicing  past, 

Where  are  they  ? — -where  ? 


lllilliam  illiUcr. 

Miller  (1810-187:3)  was  a  native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland. 
At  sixteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  wood-turner,  and  be- 
came quite  an  accomplislicd  artist.  In  1803  he  publish- 
ed "Scottish  Nursery  Songs,  and  otlier  Poems,"  of  which 
Robert  Buchanan  says:  "I  can  scarcely  conceive  a  pe- 
riod when  Miller  will  be  forgotten  ;  certainly  not  until 
the  Scotch  Doric  is  obliterated,  and  the  lowly  nursery 
abolished  forever." 


WILLIE   WINKIE. 

Wee  Willie  Winkie 

Rins  through  the  tonn, 
Up-stairs  and  doun-stairs 

In  his  nicht-gonn  ; 
Tirling  at  the  window, 

Crying  at  the  lock, 
"Are  the  weans  in  their  bed. 

For  it's  uow  ten  o'clock?" 

"Iley,  Willie  Winkie, 

Are  ye  com  in'  ben  ? 
Tlie  cat's  singing  gay  thrums 

To  the  sleeping  hen  ; 
The  dog's  speldered  on  the  floor. 

And  disna  gie  a  cheep  : 
I3nt  here's  a  waukrife  laddie 

That  wiuna  fa'  asleep." 


Onything  but  sleep,  you  rogue ! 

Glowering  like  tiie  moon. 
Rattling  in  an  airn  jug 

Wi'  an  airn  spoon, 
Rninblin',  tnniblin',  round   about, 

Crawing  like  a  cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what, 

Wauknin'  sleeping  folk. 

Iley,  Willie  Winkie — 

The  wean's  in  a  creel ! 
Wambliu'  aff  a  body's  kuee 

Like  a  very  eel ; 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  Ing, 

Rav'llin'  a'  her  thrums — 
Hey,  Willie  W^inkie — 

See,  there  he  comes  I 

AVearied  is  the  niither 

That  has  a  stoorie  wean, 
A  wee  stumpie  stousie, 

That  eanna  rin  his  lane. 
That  has  a  battle  aye  wi'  sleep, 

Before  he'll  close  an  e'e — 
But  a  kiss  frae  aff  his  rosy  lips 

Gies  strength  anew  to  lue. 


f)cnrji  ^Ifoii). 

Alford  (1810-1871)  wns  a  nutive  of  London.  lie  was 
the  author  of  "  Poems  and  Poetical  Fragments"  (18:^1) ; 
"The  School  of  the  Heart,  and  other  Poems"  (1835); 
also  of  many  minor  pieces  in  verse.  Ills  Life,  written 
by  his  widow,  appeared  in  1873.  As  a  divine  and  a  schol- 
ar his  reputation  was  high. 


A  MEMORY. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  saw  the  light, 
The  smoothest  stream  that  ever  wandered  by. 
The  fairest  star  upon  the  brow  of  uight. 
Joying  and  sparkling  from  his  sphere  on  high. 
The  softest  glances  of  the  stockdove's  eye, 
The  lily  pure,  the  mary-bnd  gold-bright, 
The  gush  of  song  that  floodeth  all  the  sky 
From  the  dear  flutterer  mounted  out  of  sight,— 
Arc  not  so  pleasure-stirring  to  the  thought. 
Not  to  the  wounded  sonl  so  full  of  balm. 
As  one  frail  glimpse,  by  painful  straining  caught 
Along  the  past's  deep  mist  enfolded  calm, 
Of  that  sweet  face,  not  visibly  defined. 
But  rising  clearlv  on  the  inner  uiiud. 


ISAAC  MCLELLAN.— ROBERT  HINCKLEY  MESSINGER. 


693 


Isaac  iUcCcllau. 

AMERICAN. 

Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1810,  McLellan  was  edu- 
cated at  Bowdoin  College,  where  lie  was  graduated  in 
1826.  He  studied  law  in  Boston,  but  never  engaged  ae- 
tively  in  the  profession.  In  1830  he  published  "  The  Fall 
of  the  Indian;"  in  1833,  "The  Year,  and  other  Poems;" 
and  in  184-4  a  third  volume  of  miscellaneous  pieces.  lie 
has  been  for  some  years  a  resident  of  Long  Island. 


THE   NOTES   OF   THE   BIRDS. 

Well  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gayly^  iu  .spring's  budding  Avoods, 
And  iu  the  thickets,  aud  green,  quiet  lianuts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  summer-time, 
And  in  red  autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pained  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  aud  weighed  dow' u 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life, — 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  niouru'st  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far  distant  laud, 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
Tlie  gayest  aud  the  gravest,  all  alike, — 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  aud  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest-birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir!      The  unquiet  liuch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  niourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half-hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dog-wood's  snowy  flowers. 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  spring  the  robin  comes. 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  withered  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stemmed  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  lier  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  aud  yellow  in  the  harvest-field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves, — then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song- 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  cornfield's  edge. — Lone  whip-poor-will. 
There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 


Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  iu  the  wilderness  of  woods. 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still. 


Uobcvt  Cjiufklcn  iUcssinoicr. 


Messinger  (1811-1874:),  a  native  of  Boston,  Mass.,  was 
educated  at  the  Latin  and  High  Schools.  He  entered 
the  counting-house  of  his  brother,  a  New  York  mer- 
chant, and  was  associated  with  him  several  years.  Hav- 
ing literary  and  artistic  tastes,  he  became  a  man  of  va- 
ried accomplishments,  and  a  favorite  in  the  choicest  so- 
ciety. His  often-quoted  poem,  "Give  Me  the  Old,"  ap- 
peared first  in  the  New  York  American  of  April  2Cth,  1838, 
then  edited  by  Charles  King,  afterward  President  of  Co- 
lumbia College.  In  all  American  collections,  except  tlic 
present,  the  i^oem  is  marred  hy  the  omission  of  the  last 
four  lines,  which  we  have  restored.  Messinger  never 
aspired  to  be  more  than  an  amateur  in  poetry.  He  nev- 
er published  a  volume,  and  his  verses  were  all  put  fortii 
anonymously.  The  friends  to  whom  lie  refers  in  the 
poem  we  quote  were  Walter  and  William  Wcyman,  of 
New  York;  Captain  Frederick  A.Smith,  of  the  United 
States  Corps  of  Engineers;  and  Stuart  Maitland,  of  Scot- 
land, i\\c"  alter  ego,^''  who  resided  at  the  time  in  New  York. 


A  WINTER   WISH. 

"  Old  wiue  to  tiiiiik,  old  wood  to  burn,  old  books  to  read,  aud 
old  friends  to  converse  \\\i\\."—Alfonzo  of  Castile. 

Old  wine  to  drink  ! 
Ay.  give  the  slippery  juice, 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose, 

Within  the  tun  ; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sitnny-sided  Teneritfe, 

And  ripened  'ueath  the  blink 
Of  India's  sun ! 
Peat-whiskey  hot, 
Tempei'ed  with  well-boiled  water ! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter, — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  Engli-sh  porter ! 

Old  wood  to  burn  ! 
Ay,  bring  the  liill-side  l>eech, 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 

And  ravens  croak ; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet! 
Bring,  too,  a  clump  of  fragrant  jieat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern ! 
The  knotted  oak! 


694 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  fagot  too,  pciliap, 
Whose  blight  Uaiiio  daucing,  viukiug, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  diiiikiiig ; 

While  th(3  oozing  sap 
Shall  uiakc  sweet  luusic  to  our  thinking! 

Old  books  to  read ! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum-writ, 

Time-honored  tomes! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumb»5d  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore — 
The  Avell-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes;  — 
(Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Auacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  riautus,  Terence  lie,—) 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  miustrelsie; 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay, 
And  Gervase  Markham's  A'euerie ! 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holj'c  Booke  by  Avhich  we  live  and  die! 

Old  friends  to  talk ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true. 

So  rarely  found ! 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mouutain  walk ! 

Bring  Walter  good, 
AVith  soulful  Fred,  and  learned  Will; 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 

For  every  mood!) — ■ 

These  add  a  bouquet  to  my  wine! 

Tliese  adtl  a  sparkle  to  my  i)ine ! 

If  these  I  tine,' 

Can  books,  or  fire,  or  wine  be  good? 


JranccG  ^nnc  Kcmblc. 

A  daugliter  of  Chiides  Keniblc,  the  actor,  and  niece 
of  the  more  distinguislicd  Mrs.  Siddons  iuul  John  Pliilip 
Kcmblc,  Fanny,  as  she  was  called,  was  born  in  London 
in  1811.  She  became  an  actress,  and  made  quite  a  hit 
as  Bhmca  in  Milnian's  "Fazio;"  also  in  the  Julia  of 
Knowles'.s  "  Hunchback."  In  1833  she  visited  the  United 
States  with  her  fatlier,  and  brought  out  these  and  otlier 
plays  at  the  principal  theatres  with  success.  She  mar- 
ried Pierce  Butler,  of  Philadelphia;  but  in  1849  was  di- 
vorced, and  resumed  her  family  name.     She  has  written 

>  111  Scotch,  to  tine  is  to  lose.  See  its  use  by  Richard  Gall, 
page  331. 


plan's,  poems,  and  books  of  travel;  and  late  in  life  an 
interesting  account  of  her  own  career  and  varied  expe- 
riences. She  has  shown  superior  talents  in  her  varied 
productions. 


LINES  WKITTKN    IN  LONDON. 

Struggle  not  with  tliy  life! — the  heavy  doom 
Resist  not,  it  will  bow  thee  like  a  slave  : 

Strive  not!   thou  shalt  not  conquer;   to  thy  tomb 
Tlion  shalt  go  crushed  and  ground,  though  ne'er 
so  brave. 

Complain  not  of  thy  life! — for  what  art  thou 
More  than  thy  fellows,  that  thou   should'st  uot 
weep  ? 

Brave  thoughts  still  lodge  beneath  a  furrowed  brow. 
And  the  way-wearied  have  the  sweetest  sleep. 

Marvel  uot  at  thy  life ! — patience  shall  see 
The  perfect  work  of  wisdom  to  her  given  ; 

Hold  fast  thy  soul  through  this  high  mystery, 
And  it  shall  lead  thee  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


WRITTEN   AFTER   LEAVING  WEST   POINT. 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  uot  too  fast,  love  ! 
Those  happy  hours,  when  down  the  mountain-side 
AVc  saw  the  rosy  mists  of  morning  glide. 
And,  hand-in-hand,  went  forth  upon  our  way. 
Full  of  young  life  and  hope,  to  meet  the  day. 

The  hours  arc  past,  love. 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Tlio.se  sunny  hours,  when  from  the  mid-day  heat 
We  sought  the  water-fall  with  loitering  feet. 
And  o'er  the  rocks  that  lock  the  gleaming  i)ool 
Crept  down  into  its  depths,  .so  dark  and  cool. 

The  hours  are  past,  love; 
Oh,  lied  they  not  too  fast,  love  ! 
Tho.so  solemn  houns,  when  through  the  violet  sky, 

Alike  without  a  cloud,  without  a  ray, 
Tiie  round  red  autumn  moon  came  glowingly, 
While  o'er  the  leaden  waves  our  boat  made  way. 

Tlie  hours  arc  past,  love  ; 
Oh,  tied  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  blessdd  hours  when  the  bright  day  was  past. 

And  in  the  world  we  seemed  to  wake  alone, 

AVhen  heart  to  heart  beat  throbbingly  and  fast. 

And  love  was  melting  our  two  souls  in  one. 


AETHUR  HENRY  HALLAM. —  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


695 


^rtljur  t)cnrii  tjallam. 

Ilallam,  who  was  born  in  London  in  1811,  and  died  in 
Vienna  in  ISoo,  was  a  son  of  the  eminent  liistorian,  Hen- 
ry Halhini.  He  distint^uished  himself  at  Eton,  and  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge;  and  was  the  author  of  sev- 
eral essays  and  poems  full  of  promise,  wliicli  were  col- 
lected and  jiublished  by  his  father  in  1834.  Betrothed  to 
Emily  Tennyson,  a  sister  of  the  three  poets,  he  was  the 
subject  of  Alfred's  "  In  Memoriani."  He  had  been  one 
of  Coleridge's  favorites,  and  at  Abbotsford  became  known 
to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Loekhart  says  of  him:  "Mr.  Hal- 
lam  had  with  him  his  son  Arthur,  a  young  gentleman  of 
extraordinary  ability,  and  as  modest  as  able."  Politics, 
literature,  philosophy,  he  discussed  with  a  metaphysical 
subtlety  marvellous  in  one  so  young.  His  fatlier,  who 
was  devotedly  attached  to  him,  and  in  whose  arms  he 
died,  said,  "He  seemed  to  tread  the  earth  as  a  spirit 
from  some  better  world."  Arthur  liad  a  brother,  Henry 
Fitzmaurice  Hallam,  who  also  died  young. 


SONNETS. 

0  blessing  and  deliglit  of  my  young  heart, 
Maiden,  who  wast  .so  lovely  and  .so  pure, 

1  know  not  iu  what  region  now  thou  art, 
Or  whom  thy  gentle  eyes  in  joy  assure. 

Not  the  old  hills  on  which  we  gazed  together. 
Not  the  old  faces  which  we  both  did  love, 
Not  the  old  books  whence  knowledge  we  did  gather, 
Not  these,  l)nt  others  now  thy  fancies  move. 
I  would  I  knew  thy  present  hopes  and  fears, 
All  thy  companions  with  their  pleasant  talk. 
And  the  clear  aspect  v.hich  thy  dwelling  wears; 
So,  though  in  body  absent,  I  miglit  walk 
With  thee  in  thought  and  feeling,  till  thy  mood 
I)i<l  sanctify  my  own  to  peerless  good. 


Still  here — thou  hast  not  faded  from  my  sight. 
Nor  all  the  music  round  thee  from  mine  ear: 
Still  grace  flows  from  thee  to  the  briglitening  year. 
And  all  the  birds  laugh  out  in  wealthier  light. 
Still  am  I  free  to  close  my  liappy  eyes, 
And  paint  upon  the  gloom  tliy  mimic  form, 
That  soft  white  neck;  that  cheek  in  beauty  V\'arm, 
And  brow  half  hidden  where  yon  ringlet  lies: 
With,  oh!   the  blissful  knowledge  all  the  while 
That  I  can  lift  at  will  each  cnrvdd  lid. 
And  my  fair  dream  mo.st  highly  realize. 
Tlie  time  will  come,  'tis  ushered  by  my  sighs. 
When  I  may  shape  the  dark,  but  vainly  bid 
True  light  restore  that  form,  tliose  looks,  that  smile. 


The  garden  trees  are  busy  with  tlie  shower 
Tliat  fell  ere  sunset:   now  methinks  they  talk. 


Ijowly  and  sweetly  as  befits  the  honr, 
One  to  another  down  the  grassy  walk. 
Hark!   the  laburnum  from  Iiis  o])ening  flower. 
This  cherry  creeper  greets  in  whisper  ligl)t, 
While  the  grim  fir,  rejoicing  iu  the  night. 
Hoarse  mutters  to  the  murmuring  sycamore. 
Wliat  shall  I  deem  their  conver.se  ?    Would  they  hail 
The  wild  gray  light  that  fronts  yon  massive  cloud. 
Or  the  half  bow,  rising  like  the  pillared  fire? 
Or  are  they  sighing  faintly  for  desire 
That  with  May  dawn  tlieir  leaves  may  be  o'erflowed. 
And  dews  about  their  feet  may  never  fail  ? 


TO  ALFKED    TENNYSON. 

Alfred,  I  would  that  you  beheld  me  now. 

Sitting  beneath  a  mossy,  ivied  wall 

On  a  quaint  bench,  which  to  that  structure  old 

Wiuds  an  accordant  curve.     Above  my  head 

Dilates  immeasurable  a  wild  of  leaves. 

Seeming  received  into  the  blue  expanse 

That  vaults  this  summer  noon.     Before  me  lies 

A  lawn  of  English  verdure,  smooth  and  bright, 

Mottled  with  fainter  hues  of  early  hay. 

Whose  fragrance,  blended  with  the  rose-perfume 

From  that  white  flowering  bush,  invites  my  sense 

To  a  delicious  madness, — and  faint  thoughts 

Of  childish  years  are  borne  into  my  brain 

By  unforgotten  ardors  waking  now. 

Beyond,  a  gentle  slope  leads  into  shade 

Of  mighty  trees,  to  bend  whose  eminent  crown 

Is  the  prime  labor  of  the  pettish  winds, 

Tiiat  now  in  lighter  mood  are  twirling  leaves 

Over  ray  feet,  or  hurrying  butterflies, 

And  the  gay  humming  things  that  summer  loves, 

Tlirough  the  warm  air,  or  altering  the  bound 

W^here  yon  elm-shadows  iu  majestic  line 

Divide  dominion  with  the  abundant  light. 


lUilliam  illakejjcacc  (J^ljackcraji. 

Thackeray  (J811-1863),  eminent  as  a  novelist  and  a 
humorist,  was  a  native  of  Calcutta.  With  his  widowed 
mother  he  came  to  England  iu  1817,  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  subsequently  studied  at 
Weimar.  He  inherited  a  small  fortune,  but  lost  most 
of  it  in  bad  investments.  He  was  also  lavish  in  dona- 
tions to  the  needy.  At  one  time  he  gave  the  impecuni- 
ous Dr.  Maginn  five  hundred  pounds.  Thackeray  first 
became  known  through  his  contributions  to  Fra}ier\'< 
Jldfjazlne,  under  the  pseudonymc  of  Michael  Angelo  Tit- 
marsh.  He  had  first  aspired  to  be  an  artist,  but  his  di'aw- 
ings  lack  the  right  touch.    In  1847  appeared  his  novel  of 


696 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Viuiity  Fair,"  and  this  was  followed  by  others  equally 
])opuhir.  In  1851  he  appeared  as  a  lecturer,  and  in  1855- 
'5(5  repeated  his  lectures  successfully  in  the  United  States 
and  Canada.  For  two  years  (18(J0-'02)  he  conducted  The 
Cuni/iill  Magazine ;  but  his  many  literary  schemes  were 
frustrated  by  his  sudden  death  in  1803.  Thackeray  is  en- 
titled to  distinct  fame  as  a  poet.  In  some  of  his  poems 
he  shows  genuine  power,  tenderness,  and  pathos.  He 
was  a  man  of  noble  impulses,  benevolent,  charitable,  and 
affectionate— a  generous  foe  and  a  devoted  friend.  lie 
died  in  bed,  alone  and  unseen,  struggling,  as  it  appeared, 
with  a  violent  spasmodic  attack  which  had  caused  an 
effusion  on  the  brain. 


LITTLE   BILLHL. 

There  \vere  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 

Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea, 
But  first  -with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 

And  pickled  pork  tbcy  loaded  sbe. 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  gnzzling  Jimmy, 
And  tlie  youngest,  be  was  little  Billee. 

Now,  wbeu  tbey  got  as  far  as  the  equator. 
They'd  nothing  loft  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  gnzzling  Jimmy, 

"I  am  extremely  huugarec." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  gnzzling  Jimmy, 

"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  gnzzling  Jimmy, 
"With  oue  another  we  shouldn't  agree! 

There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he." 

"  Oh,  Billy,  we're  going  to  kill  and  oat  you. 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 

When  Billy  received  this  information. 
He  used  his  pockct-liandkorchie. 

"First  let  me  say  my  catechism. 

Which  my  poor  mammy  tanglit  to  mc." 

"Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant  mast. 
And  down  ho  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment. 
When  up  he  jumps:  "There's  land  I  .see: 

"  Jerusalem  and  Madaga.scar, 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee : 
There'.s  the  British  Hag  .a-ridiTig  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.C.B." 


But  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  admiral's. 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  Hogged  Jimmee; 

But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  liim 
The  captain  of  a  seventy-three. 


AT  THE   CHURCH   GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not. 
Yet,  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover. 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout. 

And  noise  and  humming; 
They've  hushed  the  minster  bell, 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell — 

She's  coming — coming! 

My  lady  comes  at  last. 
Timid  and  stepping  fast. 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast ; 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  pnst- 

May  heaven  go  with  lier! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  sniiit, 
I'our  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer, 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  snlVer  mo  to  pace 
Kound  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait., 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


THE   BALLAD   OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Kne  Nouve  des  Petits  Champs  its  nanuj  is — 

Tiio  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid. 

But  still  in  comfortable  case; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended. 

To  cat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


WILLI  J  M  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


697 


This  Bouillabaisse  a  uoble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

Tliat  Greenwich  never  could  outdo: 
Greeu  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saliron. 

Soles,  ouious,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  : 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern. 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  'tis; 

And  true  philosophers,  niethinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Xor  hud  a  fsist-day  too  atHicting 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before ; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  f 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace: 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table. 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter — nothiug's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  Tp:rre,  waiter,  pray  ?" 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner — 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race!"' 
"W^hat  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse?" 

"O,  oui.  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?" 
"Tell  me  a  good  one." — "That  I  can,  sir: 

The  Ciiambertiu  with  yellow  seal." — 
"  So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  siuk  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook  ; 
Ah !   vanished  many  a  busy  year  is. 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  luogki, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 


AVhcre  are  you,  old  companions  trusty. 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  Avaiter!  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  i)laces, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

Thei'e's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  uuuriage; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage, 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord!  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing. 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me  !   how  quick  the  days  are  flitting ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting. 

In  this  same  place — but  not  aloue. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  foudly  up. 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me, 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

I  driuk  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes: 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 


THE   MAHOGANY-TKEE. 

Christmas  is  here:    winds  whistle  shrill, 

Icy  and  chill,  little  care  we: 
Little  we  fear  weatlier  without. 

Sheltered  about  the  Mahogany-tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs,  birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang  in  its  bloom;   night-birds  are  we: 

Here  we  carouse,  singing  like  them. 

Perched  round  the  stem  of  the  jolly  old  tree, 

Here  let  us  sport,  boys,  as  we  sit ; 

Laughter  and  wit  flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short — when  we  are  gone. 

Let  them  sing  on,  round  the  old  tree. 


698 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Evenings  wo  knew,  happy  as  this; 

Faces  we  luiss,  pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true,  gentle  and  jnst, 

Peace  to  yonr  dnst!   wo  sing  ronnd  the  tree. 

Care,  lilco  a  dnn,  lurks  at  the  gate ; 

Let  the  dog  wait;    happy  we'll  be! 
Drink,  every  one;   pile  up  the  coals. 

Fill  the  red  bowls,  round  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — Friend,  art  afraid  ? 

Spirits  are  laid  in  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up;   eini)ty  it  yet; 

Let  us  forget,  round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone !    Life  and  its  ills. 
Duns  and  their  bills,  bid  we  to  flee. 

Come  with  the  dawn,  blue-devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night,  round  the  old  tree. 


^la'anbcr  illatlagan. 

Macliiiiun  was  born  at  Perth,  Scotland,  April  ocl,  1811. 
He  attended  school  in  Edhiburj^h,  and  at  twelve  j'ears  of 
age  was  apprenticed  to  a  plumber.  In  1839  he  contrib- 
uted pieces  to  the  Literary  Journal,  and  his  poetical  tal- 
ents were  recognized  by  John  "Wilson,  James  Hogg,  and 
Lord  Jeffrey.  Volumes  of  poems  from  his  pen  appeared 
in  1841,  18.54,  and  1803;  and  in  1871  he  was  enabled  to 
])ublish,  in  an  illustrated  (luarto,  "Balmoral;  Songs  of 
the  Highlands,  and  other  Poems.'' 


"DINNA  YE  HEAR   IT?" 

'Jlid  the  thunder  of  battle,  the  groans  of  the  dying, 

The  wail  of  weak  women,  the  shouts  of  brave  men, 

A  poor  Highland  niaidcu  sat  sobbing  and  sighing, 

Asshe  longed  for  the  i)eace  of  her  dear  native  glen. 

But  there  came  a  glad  voice  to  the  ear  of  her  heart, 

The  foes  of  auld  Scotland  forever  will  fear  it: 
"We  are  saved!   wo   are   saved!"  cried  the  brave 
Highland  maid,  [it?" 

'"Tis  the  Highlander.s'  slogan  !    Oh  dinna  ye  hear 
Dinna  ye  bear  it?  dinna  ye  hear  it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,  dinna  ye  hear  it? 
High  o'er  the  battle's  din,  hail  it  and  cheer  it! 
'Tis  the  Highlanders'  slogan  !    Oh,  dinna  ye  hear 
it? 

A  moment  the  tempest  of  battle  was  hushed. 
Put  no  tidings  of  help  did  that  moment  reveal  ; 

Again  to  their  shot-shattered  ramparts  they  rushed; 
Again  roared  the  cauuou,  agaiu  flashed  the  steel ! 


Still  llu!  Highland  maid  cried,  "Let  us  welcome  the 
brave ! 
The  death-mists  are  thick,  but  their  claymores  will 
clear  it!  [ii'g!' 

The  war-pipes  are  pealing  'The  Campbells  are  com- 
They  are  charging  and  cheering!     Oh  dinna  ye 
hear  it  ?" 
Diniui  ye  hear  it?   dinna  yo  hear  it  ?  etc. 

Ye  heroes  of  Lucknow,  fame  crowns  yon  with  glory  ; 
Love  welcomes  you  home  with  glad  songs  in  your 
praise ; 
And  br.ave  Jessie  Brown,  with  her  soul-stirring  story. 

Forever  will  live  in  the  Highlanders'  lays. 
Long  life  to  our  Queen,  and  the  hearts  who  defend 
her ! 
Success  to  our  flag !   ami  when  danger  is  near  it, 
May  our  pii)es  be  heard  i)laying  "  The  Campbells  are 
coming!" 
And  an  angel  voice  crying, "  Oh  dinna  ye  hear  it  ?" 
Dinna  ye  hear  it?   dinna  ye  bear  it?  etc. 


Bartljolomciu  Simmoup. 

Simmons  (circa  1S11-185U)  was  born  in  Kihvorth,  Coun- 
ty Cork,  Ireland.  He  obtained  a  situatiou  in  the  Excise 
Oftice  in  London,  which  he  held  till  his  death.  He  con- 
tributed, between  18o8  and  1848,  some  spirited  poems  to 
BlackwuocT a  Maqazinc,  the  editor  of  which  says,  "Sim- 
mons on  the  theme  of  Nai^oleon  excels  all  our  great 
poets.  Byron's  lines  on  that  subject  are  bad ;  Scott's, 
poor ;  Wordsworth's,  weak.  Lockhart  and  Simmons  may 
be  bracketed  as  equal ;  theirs  are  good,  rich,  strong." 


SONG    OF  A  RETURNED  EXILE. 
I. 
Sweet  Corrin  !'   how  softly  the  evening  light  goes, 
Fading  far  o'er  thy  summit  from  ruby  to  rose, 
As  if  loth  to  deprive  the  deep  woodlands  below 
Of  the  love  and  the  glory  they  drink  in  its  glow: 
O  home-looking  Hill!   how  beloved  dost  thou  rise 
Once  more  to  my  sight  through  the  shadowy  skies ! 
Shielding  still,  iu  thy  sheltering  grandeur  unfurled, 
The  landscape  to  me  that  so  long  Avas  tho  world. 
Fair  evening — blessed  evening!   one  moment  delay 
Till  tho  tears  of  the  pilgrim  are  dried  in  thy  ray — 
Till  he  feels  that  through  years  of  long  absence  not 

one 
Of  his  friends — tho  loue  rock  and  gray  ruin,  is  gone. 

■  Tlic  |)ictuies(|ne  numnlaiii  ofCurrin  is  the  ferniiii.itiou  of  a 
Idii;:  iiiiijrc  of  bills  wliiih  encloses  the  vnllcy  of  tlic  Blackwatcr 
and  tlie  Funcheou  in  the  County  of  Cork,  Ireland. 


BARTHOLOMEW  SIMMONS. 


699 


Not  oue : — as  I  wiud  the  sheer  fastnesses  through, 
The  valley  of  boyhood  is  bright  in  uiy  view  ! 
Ouce  again  my  glad  spirit  its  fetterless  flight 
May  wiug  through  a  sphere  of  uuclonded  delight. 
O'er  one  maze  of  bright  orchard,  green  meadow,  and 

slope — 
From  whoso  tints  I  ouce  pictured  the  jiinious  of 

hope  ; 
Still  the  hamlet  gleams  white — still  the  church  yews 

are  weeping,  [i'loj 

AVhere  the  sleep  of  the  peaceful  my  fathers  are  sleep- 
Tlie  vane  tells,  as  usual,  its  fib  from  the  mill, 
But  the  wheel  tumbles  loudly  and  merrily  still. 
And  the  tower  of  the  Koches  stands  lonely  as  ever. 
With  its  grim  shadow  rusting  the  gold  of  the  river. 


My  own  pleasant  Kiver,  bloom-skirted,  behold, 
Now  sleeping  in  shade,  now  refulgeutly  rolled, 
Where  long  through  the   landscape   it  trauquillj^ 

flows, 
Scarcely  breaking,  Glen-coorali,  thy  glorious  repose  ! 
By  the  Park's  lovely  pathways  it  lingers  and  shines, 
Where  the  cushat's  low  call,  and  the  murmur  of 

pines. 
And  the  lips  of  the  lily  seem  wooing  its  stay 
'Mid  their  odorous  dells  ; — but  'tis  ofl:"  and  away. 
Rushing  out  through  the  clustering  oaks,  in  whose 

shade, 
Like  a  bird  in  the  branches,  an  arbor  I  made. 
Where  the  blue  eye  of  Eve   often   closed  o'er  the 

Ijook, 
While  I  read  of  stout  Sinbad,  or  voyaged  with  Cook. 


Wild  haunt  of  the  Harper!   I  stand  by  thy  spring, 
Wliose  waters  of  silver  still  sparkle  and  fling 
Their  wealth  at  my   feet,  —  and  I  catch  the  deep 

glow. 
As  in  long-vanished  hours,  of  the  lilacs  that  blow 
By  the  low  cottage-porch — and  the  same  crescent 

moon 
That  then  ploughed,  like  a  pinnace,  the  pnride  of 

June, 
Is  white  on  Glen-diiff,  and  all  blooms  as  unchanged 
As  if  yeai's  had  not  passed  since  thy  greenwood  I 

ranged  — 
As  if  ONE  were  not  fled,  who  imparted  a  soul 
Of  diviuest  enchantment  and  grace  to  the  whole, 
Whose  being  was  bright  as  that  fair  moon  above. 
And  all  deep  and  all  pure  as  thy  waters  her  love. 


Thon long-vanished  Angel!  whose  faithfulness  threw 
'O'er  my  gloomy  existence  one  glorified  hue ! 
Dost  thou  still,  as  of  yore,  when  the  evening  grows 

dim. 
And  the  blackbird  by  Douglass  is  hushing  its  hymn, 
Remember  the  bower  by  the  Funcheon's  blue  side, 
Where  the  whispers  were  soft  as  the  kiss  of  the  tide  ? 
Dost  thon  still  think,  with  pity  and  peace  on  thy 

brow. 
Of  him  who,  toil-harassed  and  time-shaken  now, 
While  the  last  light  of  day,  like  his  hopes,  has  de- 
parted, 
On  the  turf  thou  hast  hallowed  sinks  down  weary- 
hearted. 
And  calls  on  thy  name,  and  the  night-breeze  that 
sighs  [that  replies  ? 

Throusrh  the  boufths  that  once  blessed  thee  is  all 


But  thy  summit,  far  Corrin,  is  fading  in  gray, 
And  the  moonlight  grows  mellow  on  lonely  Clough- 

lea ; 
And  the  laugh  of  the  young,  as  they  loiter  about, 
Through  the  elm-shaded  alleys  rings  joyously  out : 
Happy  souls!  they  have  yet  the  dark  chalice  to  taste, 
And  like  others  to  w\ander  life's  desolate  waste — 
To  hold  wassail  with  sin,  or  keep  vigil  with  woe; 
But  the  same  fount  of  yearning  wherever  they  go, 
Welling  up  in  their  heart-depths  to  turn  at  the  last 
(As  the  stag  when  the  barb  in  his  bosom  is  fast) 
To  their  lair  in  the  hills  on  their  childhood  that  rose, 
And  find  the  sole  blessing  I  seek  for — repose. 
1840. 


FROM   "STANZAS   ON  THOMAS   HOOD.'' 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  Earth, 

This  joyous,  May-eyed  morrow. 
The  gentlest  child  that  ever  Mirth 

Gave  to  be  reared  by  Sorrow ! 
'Tis  hard — while  rays  half  green,  half  gold, 

Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning. 
And  streams  their  diamond  mirrors  hold 

To  Summer's  face  returning, — 
To  say  we're  thankful  that  his  sleep 

Shall  never  more  be  lighter. 
In  whose  sweet-tongucd  companionship 

Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter! 

Dear  worshipper  of  Diau's  face 
In  solitary  places! 


700 


CYCLOVAWIA   OF  BRITISH  A^D  AMEliWAN  rOETRY. 


Slmlt  tlion  IK)  more  steal  as  of  yore 

'I'll  iiicft   her  w  liitc  ouibraecs  t 
Is  there  no  jiiirph}  in  the  rose 

Henceforward  to  thy  senses  ? 
For  thee  have  dawn  and  daylight's  close 

Lost  their  sweet  iutluences  ? 
No  ! — by  the  mental  siglit  untamed 

Thou  took'st  to  Death's  dark  portal,-— 
The  joy  of  the  wide  universe 

Is  now  to  thee  iiuniorlMl  ! 


FROM   "THE   MOTHER   OF  THE   KINGS." 

In  the  JjonUnn  Keepaake  for  1837,  Lady  Enielinc  Stuart  Wort- 
ley  describes  a  visit  to  Madame  Letitia,  mother  of  Napoleon, 
then  in  her  eighty-fourth  year.  She  was  on  her  bed,  and  her 
room  was  hung  around  with  larj^e,  full-length  portraits  of  the 
members  of  her  illustrious  family. 

Strange  looked  tliat  lady  old,  reclined 

Upon  her  lonely  l)ed 
In  that  vast  chamber,  echoing  not 

To  ]>age  or  maiden's  tread  ; 
And  stranger  still  the  gorgeous  forms, 

In  portrait,  that  glanced  round 
From  the  high  walls,  with  cold  bright  looks 

More  elocpient  than  sound. 

They  were  her  children  : — never  yet, 

Since,  witii  the  primal  beam, 
Fair  painting  brought  on  rainbow  ■wings 

Its  own  immortal  dream, 
Did  one  fond  mother  give  such  race 

Beneath  its  smile  to  glow 
As  they  \vho  now,  back  on  her  brow, 

Their  pictured  glories  tlirow. 

Her  daughters  there — the  l>eaiitifid! 

Looked  down  in  dazzling  sheen  : 
One  lovelier  than  the  Queen  of  Love — 

One  crowned  an  earthly  queen ! 
Her  sons — the  proud — the  Paladins! 

Witli  diadem  and  plume. 
Each  leaning  on  Ills  sceptred  arm, 

Made  empire  of  that  room  ! 

But  right  before  her  coiicli's  foot, 

One  mightiest  picture  Idazed — 
One  form  august,  to  which  her  eyes 

Incessantly  were  raised  ; — 
A  monarch's  too  ! — and  monarch-like, 

Tiio  artist's  hand  had  bound  liini 
With  jewelh'd  belt,  imiierial  sword, 

And  ermined  purple  round  liim. 


One  well  might  deem,  from  the  white  Hags 

That   o'er  him  flashed  and  rolled. 
Where  the  puissant  lily  laughed 

And  waved  its  bannered  gold. 
And  from  the  Lombard's  iron  crown 

Beneath  his  hand  which  lay, 
That  Charlemagne  had  burst  death's  reign 

And  leai)ed  again  to-day  ! 

How  gleamed  that  awful  countenance, 

Magnificently  stern  ! 
In  its  dark  smile  and  smiling  look, 

W^hat  destiny  we  learn! — 
The  laurel  simply  wreathes  that  brow. 

While  nations  watch  its  nod, 
As  though  he  scofled  all  pon)p  below 

The  thunder-bolt  of  God. 

Such  was  the  scene — the  noontide  hour — ■ 

Wliich,  after  many  a  year. 
Had  swept  above  the  memory 

Of  his  meteor-like  career — 
Saw  the  mother  of  the  mightiest — 

Napoleon's  mother — lie 
With  the  living  dead  around  her, 

With  the  past  before  her  eye! 


illrs.  5anc  cHross  Simpson. 

Mrs.  Simpson  was  born  in  Glasgow  in  1811;  a  dauglitcr 
of  James  Bell,  advocate,  and  a  sister  of  Henry  Glassford 
Bell,  the  lawyer-poet.  She  published  in  1838  a  volume 
of  poems,  entitled  "April  Hours;"  and  is  the  author  of 
the  well-known  hymn,  "Go  when  the  morning  shineth," 
claimed  for  various  authors,  but  contributed  by  her  to 
the  Edinhurf/h  lAlcranj  Journal  of  February  2Gtli,  18:-il, 
where  it  is  siiiued  "Gertrude." 


GO   WHEN  THE   MORNING   SHINETH. 

Go  when  the  morning  shineth, 

Go  when  the  uoou  is  bright, 
Go  when  the  eve  declineth. 

Go  in  the  hush  of  night; 
Go  with  pure  mind  and  feeling, 

Fling  earthly  thought  away, 
And  in  thy  chamber  kneeling. 

Do  thou  in  secret  pray. 

Remember  all  who  love  thee. 
All  who  are  loved  by  thee  ; 

Pray  too  for  those  who  hate  thee. 
If  any  such  there  be. 


MBS.  JANE  CBOSS  SIMPSON.— ALFRED  BILLINGS  STREET. 


701 


Tlieu  for  thyself,  in  meekness, 

A  blessing  humbly  claim  ; 
And  link  with  each  petition 

The  great  Kedeemei's  name. 

Or  if  'tis  e'er  denied  thee 

In  solitude  to  pray, 
Should  holy  thoughts  come  o'er  thee 

When  friends  are  round  thy  way,— 
Even  then  the  silent  breathing 

Of  th^-  spirit  raised  above, 
May  reach  His  throne  of  glory, 

Who  is  mercy,  truth,  and  love. 

Oh  !   not  a  joy  or  blessing 

With  this  can  we  compare, 
The  power  that  He  hath  given  us 

To  pour  our  hearts  in  prayer  I 
Whene'er  thou  jjin'st  in  sadness, 

Before  His  footstool  fall, 
And  remember,  in  thy  gladness. 

His  srrace  who  gave  thee  all. 


^IfrcL)  Billings   Street. 


street  was  born  in  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  in  1811.  He 
studied  law,  but  in  1839  i-emoved  to  Albany,  and  accepted 
the  place  of  State  Librarian.  His  first  volume  of  poems 
appeared  in  1842.  He  is  a  close  and  accurate  observer 
of  natural  scenery.  A  landscape-painter  might,  with 
little  aid  from  the  imagination,  find  in  his  descriptions 
material  for  many  a  picture.  His  strengtli  lies  in  de- 
tails, however,  rather  than  in  bold  generalizations  that 
flash  a  scene  upon  the  mind's  eye  by  a  few  well-chosen 
phrases.  His  poems  will  be  read  with  pleasure  by  stu- 
dents of  natural  scenery  and  sylvan  etfects.  His  longest 
work,  "Frontenac"  (1849),  is  a  narrative  poem,  being  a 
tale  of  the  Iroquois.  His  other  works  are  :  "The  Burn- 
ing of  Schenectady,  and  other  Poems;"  "Drawings  and 
Tintings"  (1844);  "Fugitive  Poems"  (1846);  "Woods 
and  Waters"  (1869);  "Forest  Pictures  in  the  Adiron- 
dacs"  (1864);  "Poems"  (1866). 


THE   XOOK   IX   THE   FOREST. 

A  uook  within  the  forest :    overhead 

The  branches  arch,  and  shape  a  pleasant  bower. 

Breaking  white  cloud, blue  sky,  and  sunshine  bright 

Into  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots. 

And  flecks  of  gold  ;   a  soft,  cool  emerald  tint 

Colors  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate  leaves 

Emitted  self-born  light.     What  splendid  walls, 

And  what  a  gorgeous  roof,  carved  by  the  hand 


Of  glorious  Nature !     Here  the  spruce  thrusts  in 
Its  bristling  plume,  tipped  with  its  pale-green  poiuts ; 
The  hemlock  shows  its  borders  freshly  fringed ; 
The  smoothly  scalloped  beech-leaf,  and  the  birch, 
Cut  into  ragged  edges,  interlace  : 
While  here  and  there,  through  clefts,  the  laurel  hangs 
Its  gorgeous  chalices  half-brimmed  with  dew, 
As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunting  elves 
The  moonlight  calls  to  this  their  festal  hall. 
A  thick,  rich  grassy  carpet  clothes  the  earth 
Sprinkled  with  autunui  leaves.     The  fern  displays 
Its  fluted  wreath  beaded  beneath  with  drops 
Of  richest  brown ;  the  wild-rose  spreads  its  breast 
Of  delicate  piuk,  and  the  o'ei-hanging  fir 
Has  dropped  its  dark,  long  cone. 

Such  nooks  as  this  are  common  in  the  woods : 
And  all  these  sights  and  sounds  the  commonest 
In  Nature  when  she  Avears  her  summer  prime. 
Yet  by  them  pass  not  lightly  :    to  the  wise 
They  tell  the  beauty  and  the  harmony 
Of  e'en  the  lowliest  things  that  God  hath  made  ; 
That  this  familiar  earth  and  sky  are  full 
Of  his  iueftable  power  and  majesty  ; — 
That  in  the  humble  objects,  seen  too  oft 
To  be  regarded,  is  such  wondrous  grace. 
The  art  of  man  is  vain  to  imitate  ; — 
That  the  low  flower  our  careless  foot  treads  down 
Is  a  rich  shrine  of  iuceuse  delicate. 
And  radiant  beauty ;   and  that  God  hath  formed 
All,  from  the  mountain  wreathing  round  its  brow 
The  black  cars  of  the  thunder,  to  the  grain 
Of  silver  sand  the  bubbling  spring  casts  up, — 
With  deepest  forethought  and  severest  care. 
Aiul  thus  these  noteless,  lowly  things  are  types 
Of  his  perfection  and  divinity. 


A   FOREST   WALK. 

A  loA'ely  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 

A  Avind  that  breathes  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  have  won 

To  the  cool  forest's  shadowy  bowers ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind. 

Traced  by  the  browsing  herds,  I  choose, 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  human  kiud 

In  nature's  lone  recesses  lose : 
The  beech  displays  its  marbled  hark. 

The  spruce  its  green  tent  stretches  wide. 
While  scowls  the  liemlock,  grim  and  dark, 

The  maple's  scalloped  dome  beside  : 
All  weave  on  high  a  verdant  roof, 
That  keeps  the  very  sun  aloof, 


702 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Making  a  t\vilij;lit  .soft  and  }j;rcen 
AVitliiu  tho  coliiiniu'd,  vaulted  scene. 

Sweet  forest-odors  have  tbeir  Itirtli 

From  the  clothed  bongbs  and  tccininj;  earth  ; 

Where  pine-coues  dropped,  leaves  i)iled  and  dead, 
Long  tufts  of  grass,  and  stars  of  fern, 
With  many  a  wild  Hower's  fairy  iiru, 

A  thick,  elastic  carjiet  spread  : 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk, 
Resolving  into  soil,  is  sunk  ; 
There,  wrenched  but  lately  from  its  throne 

By  some  lierce  whirlwind  circling  past. 
Its  huge  roots  massed  with  earth  and  stone, 

One  of  the  woodland  kings  is  cast. 

Above,  the  forest-tops  are  bright 
With  the  broad  blaze  of  sunny  light ; 
But  now  a  fitful  air-gust  parts 

Tho  screening  branches,  and  a  glow 
Of  dazzling,  startling  radiance  darts 

Down  the  dark  stems,  and  breaks  below  : 
The  mingled  shadows  off  are  rolled, 
The  sylvan  lloor  is  bathed  in  gold ; 
Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  unseen, 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and  green  : 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Gleams  twinkle  on  the  laurel's  gloss; 
The  robin,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Chirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her  breast ; 
And,  as  my  shadow  prints  the  ground, 
I  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound, 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look. 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook, 
Where,  with  crouched  limb  and  staring  eye. 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With  rich  green  grass,  invites  my  tread  : 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots. 

There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots, 

So  blended  that  the  very  air 

Seems  net-work  as  I  enter  there. 

The  partridge,  whose  deep-rolling  drum 

Afar  has  sounded  on  my  ear, 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come. 

Whirs  to  the  sheltering  branches  near ; 
The  little  milk-snake  glides  away, 
The  brindled  marmot  dives  from  day ; 
And  now,  between  the  boughs,  a  space 
Of  the  blue,  laughing  sky  I  trace  : 
On  each  side  siirinks.tho  bowery  shade; 
Before  mo  spreads  an  emerald  glade ; 


The  sunshine  steeps  its  grass  and  moss, 
That  couch  my  footsteps  as  I  cross ; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  bee. 
The  glittering  humming-bird  I  see; 
Floats  the  bright  butterfly  along. 
The  insect  choir  is  loud  in  song; 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems, — 
A  fairy  haunt  for  fancy's  dreams! 

Here  stretched,  the  pleasant  turf  I  press. 
In  luxury  of  idleness: 

.Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and  sky, 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes,  charm  mj'  eye  ; 
While  murmuring  grass,  and  waving  trees- 
Their  leaf-harps  sounding  to  the  breeze — 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone 
The  passage  of  the  hours  is  known. 


THE   BLUEBIRD'S   SOXG. 

Hark,  that  sweet  carol!     With  delight 

We  leave  the  stifling  room  ; 
The  little  bluebird  meets  our  sight, — 

Spring,  glorious  Spring,  has  come  ! 
The  south-wind's  balm  is  in  the  air. 
The  melting  snow-wreaths  everywhere 

Are  leaping  off  in  showers ; 
And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks, 
Tells  that  her  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  brooks, 

And  birds,  will  soon  be  ours. 


MUSIC. 

Music,  how  strange  her  power!  her  varied  strains 
Thrill  with  a  magic  spell  tho  human  heart. 
She  wakens  memory — brightens  hope — the  pains. 
The  joys  of  being  at  her  bidding  start. 
Now  to  her  trumpet-call  the  spirit  leaps; 
Now  to  her  brooding,  tender  tones  it  weeps. 
Sweet  nuisic !  is  she  portion  of  that  breath 
With  which  the  worlds  were  born — on  which  they 

wheel  ? 
One  of  lost  Eden's  tones,  eluding  death. 
To  make  man  what  is  best  within  him  feel  I 
Keep  open  his  else  sealed-up  depths  of  heart, 
And  wake  to  active  life  the  better  part 
Of  his  mixed  nature,  being  thus  the  tie 
That  links  us  to  our  God,  and  draws  us  toward  the 

sky! 


JOHN  OSBORNE  SARGENT.  — WILLIAM  JAMES  LINTON. 


703 


Solju  (Dsboruc  Sariicnt. 


Born  in  Gloucester,  Mass.,  in  1811,  Sargent,  while  j-et 
:i  child,  removed  to  Boston  with  his  family.  At  eight 
years  of  age  he  entered  the  Public  Latin  School,  and  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  I80O.  He  studied  law, 
was  admitted  to  the  Bar,  and  practised  his  profession  in 
New  York  and  Washington.  In  the  time  of  the  Whig 
party,  lie  was  well  known  as  a  political  writer  and  speak- 
er. After  1854  he  passed  several  years  in  Europe.  Re- 
turning home,  he  fixed  his  winter  residence  in  New  York, 
passing  his  summers  on  his  farm  in  Lenox,  Mass.  While 
in  London,  in  1870,  he  published  "The  Last  Knight,  A 
Romance-Garland,  from  the  German  of  Anastasius  Griin  " 
(the  poetical  pseudonyrae  of  Count  Anton  Alexander  von 
Auersperg,  born  1806).  An  American  edition  ajDpeared 
in  Boston  in  1871. 


DEATH   OF  HENRY  WOHLLEB. 

From  "The  Last  Knight." 

On  the  field  iu  front  of  Frastenz,  drawn  up  iu  bat- 
tle array, 

Stretched  spear  ou  spear  in  a  crescent,  the  German 
array  lay ; 

Behind  a  wall  of  bucklers  stood  bosoms  steeled 
with  pride. 

And  a  stiff  wood  of  Lauces  that  all  assaults  defied. 

Oh  why,  ye  men  of  Switzerlaud,  from  j-our  Alpine 
summits  sally, 

And  armed  with  clubs  and  axes  descend  into  the 
valley  ? 

"The  wood  just  grown  at  Frastenz  with  our  axes 
we  W'Ould  fell, 

To  build  homesteads  from  its  branches  where  Lib- 
erty may  dwell." 

The  Swiss  on  the  German  lances  rush  with  impet- 
uous shock ; 

It  is  spear  ou  spear  in  all  quarters — they  are  dashed 
like  waves  from  a  rock. 

His  teeth  then  gnashed  tlio  Switzer,  and  the  mock- 
ing German  cried, 

"See  how  the  snout  of  the  greyhound  is  pierced 
by  the  hedgehog's  hide !" 

Like  a  song  of  resurrection,  then  sounded  from  the 
ranks : 

"Illustrious  sliadc,  Yon  Wiukelried!  to  thee  I  ren- 
der thanks :  [low  me!" 

Thou  beckonest,  I  obey  thee !     Up,  Swiss,  and  fol- 

Thus  the  voice  of  Henry  Wohlleb  from  the  ranks 
rang  loud  and  free. 


From  its  shaft  ho  toro  the  banner,  and  twine<l  it 

round  his  breast. 
And   liot   with   the   lust    of  death    on    the    serried 

lauces  pressed ; 
His  red  eyes  from  their  sockets  like  Haming  torches 

glare, 
And  iu  front,  in  place  of  the  banner,  wave  the  locks 

of  his  snow-white  hair. 

The  spears  of  six  knights  together — iu  his  hand 
he  seizes  all — 

And  thereon  thrusts  liis  bosom — -there's  a  breach 
ill  the  lances'  wall. 

With  A'cugeauco  fired,  the  Switzers  storm  the  bat- 
tle's perilous  ridge. 

And  the  corpse  of  Henry  Wohlleb  to  their  ven- 
geance is  the  bridge. 


iDilliam  James  £inton. 

Poet  and  artist,  Linton  was  born  in  England  iu  1812. 
A  vigorous  writer  both  of  prose  and  verse,  he  had  also 
won  high  reputation  as  a  draughtsman  and  an  engraver 
on  wood.  Early  in  life  ho  gave  his  best  etforts  to  the 
cause  of  Liberalism  in  England.  In  1865  he  published 
"  Claribel,  and  other  Poems"  (London:  Simpkiu,  Mar- 
shall &  Co.),  a  volume  of  200  pages,  tastefully  embel- 
lished with  his  own  original  designs  and  engravings. 
He  is  also  the  author  of  a  "History  of  Wood-engrav- 
ing," a  "Life  of  Thomas  Paine,"  and  various  writings 
on  art.  In  1878  he  edited  and  published  in  London  a 
volume  of  the  "Poetry  of  America."  His  wife,  Eliza 
Lynn  Linton  (born  1823),  is  a  successful  novelist  and 
miscellaneous  writer.  His  poetry  reveals  the  true  artist, 
as  well  as  the  earnest,  sincere  thinker.  He  has  resided 
many  years  in  the  United  States,  and  his  address  (1880) 
was  New  Haven,  Conn. 


FROM   "  DEFINITIONS." 
DEFEAT. 
One  of  the  stairs  to  heaven.     Halt  not  to  count 
What  you  have  trampled  on.    Look  up,  and  mount  I 

VICE. 
Blasphemy  'gainst  thyself:   a  making  foul 
The  Holy  of  Holies  even  in  thine  own  soul. 

PLE.VSURE. 
A  flower  on  the  highway-side.     Enjoy  its  grace ; 
But  turn  not  from  thy  road,  nor  slacken  pace ! 

LOVE. 
Pure  Avorship  of  the  Beautiful — the  True — 
Under  whatever  form  it  comes  to  you. 


704 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  A2sl>  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


PATRIOTISM. 

Not  the  mere  bolding  a  <jrcut  ilajj  unfurl<Hl, — 
But  making  it  tbo  goodliest  in  the  workl. 

CONSISTKNCV. 
Last  night  I  wore  a  cloak;   this  morning  not. 
Last  night  was  cold  ;    this  morning  it  was  hot. 

DISINTERESTEDNESS. 
Selling  for  glory  ?   lending  to  the  Lord  ? 
1  will  not  ask  even  Conscience  for  reward. 

PRIDE. 
Due   reverence   toward   thyself.      Doth   God   come 

there  ? 
Make  thou  the  house  well  worthy  His  repair. 

HL'MILITY. 
Self,  seen  in  a  puddle  :   lift  thee  toward  the  sky, 
And  proudly  thank  God  for  eternity. 


REAL  AND   TEIJE. 

Only  the  Beautiful  is  real ! 

All  things  of  which  our  life  is  full, 

All  mysteries  that  life  in  wreathe, 

Birth,  life,  and  death, 
All  that  we  dn^ad  or  darkly  feel, — 
All  are  but  shadows,  and  the  Beautiful 

Alone  is  real. 

Nothing  but  Love  is  true ! 

Earth's  many  lies,  whirled  upon  Time's  swift  wheel, 

Shift  and  repeat  their  state, — 

Birth,  life,  and  death, 

And  all  that  they  bequeath 

Of  hope  or  memory,  thus  do  alternate 
Continually  ; 
Love  doth  anneal. 
Doth  beauteou.sly  imbue, 
The  wine-cups  of  the  archetypal  Fate. 

Love,  Truth,  and  IJcaiity, — all  are  one  I 

If  life  may  expiate 
The  wilderings  of  its  dimness,  dciilii  l>t'  kuowu 

But  as  the  mighty  evcr-liviug  gate 
Into  the  Beautiful — 

All  things  flow  on 
Into  one  Heart,  into  one  Melody, 
Eternally. 


LABOR   IN   VAIN. 

Oh  not  in  vain  !     Even  poor  rotting  weeds 

Nourish  the  roots  of  fruitfullest  fair  trees : 

So  from  thy  fortune-loath6d  hope  proceeds 

The  experience  that  shall  base  high  victories. 

The  tree  of  the  good  and  evil  knowledge  needs 

A  rooting-place  in  thoughtful  agonies. 

Failures  of  lofty  essays  are  the  seeds 

Out  of  whose  dryness,  when  cold  night  dissolves 

Into  the  dawning  Spring,  fertilities 

Of  healthiest  promise  leap  rejoiciugly. 

Therefore  hold  on  thy  way,  all  undismayed 

At  the  bent  brows  of  Fate,  untiringly  ! 

Knowing  this — past  all  the  woe  our  earth  involves 

Sooner  or  later  Truth  must  be  obeyed. 


POETS. 

True  Poet ! — Back,  thou  Dreamer!    Lay  thy  dreams 
In  ladies'  laps ; — and  silly  girls  delight 
With  thy  inane  apostrophes  to  Night, 
Moonshine,  and  Wave,  and  Cloud  !   Thy  fancy  teems ; 
Not  genius.     Else  some  high  heroic  themes 
Should  from  thy  brain  j>roceed,  as  wisdom's  might 
From  head  of  Zeus.    For  now  great  Wrong  and  Right 
Atfront  each  other,  aud  War's  trumpet  screams, 
Giddying  the  earth  with  dissonance.     Oh,  where 
Is  He  voiced  godlike,  unto  those  who  dare 
To  give  more  daring  with  the  earnest  shout 
Of  a  true  battle-hymn  ?     We  fight  without 
The  music  which  should  cheer  us  in  our  light, — 
While  "i)oots"  learn  to  pipe  like  whiffling  streams. 


A  PRAYER   FOR   TRUTH. 

0  God!   the  Giver  of  all  which  men  call  good 
Or  ill,  the  Origin  aud  Soul  of  Power ! 

1  pray  to  thee  as  all  must  in  their  hour 
Of  need,  for  solace,  medicine,  or  food. 
Whether  aloud  or  secretly — understood 

No  less  by  Thee.     I  pray  :   but  not  for  fame. 
Nor  love's  best  happiness,  nor  place,  nor  wealth. 
I  ask  Thee  only  for  that  spiritual  health 
Which  is  perception  of  the  True — the  sauu^ 
As  in  Thy  Nature:    so  to  know,  and  aim 
Tow'rd  Thee  my  thought,  my  word,  my  whole  of  life. 
Then  matters  little  whether  care,  or  strife, 
Hot  sun,  or  cloud,  o'erpass  this  earthly  day  : 
Night  Cometh,  and  my  star  climbeth  Thy  heaven- 
way. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  BURLEIGH. 


705 


llHlllam  f)cnrn  Uurlcicil). 

AMERICAN. 

Burleigh  (1S12-1S71)  was  a  native  of  Woodstoclc,  Conn. 
He  went  to  the  district  school,  and  manifested,  even  in 
early  youth,  his  taste  for  poetry  and  love  of  nature.  He 
espoused  with  great  zeal  tlie  antislavery  cause  and  the 
temperance  reform.  He  was  connected  with  several 
newspapers  as  editor,  and,  Avhile  residing  at  Albany, 
N.  Y.,  received  an  appointment  as  Harbor-master  of  New 
York.  He  tixcd  his  residence  at  Broolilyn,  where  he  died. 
He  was  an  eloquent  Avriter  and  speaker,  and  produced, 
during  his  busy  career,  various  poems,  rich  in  elevated 
thought  and  devout  feeling.  His  wife,  Mrs.  Celia  Bur- 
leigh, published  a  collection  of  his  poems  with  a  memoir. 
Of  his  life  and  character  it  might  be  said,  as  Antony 
says  of  Brutus  : 

"His  hfe  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 
So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  '  This  was  a  man.'  " 


THE   HARVEST-CALL. 

Abide  not  iu  the  land  of  dreams, 
O  man,  however  fair  it  seems, 
Where  drowsy  airs  thy  powers  repress 
Iu  languors  of  sweet  idleness. 

Nor  linger  iu  the  misty  past, 
Entrauced  iu  visions  vague  and  vast ; 
But  with  clear  eye  the  present  .scan, 
And  bear  the  call  of  God  and  man. 

That  call,  though  many-voiced,  is  oue. 
With  mighty  meanings  iu  each  tone  ; 
Through  sob  and  laughter,  .shriek  aud  prayer, 
Its  summons  meet  thee  everywhere. 

Thiuk  not  in  sleep  to  fold  thy  hands. 
Forgetful  of  thy  Lord's  commands ; 
From  duty's  claims  no  life  is  free, — 
Behold,  to-day  bath  ueed  of  thee. 

Look  up !   the  wide  extended  plain 
Is  billowy  with  its  ripeued  grain, 
And  on  the  summer  winds  are  rolled 
Its  waves  of  emerald  aud  gold. 

Thrust  iu  thy  sickle,  nor  delay 
The  work  that  calls  for  thee  to-day ; 
To-morrow,  if  it  come,  will  bear 
Its  own  demands  of  toil  and  care. 

The  present  hour  allots  thy  task : 
For  present  strength  and  patience  ask, 
45 


And  trust  His  love  whoso  sure  supplies 
Meet  all  thy  needs  as  they  arise. 

Lo !   the  broad  ficULs,  with  harvests  Avbite, 
Thy  lumds  to  strenuous  toil  invito; 
And  he  wiu)  labors  and  believes, 
Shall  reap  reward  of  ample  sheaves. 

Up !   for  the  time  is  short ;   aud  soon 
The  morning  sun  will  climb  to  noon. 
Ill) !   ere  the  herds,  with  trampling  feet 
Outrunning  thine,  shall  spoil  the  wheat. 

While  the  day  lingers,  do  thy  best! 
Full  soon  the  night  will  bring  its  rest; 
And,  duty  done,  that  rest  shall  be 
Full  of  beatitudes  to  thee. 


SONNET:   EAIN. 

Dashing  iu  big  drops  ou  the  narrow  pane, 
And  making  mournful  music  for  the  mind, 
While  plays  his  interlude  the  wizard  W^ind, 
I  bear  the  ringiug  of  the  frequent  rain  : 
How  doth  its  dreamy  tone  the  spirit  lull. 
Bringing  a  sweet  forgetfirluess  of  pain. 
While  busy  thought  calls  up  the  past  again. 
And  lingers  'mid  the  pure  aud  beautiful 
Visions  of  early  childhood !     Sunny  faces 
Meet  us  with  looks  of  love,  and  in  the  moans 
Of  the  faint  wind  we  hear  familiar  tones, 
Aud  tread  again  iu  old  fiimiliar  places ! 
Such  is  thy  power,  oh  Rain !   the  heart  to  bless. 
Willing  the  soul  away  from  its  own  wretchedness. 


SOLITUDE. 

The  ceaseless  hum  of  men,  the  dusty  streets. 
Crowded  with  multitudinous  life  ;   the  diu 
Of  toil  aud  traffic,  and  the  woe  and  sin. 
The  dweller  in  the  populous  city  meets: 
These  have  I  left  to  seek  the  cool  retreats 
Of  the  untrodden  forest,  where,  iu  bowers 
Buildod  by  Nature's  baud,  inlaid  with  flowers, 
And  roofed  with  ivy,  on  the  mossy  seats 
Reclining,  I  can  while  away  the  hours 
In  sweetest  converse  with  old  books,  or  give 
My  thoughts  to  God;   or  fancies  fugitive 
Indulge,  while  over  me  their  radiant  showers 
Of  rarest  blossoms  the  old  trees  shake  down, 
And  thauks  to  Him  my  meditations  crown! 


706 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  JXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Harriet  Ucccljcr   5toiiu\ 

AMERICAN. 

Harriet  Elizabeth  Bceclier,  who  in  1836  was  iiiarricd  to 
Professor  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  was  the  daughter  of  Lyman 
Heceher,  an  eminent  clergyman,  and  was  born  in  Litch- 
tleld,  Conn.,  in  1812.  In  1852  she  published  her  cel- 
ebrated antislavcry  novel  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
which  had  an  unparalleled  sale  both  in  America  and 
EnL^hnul,  and  was  translated  into  the  principal  languages 
of  Europe.  It  was  succeeded  by  several  novels  superior 
to  it  from  her  pen,  but  by  no  one  that  equalled  it  in 
fame.  Her  poems,  few  in  number,  show  the  same  literary 
ability  manifest  in  her  prose. 


THE   OTHER   WORLD. 

It  lies  around  ns  like  a  cloud, 

The  AYorld  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  .sweet  closing  of  an  eyo 

May  bring  u.s  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  onr  cheek 

Amid  our  worldly  cares ; 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  witb  onr  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  ns  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between, 
With  breathings  ahnost  heard. 

The  silence,  awful,  sweet,  and  calm. 
They  have  no  power  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
•     So  near  to  press  they  seem. 
They  lull  ns  gently  to  our  rest, 
They  melt  into  onr  dream. 

And,  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring, 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see. 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be  ; — 

To  close  the  eye  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss. 

And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  from  that  to  this  : — 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 


To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 
All  sorrow  and  all  care ! 

Sweet  souls  around  us,  watch  us  still, 

Press  nearer  to  our  side  ; 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 
•     With  gentle  helping  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vani.shed  stream  ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Onr  suffering  life  the  dream. 


(Eljarlcs  Pickens. 

Dickens  (1813-1870),  the  foremost  English  novelist  of 
his  time,  and  a  man  of  rare  and  varied  powers,  did  not 
often  venture  upon  verse ;  but  one  of  his  little  poems, 
with  the  aid  of  Henry  Russell's  music,  has  won  its  way 
to  the  popular  heart.  He  was  a  delightful  companion, 
genial,  witty,  and  generous  ;  a  ready,  attractive  speaker, 
an  amusing  actor,  and  a  superior  reader.  A  native  of 
Portsmouth,  he  began  his  literary  career  as  a  reporter, 
and  was  on  the  staff  of  the  Mor)ivig  Chronicle,  till  he  put 
forth  his  witty  "  Sketches  of  Life  and  Character,  by 
Boz,"  leading  to  the  "Pickwick  Papers"  and  his  inimi- 
table series  of  novels,  of  which  it  is  not  here  our  place  to 
speak.  He  made  two  visits  to  the  United  States;  one  in 
1841,  the  other  in  18G7.  He  died  suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  his  literary  labors,  leaving  his  last  novel  uncompleted. 


THE   IVY  GREEN. 

Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  Green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween. 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed. 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made, 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creei)ing  where  uo  life  is  seen, 
A  rart^  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  Green. 

Fast  ho  stealcth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he ; 
How  closelj"^  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend  the  huge  Oak-tree! 
And  .slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyou.sly  hugs  and  crawleth  around 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 

Creei»ing  where  grim  death  lias  beeu, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  Green. 


CUABLES  DICKENS.— SAMUEL  DOWSE  BOBBINS.— FRANCES  SABGENT  OSGOOD.       707 


Wliolc  iigos  liavo  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

Aud  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  halo  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant,  in  its  lonely  days. 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise. 

Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  Green. 


Samuel  Poiuse  Uobbius. 

AMERICAN. 

Dr.  Robbins  was  born  in  Lynn,  Mass.,  in  1812.  He 
graduated  at  the  Divinity  School,  Cambridge,  in  183.3, 
and  commenced  his  ministry  at  Lynn  tlie  same  year.  In 
1867  lie  was  settled  in  Wayland  ;  but  gave  up  his  parish 
in  1873,  and  retired  to  Concord.  He  has  published  but 
little.  His  "  Euthanasia"  is  exquisite  in  melody, and  full 
of  a  devout  enthusiasm. 


EUTHANASIA. 

"Let  me  go;  for  the  day  bieakelh.-' 

The  waves  of  light  are  drifting 

From  off  the  lieavenly  sliore, 
The  shadows  all  are  lifting 

Away  for  evermore  ; 
Truth,  like  another  morning, 

Is  beaming  on  my  way  : 
I  bless  the  Power  that  poureth  in 

The  coming  of  the  day. 
I  feel  a  light  within  me 

That  years  can  never  bring : 
My  heart  is  full  of  blossoming. 

It  yearns  to  meet  the  spring. 
Love  fills  my  soul  in  all  its  deeps, 

And  harmony  divine 
Is  sweetly  sounding  from  above 

A  symphony  sublime  ; 
The  earth  is  robed  in  richer  green, 

Tlie  sky  in  brighter  blue; 
And,  with  no  cloud  to  intervene, 

God's  smile  is  shining  through. 
I  hear  the  immortal  harps  that  ring 

Before  the  rainbow  throne, 
Aud  a  spirit  from  the  heart  of  God 

Is  bearing  up  my  own. 
In  silence  on  the  Olivet 

Of  prayer  my  being  bends, 
Till  in  tlie  orison  of  heaven 

My  voice  seraphic  blends. 


LEAD  ME. 

My  Father,  take  my  hand,  for  I  am  prone 
To  danger,  and  I  fear  to  go  alone. 
I  trust  thy  guidance.     Father,  take  my  hand  ; 
Lead  thy  child  safely  through  the  desert  hind. 
The  way  is  dark  before  me ;   take  my  hand, 
For  light  can  only  come  at  thy  command. 
Clinging  to  thy  dear  love,  no  doubt  I  know. 
That  love  will  cheer  my  way  where'er  I  go. 
Father,  the  storm  is  breaking  o'er  me  wild ; 
I  feel  its  bitterness :   protect  thy  child. 
The  tempest-clouds  are  flying  through  the  air; 
Oh,  take  my  hand,  and  save  me  from  despair. 
Father,  as  I  ascend  the  craggy  steep 
That  leads  me  to  thy  temple,  let  me  keep 
My  hand  in  thine,  so  I  can  conquer  time, 
Aud  by  thine  aiding  to  thy  bosom  climb. 
Father,  I  feel  the  damp  upon  my  brow. 
The  chill  of  death  is  falling  on  me  now. 
Soon  from  earth's  flitting  shadows  I  must  part ; 
My  Father,  take  my  hand,  thou  hast  my  heart. 


Jranrcs  Sargent  ©agoot). 


Mrs.  Osgood  (1812-18.^0)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  the 
daughter  of  Joseph  Locke,  a  merchant.  In  1834  she 
married  S.  S.  Osgood,  a  portrait-painter.  An  edition  of 
her  poems,  entitled  "  A  Wreath  of  Wild  Flowers  from 
New  England,"  was  published  in  London  in  1839,  during 
her  residence  in  that  city.  Another  collection  appeared 
in  New  York  in  1846.  She  was  a  friend  of  Poe,  and  he 
addressed  to  her  some  graceful  lines.  She  was  largely 
endowed  with  the  poetical  temperament,  and  some  of 
her  poems  have  lost  none  of  tlieir  popularity  since  her 
death. 


"BOIS  TON  SANG,  BEAUMANOIR."' 

Fierce  raged  tlie  combat — the  foemeti  pressed  nigh, 
When  from  young  Beaumanoir  rose  the  wild  cry, — 
Beaumanoir,  'mid  them  all,  bravest  and  first — 
"  Give  me  to  drink,  for  I  perish  of  thirst !" 
Hark !   at  his  side,  in  the  deep  tones  of  ire, 
"Bois  ton  SANO,  Beaumanoir !"  shouted  his  sire. 

Deep  had  it  pierced  him,  the  fooman's  swift  sword; 
Deeper  his  .soul  felt  the  wound  of  that  word! 
Back  to  the  battle,  with  forehead  all  flushed. 
Stung  to  wild  fury,  the  uoblc  j'outh  rushed ! 

1  "  Drink  thy  blood,  Beaumanoir."    The  iiicident  is  related 
ill  "  Froissart's  Chronicles." 


708 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Scorn  ill  bis  dark  cyos — his  spirit  on  fire — 
Deeds  were  bis  auswcr  tbat  day  to  his  sire ! 

Still,  where  triumphant  the  yonn;;  hero  came, 

Glory's  bright  garland  encircled  his  name : 

Bnt  in  her  bower,  to  beauty  a  slave. 

Dearer  the  guerdon  his  lady-love  gave, 

While  on  bis  shield  tbat  uo  shame  had  defaced, 

"  Bois  ton  sang,  Beaumanoir !"  proudly  she  traced. 


LITTLE   THINGS. 

Little  drops  of  water,  little  grains  of  sand. 
Make  the  mighty  ocean  and  the  pleasant  laud. 
Thus  the  little  minutes,  humble  though  they  be, 
Make  the  mighty  ages  of  eternity. 

Thus  our  little  errors  lead  the  soul  away 
From  the  path  of  virtue,  oft  in  siu  to  stray. 
Little  deeds  of  kindness,  little  words  of  love, 
Make  our  earth  an  Eden  like  the  heaven  above. 


LABORAEE  EST  ORARE. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  befoi-e  us ; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  ns; 
Hark !  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Unintermittiug,  goes  up  into  Heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose-heart  keeps  glowing. 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"Labor  is  worship!" — the  robin  is  singing; 
"Labor  is  worship!" — the  wild  bee  is  ringing: 
Listen!  that  eloquent  whisper  npspriuging 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  Nature's  great  heart. 
From  the  daik  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breatliing  llower ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life!     'Tis  the  still  Avater  faileth  ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewailetli  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assailetb ; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens: 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  iu 
tune ! 


Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us, 
Rest  from  all  jjctty  vexatious  that  meet  ns. 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  tbat  ever  entreat  us. 

Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow  : 
Work — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow  : 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'ueatb  Woe's  weeping-willow  ; 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will! 

Labor  is  health!     Lo !   the  hnsbanduian  rcai)ing, 
How  through  bis  veins  goes  the  life  current  leaping! 
How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride  sweeping. 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides ! 
Labor  is  wealth — in  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth  ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  floweth  : 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  blowetli ; 

Temple  aud  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  audaugnish  are  round 
thee!  [thee! 

Bravely  fling  oif  the  cold  chain  that  bath  bound 
Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  ; 

Rest  not  content  iu  thy  darkness — a  clod ! 
Work — for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ; 
Cherisb  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly ; 
Labor ! — all  labor  is  noble  aud  holy  ! 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God ! 


AN  ATLANTIC  TRIP. 

But  two  events  dispel  ennui 

In  our  Atlantic  trip  : 
Sometimes,  alas !   we  ship  a  sea, 

And  sometimes  see  a  ship. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  LAST  VERSES. 

You've  woven  roses  round  my  way, 
And  gladdened  all  my  being ; 

How  much  I  thank  you,  noue  can  say. 
Save  only  the  All-seeing. 

May  Ho  who  gave  this  lovely  gift. 

Tins  love  of  lovely  doings. 
Be  with  you,  wheresoe'er  you  go, 

In  every  hope's  pursuings. 

I'm  going  through  the  eternal  gates. 
Ere  June's  sweet  roses  blow ! 

Death's  lovely  angel  leads  me  there, 
Aud  it  is  sweet  to  go. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


709 


Uobcrt  Droiuuiuoi. 


Browning"  was  bom  at  Cumberlaiul,  SuiTcy,  Engiand, 
ill  ISI'2,  ami  educated  at  the  London  University.  lie  was 
married  in  1846  to  tlie  poetess,  Elizabetli  Barrett,  and  they 
were  for  several  years  resident  in  Ital}'.  Ilis  "Paracel- 
sus," remarkable  for  an  author  of  twenty-four,  was  pub- 
lished in  1836 ;  was  followed  by  "  Pippa  Passes"  and  the 
tragedy  of"  Strafford,"  which  even  Macready  could  not 
make  a  success  on  the  stage.  Among-  Browning's  oth- 
er productions  arc  "  Sordello  "  (mystical  and  obscure); 
"  The  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon,"  a  plaj',  i^roduced  with  no 
success  at  Drury  Lane  in  1843;  "A  Soul's  Tragedy;" 
"  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics  ;"  "  The  Ring  and  the 
Book;"  "  The  Inn  Album;"  "  Sludge,  the  Medium"  (a 
coarse  and  pointless  attack  on  D.  D.  Home) ;  and  some 
lialf  dozen  other  volumes.  His  longer  poems  are  marred 
by  ^scurities  and  eccentricities  of  style,  agreeable  only 

'^^to  initiated  admirers.  He  has  never  been  a  popular  poet, 
though  some  of  his  shorter  lyrics  have  won  and  kept  the 
public  ear.  A  writer  of  eminent  genius,  he  seems  to  lack 
that  care  and  patience  of  the  artist  which  knows  how 

^o  condense  and  blot.  He  has  been  called  "  the  head  of 
the  psychological  school,"  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  for- 
mulate his  psychology.  Referring  to  the  obscurity  of  his 
style, he  writes  (1880)  to  a  friend:  "I  can  have  little  doubt 
that  my  writing  has  been  in  the  main  too  hard  for  many 
I  should  have  been  pleased  to  communicate  with  ;  but  I 
never  designedly  tried  to  puzzle  people,  as  some  of  my 
critics  have  supposed.  On  the  other  hand,  I  never  pre- 
tended to  offer  such  literature  as  should  be  a  substitute 
for  a  cigar  or  game  of  dominoes  to  an  idle  man.  So,  per- 
haps, on  the  whole,  I  get  my  deserts  and  something  over 
— not  a  crowd,  but  a  few  I  value  more." 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT.' 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  lie  ; 
I  galloped,  Dii'ck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
"  Good-speed  !"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  un- 
drew ; 
"  Speed !"  echoed  the  wall  to  ns  galloping  tlirongb ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our 

place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  a«d  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckied  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


■  According  to  Browning's  own  admission,  there  is  no  histor- 
ical foundation  whatever  for  this  sph-ited  little  ifarr.-itivc  poem. 
It  is  all  purely  fanciful.  The  distance  from  Aix  to  Ghent  is  too 
great  for  any  horse  to  traverse  it  in  the  time  specified. 


'Twas  moouset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lockereu,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Diitfeld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  wo  heard  the  half 

chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  I" 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  snddeu  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one. 
To  stai'e  through  the  mist  at  ns  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  blutf  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  tlie  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spnme-tlakes,  which  aye  and 

anon 
His  fierce  lijis  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirclc  groaned  ;   and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay 

spur ! 
Your  Ross  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her. 
We'll  I'emember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  (juick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  her  stretched  neck  and  staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  wo  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  jiast  Tongres,  uo  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 
The  broad  suu  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sjirang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"  IIow  they'll  greet  us !"  and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  wliich  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her 

fate, 
Wiili  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall. 
Shook  oti'  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 


710 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  JilHTHSIl   ASl)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Stood  lip  in  tlu>  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  car. 
Called  my  Koland  Lis  pet-name,  my  horse  without 

peer  ; 
Chipped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad 

or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Koland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground, 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  miue, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 
from  Ghent. 


THE   FEE^X■H  AT  EATISBOX. 

You  know  Ave  French  stormed  Eatisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  stormiug-day : 
"With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  Avith  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "My  plan.s 

That  .soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader,  Lannes, 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full  galloping;   nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mouud. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  .suspect, 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through,) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

'■Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Rati.sbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  A^ans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  I"     The  chief's  eyes  flashed  ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  lire. 


The  chiefs  eye  flashed  ;   but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  fllm  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"  You're  Avounded  !"     "  Nay,"  his  soldiers  pride 

Tcjuehed  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  Fm  killed,  sire!"     And,  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT. 

The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half-mooii  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fierj'^  ringlets  from  their  sleep. 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  iu  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 

Tliree  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 

And  a  A'oice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 


^ 


Beautiful  EA-elyn  Hope  is  dead — 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  .side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium  flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  iu  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass, 

Save  two  long  ravs  through  the  hinge's  chink 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  I 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name- 
It  Avas  not  her  time  to  love ;   beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares. 

And  now  Avas  quiet,  noAv  astir — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  nnaAvares, 

And  the  sweet  Avhitc  brow  is  all  of  hor. 


J 


^ 


Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true,  "t^ 

The  good  stars  met  iu  your  horoscope,  .  "^ 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  iu  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 


ROBERT  BROWNING.— CHARLES  TIMOTHY  BROOKS. 


rii 


Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  tohl  ? 
We  were  feHow-niortals,  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed,  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  h>ve, — 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few — 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

lint  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meaut,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay : — 
"Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; — 
Yet  one  tiling,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope. 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me — 
And  I  want  to  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue  ?   let  us  see ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  siiare  for  the  frank  young 
smile. 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young- 
gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep, — 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


€ljavUs  (Jimotljij  Brooks. 


Brooks,  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  1813,  graduated  at  Har- 
vard College  in  1832,  and  studied  divinity.  In  1837  lie 
was  ordained  pastor  of  a  church  at  Newport,  R.  I.  In 
1871  he  rcsigaed  bis  pastorate,  since  which  lime  his  life 
has  been  one  of  literary  leisure.  He  has  made  some 
excellent  translations  from  the  German,  and  has  written 
some  original  poems,  serious  and  humorous.  His  tine 
version  of  Leopold  Scliefcr's  "Layman's  Breviary" 
(1867)  is  a  voluminous  specimen  of  his  accuracy  and  skill 


as  a  translator.  It  was  followed  in  1873  by  an  equally 
felicitous  version  of  "The  World-Priest,"  by  Schcfcr,  ii 
volume  of  373  pages,  the  favorite  work  of  this  "most  Ger- 
man of  the  Germans."  Brooks's  translation  of  Goethe's 
"Faust"  (1856)  is  among  the  best. 


SUCH  IS   LIFE. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE   HOSPITAL,  1872. 

Life  is  a  sea ;   like  ships  we  meet, — • 
We  speak  each  other  and  are  gone. 

Across  that  deep,  oh  what  a  fleet 
Of  human  souls  is  hurrying  on  ! 

We  meet,  we  part,  and  hope  some  day 

To  meet  again  on  sea  or  shore. 
Before  we  reach  that  peaceful  bay. 

Where  all  shall  meet  to  jiart  no  more. 

O  great  Cominauder  of  the  fleet ! 

O  Ruler  of  the  tossing  seas ! 
Thy  signal  to  our  eyes  how  sweet ! 

How  sweet  thy  breath, — the  heavenly  breeze! 


THE  TWO   GRENADIERS. 

From  the  German  of  Heine. 

To  France  trudged  homeward  two  grenadiers. 
From  Russia  as  prisoners  they  started. 

And  when  they  came  over  the  German  frontiers 
They  hung  their  heads,  downhearted. 

Tliey  heard  the  sad  news  that  Franco  was  lost. 

Her  flag  was  by  fortune  forsaken, 
Defeated  and  routed  her  mighty  host, — 

And  the  emperor — the  emperor — was  taken  ! 

Tiien  wept  together  the  grenadiers. 

The  sorrowful  tidings  learning  ; 
And  one  said,  "My  grief  is  too   bitter  for  tears, 

It  sets  my  old  wound  to  burning." 

Said  the  other,  "  The  game  is  up,  I  see ; 

I'd  die  with  thee  gladly  to-morrow. 
But  wife  and  children  would  pine  for  me, 

And  sink  in  starvation  and  sorrow." 

"No  wife  nor  chihlren  my  heart  shall  plague, 

I've  a  nobler  longing  unsliaken  ; 
If  they're  hungry  and  starving,  then   let  them   go 
be"" — 

My  emperor,  my  emperor  is  taken  ! 


712 


CYCLOrJ^DIA    OF  BlilTISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"  But  now,  if  I  tlio,  fullil  for  mo 

This  last  request,  O  brother ! 
Take  home  my  body  to  Franco  \vith  thee, 

To  be  laid  in  the  lap  of  my  mother. 

"  The  cross  of  honor,  with  ribbon  red, 

Shalt  thou  i»laco  on  my  heart  where  they  lay  me  ; 

The  shouldered  nnisket  beside  my  head, 
And  with  girded  sword  array  me. 

"And  80  in  tho  grave,  like  a,  sentinel, 
Waking  and  watching,  I'll  lie  there, 

Till  I  hear  at  last  the  cannon's  yell. 

And  the  neighing  steeds  tramp  by  there. 

"  And  then  shall  my  emperor  ride  o'er  my  grave. 
And  myriads  of  swords  flash  and  rattle ; 

Then  armed  and  erpupped  will  I  rise  from  my  grave, 
For  my  emperor — my  emperor  to  battle." 


ALABAMA. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  a  tribe  of  ludians,  defeated  aud  hard 
pressed  by  a  powerful  foe,  reached  in  their  flight  a  river  where 
their  chief  set  up  a  staff,  and  exclaimed,  "Alabama!"  a  word 
meaning,  "Here  we  rest!"  which  from  that  time  became  the 
river's  name. 

Bruised  and  bleeding,  x)ale  and  Aveary, 

Onward  to  the  South  and  West, 
Through  dark  woods  and  deserts  dreary, 

By  relentless  foemen  pressed, — 
Came  a  tribe  where  evening,  darkling, 

Flushed  a  mighty  river's  breast; 
And  they  cried,  their  faint  eyes  sparkling, 

"  Alabama !     Here  wo  rest !" 

By  tho  stern  steam-demon  hurried, 

Far  from  homo  aud  scenes  so  blessed ; 
By  the  gloomy  care-dogs  worried, 

Sleepless,  houseless,  aud  distressed, — 
Days  and  nights  beheld  mo  hieing 

Like  a  bird  without  a  nest, 
Till  I  hailed  thy  waters,  crying, 

"Alabanui!     Hero  I  rest!" 

Oh!   when  life's  last  sun  is  blinking 

In  the  pale  and  darksome  West, 
And  my  weary  frame  is  sinking. 

With  its  cares  and  woes  oppressed, — 
May  I,  as  I  drop  tho  burden 

From  my  sick  aud  faiuting  breast, 
Cry,  beside  the  swelling  Jordan, 

"  Alabama !     Hero  I  rest !" 


Jones  llcrn. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Salem,  Mass.,Joiius  Very  (1813-1880)  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  College  iu  1836.  In  1823  he  accompa- 
nied liis  fatlier,  wlio  was  a  sea-captain,  to  Europe;  on  his 
return,  served  as  Grculv  tutor  at  Harvard  two  years,  en- 
tered the  ministry,  and  continued  in  it,  though  without  a 
pastoral  cliarge.  In  1839  he  published  a  volume  of"  Es- 
says and  Poems."  Ilis  residence  was  in  Salem,  Mass., 
witli  two  sisters,  both  of  whom  had  the  poetical  gift. 
His  brother,  Washington  Very  (1815-1 8.")3),  was  also  a  poet 
in  tlie  best  sense  of  the  word.  Very's  meditative  poems 
sliow  refined  taste  and  a  strong  devotional  tendency. 


THE  BUD  WILL  SOON  BECOME  A  FLOWER. 

Tho  bud  will  soon  become  a  flower. 

The  flower  become  a  seed ; 
Then  seize,  oh  youth,  the  present  hour, — 

Of  that  thou  hast  most  need. 

Do  thy  best  always — do  it  now ; 

For  in  tho  present  time. 
As  in  tho  furrows  of  a  plough, 

Fall  seeds  of  good  or  crime. 

The  sun  and  rain  will  ripen  fast 
Each  seed  that  thou  hast  sown; 

And  every  act  aud  word  at  last 
By  its  own  fruit  be  known. 

And  soou  tho  harvest  of  thy  toil 

Rejoicing  thou  shalt  reap. 
Or  o'er  thy  wild,  neglected  soil 

Go  forth  in  shame  to  weep. 


HOME  AND  HEAVEN. 

With  tho  same  letter,  heaven  and  homo  begin, 
And  the  words  dwell  together  in  the  mind; 
For  they  who  would  a  liome  iu  heaven  win 
Must  first  a  heaven  in  home  begin  to  find. 
Bo  happy  here,  yet  with  a  linniblo  soul 
That  looks  for  perfect  liai>piness  iu  heaven; 
For  what  thou  hast  is  earnest  of  the  whole 
Wiiieh  to  the  faithful  shall  at  last  bo  given. 
As  once  the  patriarch,  in  a  vision  blessed, 
Saw  tho  swift  angels  hastening  to  .and  fro, 
And  tho  lone  spot  whereon  he  lay  to  rest 
Became  to  hira  the  gate  of  heaven  below ; 
So  may  to  thee,  when  life  itself  is  done, 
Thy  homo  on  earth  and  heaven  above  bo  one. 


JOXES  VERY.  — WILLIAM  EDMOyDSTOUNE  AY  TO  UN. 


713 


THE   SPIRIT-LAND. 

Father!   thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand, 

Nor  fur  removed  where  feet  have  seldom  strayed ; 

Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land, 

In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  displayed; 

In  finding  Thee  are  all  things  round  us  found ; 

In  losing  Thee  are  all  things  lost  heside ; 

Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain ; — strange  voices  sound, 

And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied: 

We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote, 

'Mid  tombs  and  ruined  piles  in  death  to  dwell ; 

Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote, 

And  for  a  buried  soul  the  living  sell ; 

While  on  our  path  bewildered  falls  the  night 

That  ne'er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 


NATURE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by, 
Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh. 
For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  aud  small; 
The  flower  that  on  the  lovely  hill-side  grows 
Expects    me    there    when    Spring   its    bloom    has 

given  ; 
And  many  a  tree  or  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 
Aud  even  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven  : — 
For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright 
Shall  be  their  lord,  as  Adam  was  before ; 
His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight, 
Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore  ; 
And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood. 
Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all  is  good. 


OUR  SOLDIERS'  GRATES. 

Strew  all  their  graves  with  flowers. 

They  for  their  country  died ; 
And  freely  gave  their  lives  for  ours, 

Their  country's  hope  and  pride. 

Bring  flowers  to  deck  each  sod. 
Where  rests  their  sacred  dust ; 

Though  gone  from  earth,  they  live  to  God, 
Their  everlasting  trust ! 

Fearless  in  Freedom's  cause 
They  suftered,  toiled,  and  bled  ; 

And  died  obedient  to  her  laws, 
By  truth  aud  conscience  led. 


Oft  as  the  year  returns, 

She  o'er  their  graves  shall  weep  ; 
And  wreathe  with  flowers  their  liineral  urns, 

Their  memory  dear  to  keep. 

Bring  flowers  of  eai'l^f  spring 

To  deck  each  soldier's  grave. 
And  summer's  fragrant  roses  bring, — 

They  died  our  land  to  save. 


llVilliam  (Ctimoulistouuc  ^ijtoun. 

Descended  from  an  ancient  Scottish  family,  Aytoun 
(1S13-1S65)  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  and  educated  at  the 
Academy  and  University  of  that  city.  He  also  studied 
in  Germany,  and  made  translations  of  some  of  the  best 
of  Uhland's  poems.  In  1841,  in  conjunction  with  Theo- 
dore Martin,  he  produced  the  "Bon  Gaultier  Ballads." 
But  his  chief  success  (184.3)  was  his  spirited  "  Lays  of  the 
Scottish  Cavaliers."  Seventeen  editions  of  it  had  been 
issued  up  to  1865.  He  married  a  daughter  of  Professor 
John  Wilson,  the  poet,  and  editor  of  MackivoocVs  Maga- 
zine. With  this  periodical  Aytoun  was  connected  till 
the  close  of  his  life.  Among  his  later  works  are  "Fir- 
milian ;  or,  The  Student  of  Badajoz,"  a  poem  in  ridi- 
cule of  the  "spasmodic  school"  of  verse;  "  Bothwell," 
a  poem;  and  "Norman  Sinclair,"  a  romance. 


THE   OLD   SCOTTISH   CAVALIER. 

Come,  listen  to  another  song. 

Should  make  your  heart  beat  high. 
Bring  crimson  to  your  forehead. 

And  the  lustre  to  your  eye : 
It  is  a  song  of  olden  time. 

Of  days  long  since  gone  by, 
Aud  of  a  baron  stout  aud  bold 

As  e'er  wore  sword  on  thigh ! 

Like  a  brave  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 

He  kept  his  castle  in  the  North, 

Hard  by  the  thundering  Spey ; 
And  a  thousand  vassals  dwelt  around, 

All  of  his  kindred  they. 
And  not  a  man  of  all  that  clan 

Had  ever  ceased  to  pray 
For  the  royal  race  they  loved  so  well. 

Though  exiled  far  away 

From  the  steadfast  Scottish  cavaliers, 
All  of  the  olden  time  ! 

His  father  drew  the  righteous  sword 
For  Scotland  and  her  claims, 


714 


CYCLOPxEDIA    OF  BIUTISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Among  the  loyal  gentlemen 

Anil  chiefs  of  ancient  names, 
Who  swore  to  fight  oi-  fall  beneath 

The  standard  of  King  James, 
And  died  at  Killiecrankio  Pass, 

With  the  glory  of  the  Graemes, 

Like  a  trne  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  time! 

He  never  owned  the  foreign  rnle, 

No  master  he  obeyed ; 
But  kept  his  clan  in  peace  at  home 

From  foray  and  from  raid  ; 
And  Avhen  they  asked  him  for  his  oath, 

Ho  tonched  his  glittering  blade, 
And  pointed  to  his  bonnet  blue, 

That  bore  the  white  cockade : 

Like  a  leal  old  Scottish  cavalier. 
All  of  the  olden  time! 

At  length  the  news  ran  throngh  the  laud,- 

The  Pkixce  had  come  again ! 
That  night  the  tiery  cross  was  sped 

O'er  mountain  and  through  glen  ; 
And  our  old  Baron  rose  in  might, 

Like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
And  rode  away  across  the  hills 

To  Charlie  and  his  men, 

With  the  valiant  Scottish  cavaliers. 
All  of  the  olden  time  ! 

He  was  the  first  that  bent  the  knee 
When  the  Standard  waved  abroad ; 

He  was  the  first  that  charged  the  foe 
On  Preston's  bloody  sod  ; 

And  ever  in  the  van  of  fight, 
Tlie  foremost  still  he  trod, 

Until  on  bleak  Culloden's  heath 
He  gave  his  soul  to  God, 
Like  a  good  old  Scottish  cavalier, 
All  of  the  olden  lime! 

Oil !   never  shall  wo  know  again 

A  heart  so  stout  and  true — 
The  olden  times  liave  passed  away, 

And  weary  are  the  new : 
The  fair  White  Rose  has  faded 

From  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
And  no  fond  tears,  save  those  of  heaven, 

The  glorious  bed  bedew 

Of  the  last  old  Scottish  cavalier. 
All  of  the  olden  time ! 


cCljristopljcr  jJcaisc  Cvanclj. 


Ciaiifh  was  boi'ii  in  Alexandria,  Va.,  in  18i;>,  and  was 
graduated  at  Columbia  College,  Wasliington,  in  lS,i:i. 
lie  began  the  study  of  divinity  ;  but  forsook  it  for  land- 
scape-painting. A  small  volume  of  poetry  fioni  his  pen 
appeared  in  1844;  and  in  187.5,  "Tlie  Bird  and  the  Bell, 
with  otlier  Poems."  In  1847  he  visited  Europe,  and 
lived  abroad,  mostly  in  Paris,  for  over  ten  years.  He  is 
the  author  of  two  works  for  the  young,  and  of  a  superior 
metrical  translation  of  Virgil. 


SONNET. 

Upon  God's  throne  there  is  a  seat  for  me : 

My  coming  forth  from  him  hath  left  a  space 

Which  none  but  I  can  fill.     One  sacred  place 

Is  vacant  till  I  come.     Father!   from  thee, 

When  I  descended  here  to  run  my  race, 

A  void  was  left  in  thy  j)aternal  heart, 

Not  to  be  filled  while  we  are  kept  apart. 

Yea,  though  a  thousand  worlds  demand  thy  care, 

Tliongh  heaven's  vast  host  thy  constant  blessings 

own. 
Thy  (jniek  love  flics  to  meet  my  feeble  prayer. 
As  if  amid  thy  worlds  I  lived  alone 
In  endless  space;  but  thou  and  I  Avere  there. 
And  thou  embraced  me  with  a  love  as  wild 
As  the  young  mother  bears  toward  her  first-born 

child. 


GNOSIS. 


Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech. 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to.  souls  can  never  teach 

AViiat  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known, 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 

We  nif  ((iluniiis  left  alone 
or  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

'  Greek,  riwait— knowing. 


CHETSTOPHEB  PEARSE  CBANCH.— HENRY  THEODORE  TUCEERMAN. 


715 


III  oiu-  linlit  we  scattered  lie  ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  coiiipauy 

Bnt  a  habl)ling  suimiier  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glaucing  of  a  dream? 

Ouly  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 
Ouly  when  we  live  above 

AVhat  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Ouly  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
Aud  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 
Swelliug  till  they  meet  aud  ruu, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Meltiug,  flowiug  into  one. 


FROM  AN   "ODE." 
ox  THE   BIRTHDAY   OF  MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLL' 

Where  now,  where, 
O  spirit  pure,  where  walk  those  shining  feet  ? 
Whither,  iu  groves  beyond  the  treacherous  seas, 
Beyond  our  sense  of  time,  divinely,  dimly  fair. 
Brighter  than  gardens  of  Hesperides, — 
Whitlier  dost  thou  move  on,  complete 
And  beauteous,  ringed  around 
In  mystery  profound, 
Bj-  gracious  companies  who  share 
That  strange  supernal  air? 
Or  art  thou  sleeping  dreamless,  knowing  naught 

Of  good  or  ill,  of  life  or  death  ? 
Or  art  thou  but  a  breeze  of  Heaven's  breath, 

A  portion  of  all  life,  inwrought 
In  the  eternal  essence  ? — All  in  vain, 
Tangled  iu  misty  webs  of  time. 
Out  on  the  undiscovered  clime 
Our  clouded  eyes  we  strain  ; 
We  cannot  pierce  the  veil. 
As  the  proud  eagles  fail 
Upon  their  upward  track, 
And  flutter  gasping  back 
From  the  thin  empyrean,  so,  with  wing 
Baffled  and  humbled,  we  hut  guess 

J  For  au  ncconnt  of  this  lady,  see  page  6TC. 


All  we  shall  gain,  by  all  the  soul's  distress, — 
All  we  shall  be,  by  our  poor  worthiness. 

And  so  wo  write  aud  slug  [Heaven. 

Our  dreams   of  time  and  space,  and  call  them — 
We  only  know  that  all  is  for  the  best ; 
To  God  we  leave  the  rest. 

So,  reverent  beneath  the  mystery 

Of  Life  aud  Death,  we  yield 
Back  to  the  great  Uuknown  the  spirit  given 
A  few  brief  years  to  blossom  iu  our  tield. 
Nor  shall  time's  all-devouring  sea 
Despoil  this  brightest  century 
Of  all  thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be. 
The  age  shall  guard  thy  fame, 
And  reverence  thy  name. 
There  is  no  cloud  on  them.     There  is  no  death  for 
thee ! 


i^cnrii  (Jljcoliorc  (^ucbrman. 


Tuckerman  (1813-1871)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  the  son 
of  a  well-known  merchant.  He  was  fitted  for  college, 
but,  on  account  of  feeble  health,  did  not  enter.  He  was 
a  prolific,  but  never,  in  the  commercial  sense,  a  success- 
ful writer.  He  spent  some  eleven  years  of  his  life  in 
Italy;  wrote  '.'The  Italian  Sketch-book,"  "Thoughts  on 
the  Poets,"  "Artist  Life,"  "The  Optimist,"  etc.,  besides 
contributing  to  the  leading  magazines.  In  poetry,  he 
preferred  the  school  of  Pope,  Cowper,  and  Burns  to  the 
modern  stjie,  so  largely  iufluenced  by  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, and  their  imitators.  His  principal  poem,  published 
iu  Boston  in  1851,  and  entitled  "The  Spirit  of  Poetry," 
is  an  elaboi-ate  essay  in  heroic  verse  of  some  seven  hun- 
dred lines.  He  was  a  close  student  of  art,  as  his  writings 
show. 


SONNET:   FREEDOM. 

Freedom !   beneath  thy  banner  I  was  born  : 

Oh,  let  me  share  thy  full  and  perfect  life  ! 

Teach  me  opinion's  slavery  to  scorn, 

Aud  to  be  free  from  passion's  bitter  strife ; 

Free  of  the  world,  a  self-dependent  sonl. 

Nourished  by  lofty  aims  and  genial  truth. 

Ami  made  more  free  by  Love's  serene  control, 

The  spell  of  beauty  and  tlio  hopes  of  youth : — • 

The  liberty  of  Nature  let  me  kuow. 

Caught    from   her   mountains,  groves,  aud    crj^stal 

streams  ; 
Her  starry  host,  and  sunset's  purple  glow. 
That  woo  the  spirit  with  celestial  dreams 
On  Fancy's  wing  exultingly  to  soar 
Till  Life's  harsh  fetters  clog  the  heart  no  more ! 


716 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


([:|)C5  Gargcut. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Gloucester,  Mass.  (bom  1813),  Sargent  at- 
tended tlic  Publie  Latin  Seliool  in  Boston  some  live  years. 
In  1827  lie  went  in  one  of  his  father's  sliips  to  Denmark 
and  Russia,  and,  a  few  years  later,  to  Cuba.  lie  entered 
Harvard  College,  but  did  not  graduate.  He  was  connect- 
ed in  an  editorial  capacity  with  the  Aducrtlser,  Athix,  and 
Tra?tsa-ipl  of  Boston  ;  and  for  several  years  with  the  Mir- 
ror, Xtw  Wurld,  and  other  New  York  journals.  He  pub- 
lished in  184'J  "Songs  of  the  Sea,  and  other  Poems,"  now 
out  of  print.  Before  that,  he  had  passed  several  seasons 
at  Washington  as  the  correspondent  of  Boston  and  New 
York  journals.  He  wrote  a  Life  of  Henry  Clay,  after- 
ward re-edited  by  Horace  Greeley.  In  1808  he  revisited 
Europe,  and  passed  some  time  in  England  and  the  South 
of  P" ranee.  His  home  has  been  in  the  Roxbury  district 
of  Boston. 


EVENING  IN  GLOUCESTER  HAEBOR. 

The  very  pulse  of  ocean  now  was  still: 
From  the  far-off  profound,  uo  throb,  uo  swell ! 
Motionless  ou  the  coastwise  ships  the  sails 
Hung  limp  and  white — their  very  shadows  Avhitel 
The  light-house  windows  drank  the  kindling  red, 
And  Hashed  and  gleamed  as  if  the  lamps  were  lit. 
And  now  'tis  sundown.     All  the  light-houses — 
Like  the  wise  virgins,  ready  with  their  lamps — 
Flash  greeting  to  the  night !     There  Eastern  Point 
Flames  out!     Lo,  little  Ten  Pound  Island  follows! 
See  Baker's  Island  kindling!     Marblehead 
Ablaze!     Egg  Rock,  too,  off  Nahant,  on  lire  ! 
And  Boston  Light  winking  at  Miuot's  Ledge! — 

But  when  the  moon  shone  crescent  in  the  west. 
And  the  faint  outline  of  the  part  obscured 
Thread-like  curved  visible  from  horn  to  horn, — 
And  Jni)iter,  supreme  among  the  orbs, 
And  Mars,  with  rutilating  beam,  came  forth. 
And  the  great  concave  opened  like  a  flower, 
Unfolding  firmaments  and  galaxies, 
Sparkling  with  .separate  star.s,  or  snowy  white 
With  undistinguishablo  suns  beyond, — 
No  cloud  to  dim  the  immeasurable  arch  — 
They  paused  and  rested  on  their  oars  again, 
And  looked  around, — in  adoration  looked : 
For,  gazing  on  the  inconceivable. 
They  felt  God  i.s,  though  inconceivable. 


SUNRISE  AT  SEA. 

When  the  mild  weather  camo, 
And  set  the  sea  ou  flame, 


How  often  would  I  rises  before  the  sun, 

And  from  the  mast  behold 

The  gradual  splendors  of  the  sky  unfold 
Ere  the  fust  line  of  disk  had  yet  begun. 
Above  the  horizon's  arc. 

To  show  its  flaming  gold. 
Across  the  purple  dark ! 

One  perfect  dawn  how  well  I  recollect, 
AVhen  the  whole  east  was  flecked 
With  flashing  streaks  and  shafts  of  amethyst, 
While  a  light  crimson  mist 
Went  up  before  the  mounting  luminary. 
And  all  the  strips  of  cloud  began  to  vary 
Their  hues,  and  all  the  zenith  seemed  to  ope 
As  if  to  show  a  cope  beyond  the  cope ! 
How  reverently  calm  the  ocean  lay 
At  the  bright  birth  of  that  celestial  day  ! 
How  every  little  vapor,  robed  in  state. 
Would  melt  and  dissipate 

Before  the  augmenting  ray. 
Till  the  victorious  Orb  rose  unattended, 
And  every  billow  was  his  mirror  splendid! 
May,  1S2T. 


A  LIFE   ON  THE   OCEAN  WAVE. 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  : 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 
Oh  !   give  me  the  fla.shing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar! 

Once  more  ou  the  deck  I  stand 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 
Set  sail !   farewell  to  the  land  ! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  tlirongh  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free ; — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown  ; 
]5iit  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

Wliile  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea! 

A  life  ou  the  ocean  wave  I 


EPES  SARGENT.— JOHN  SULLIVAN  DWIGHT. 


717 


LINDA'S  SONG. 

A  little  bird  Hew 

To  the  top  of  a  tree : 
The  sky  it  was  blue, 

And  the  bird  sang  to  me : 
So  tender  and  true  was  the  strain, 
The  singer,  I  hoped,  would  remain  : 
Oil,  little  bird,  staj^  and  inoloug 
The  rapture,  the  grief  of  that  song ! 

A  little  thought  came, 

Came  out  of  my  heart ; 
It  whispered  a  name 

That  caused  me  to  start : 
And  the  rose-colored  breath  of  my  sigh 
Flushed  the  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  sky ; 
Delay,  little  thought !     Oh,  delay. 
And  gladden  my  life  with  thy  ray! 


SOUL  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Soul  of  my  soul,  impart 

Thy  energy  divine ! 
Inform  and  fill  this  languid  heart. 

And  make  thy  purpose  mine. 
Thy  voice  is  still  and  small, 

The  world's  is  loud  and  rude  : 
Oh,  let  me  hear  thee  over  all, 

And  be,  through  love,  renewed ! 

Give  me  the  mind  to  seek 

Thy  perfect  will  to  know ; 
And  lead  me,  tractable  and  meek. 

The  way  I  ought  to  go. 
Make  quick  my  spirit's  ear 

Thy  faintest  word  to  heed: 
Soul  of  my  soul !   be  ever  near 

To  guide  me  in  my  need. 


SONNET:  TO  DAVID  FRIEDRICH  STRAUSS, 

AFTEU  READING  HIS  LAST  WORK,'" THE  OLD  FAITH  AND 
THE   NEW." 

Thou    say'st,  mj-  friend,  'twould   strike  thee  with 

dismay 
To  be  assured  that  life  would  not  end  here ; 
Since  utter  death  is  less  a  thing  to  fear 
In  thy  esteem  than  life  in  clearer  day  : 
I^'or  life,  continuous  life,  thou  Avouldst  not  pray; 
Aud  even  reunion  with  the  loved  and  near 
Is  not  to  thee  a  prospect  that  could  cheer, 


Or  shed  a  glory  on  thy  earthward  way : — 

O  power  of  thought  perverse  and  morbid  mood. 

Conspiring  thus  to  numb  and  blind  the  heart! 

The  iinivei'se  gives  back  what  we  impart, — 

As  we  elect,  gives  poison  or  pure  food : 

j\[ock — silence — the  soul's  whisper, — and  Despair 

Becomes  to  man  than  Hope  itself  more  fair! 


WEBSTER. 

Night  of  the  Tomb !     He  has  entered  thy  portal ; 

Silence  of  Death  !     He  is  wrapped  in  thy  shade ; 
All  of  the  gifted  aud  great  that  was  mortal. 

In  the  earth  where  the  oceau-mist  weepeth,  is  laid. 

Lips,  whence  the  voice  that  held  Senates  proceeded, 
Form,  lending  argument  asi^ect  august. 

Brow,  like  the  arch  that  a  nation's  weight  needed, 
Eyes,  wells  unfathomed  of  thought, — all  are  dust. 

Night  of  the  Tomb!  Through  thy  darkness  is  shining 
A  light  since  the  Star  in  the  East  never  dim ; 

No  joy's  exultation,  no  sorrow's  repining 

Could  hide  it  in  life  or  life's  ending  from  him. 

Silence  of  death  !     There  were  voices  from  heaven. 

That  j)ierced  to  the  quick  ear  of  Faith  through 

the  gloom  : 

The  rod  and  the  staff  that  he  asked  for  were  given, 

And  he  followed  the  Saviour's  own  track  to  the 

tomb. 

Beyond  it,  above,  in  an  atmosphere  finer, 

Lo,  infinite  ranges  of  being  to  fill! 
In  that  land  of  the  spirit,  that  region  diviner, 
He  liveth,  he  loveth,  he  laboreth  still. 
Marshflekl,  Mass.,  Oct.  24th,  1S52. 


iFoIju  Sullinan  Piinciljt. 

AMERICAN. 
Dwioht,  born  in  Boston,  May  loth,  1813,  was  graduated 
at  the  Public  Latin  School  of  that  city,  and  subsequently 
at  Harvard.  He  has  for  man}'  years  been  editor  of  the 
Journal  of  Jfu.sic,  and  has  won  merited  eminence  as  a 
musical  critic  second  to  no  one  in  America.  He  edited 
in  1839  a  collection  of  poetical  translations  from  the  Ger- 
man, in  which  were  many  fioni  his  own  pen. 


TRUE  REST. 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure  itself  cannot  spoil! 
Is  not  true  leisure  one  with  true  toil  ? 


718 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Thou  that  wouUlst  tasto  it,  still  do  thy  best; 
Use  it,  not  waste  it, — else  'tis  no  rest. 

Wouklst  behold  beauty  near  thee?  all  round? 
Only  hath  duty  such  a  sight  found. 

Rest  is  not  quitting  the  busy  career; 
Eest  is  the  tilting  of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'Tis  the  brook's  mot  ion,  clear  without  strife, 
Fleeing  to  ocean  after  its  lite. 

Deeper  devotion  nowhere  hath  knelt ; 
Fuller  emotion  heart  never  felt. 

'Tis  loving  and  serving  the  highest  and  best; 
'Tis  onward!  unswerving, — and  that  is  true  rest. 


VANITAS!   VANITATUM  VANITAS ! 

From  tbe  German  of  Goethe. 

I've  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  see; 

Hurrah  ! 
And  so  the  world  goes  well  with  nie. 

Hurrah  ! 
And  who  has  a  mind  to  bo  fellow  of  mine, 
Why,  let  him  take  hold  and  help  me  drain 
These  mouldy  lees  of  wine. 

I  set  my  heart  at  first  ui)ou  wealth  : 

Hurrah  ! 
And  bartered  away  my  peace  and  health  ; 

But,  ah  ! 
The  slippery  change  went  about  like  air, 
And  when  I  had  clutched  me  a  handful  here, — 
Away  it  went  there  ! 

I  set  my  heart  upon  woman  next; 

Hurrah  ! 
For  her  sweet  sake  Avas  oft  perplexed ; 

But,  ah  ! 
The  False  one  looked  for  a  daintier  lot. 
The  Constant  one  wearied  me  out  and  out. 
The  Best  was  not  easily  got. 

I  set  my  heart  upon  travels  grand ; 

Hnirah! 
And  spurned  our  ])\:\\u  old  father-land  ; 

But,  ah  ! 
Naught  seemed  to  be  .just  the  l];ing  it  should, — 
Most  comfortless  beds  and  indifVerent  food! 
My  tastes  misunderstood  ! 


I  set  my  heart  ujion  sounding  fame  ; 

Hurrah! 
And,  lo  !   I'm  eclipsed  by  some  upstart's  name; 

And,  ah ! 
^^■ll(•n  in  public  life  I  loomed  quite  high. 
The  folks  that  passed  me  would  look  awry : 
Their  very  worst  friend  was  I. 

And  then  1  set  my  heart  upou  war ; 

Hurrah ! 
Wo,  gained  some  battles  with  dclat. 

Hurrah ! 
We  troubled  the  foe  with  sword  and  llame 
(And  some  of  our  friends  fared  quite  the  same). 
I  lost  a  leg  for  fame. 

Now  I've  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  sec; 

Hurrah  ! 
And  the  whole  wide  world  belongs  to  me. 

Hurrah  ! 
The  feast  begins  to  run  low,  no  doubt ; 
But  at  the  old  cask  we'll  have  one  good  liout  : 
Conu',  drink  the  lees  all  out ! 


€)c\\x])  33.  f)irst. 


AMERICAN. 

Hirst  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1813.  He  began  the 
study  of  the  law  in  1880.  His  curliest  poems  appeared 
in  Graham'' s  Magazine  when  he  was  about  thirtj'.  In  the 
prefiice  to  liis  "Endymion"  (written  Ijefore  lie  had  ever 
seen  tlie  "Endymion  "  of  Keats),  lie  says :  "  Until  the  age 
of  twenty-three,  I  entertained  a  holy  horror  of  poetry — 
an  almost  ludicrous  result  of  an  exceedingly  prosaic  ex- 
istence. *  *  *  It  would  be  safe  to  say  that  I  have  writ- 
ten, not  published,  more  English  rhyme  than  I  liave  read. "' 
In  1845  lie  put  forth,  in  Boston,  "The  Coming  of  the 
Mammoth,"  "The  Funeral  of  Time,  and  other  Poems;'' 
and  in  1848  appeared  his  "Endymion,"  a  poem  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pages,  in  which  there  is  an  occa- 
sional passage  not  unwortliy  of  Keats.  In  1849  he  pub- 
lished "  The  Penance  of  Koland :  a  Romance  of  the  Peine 
Forte  et  Dure,  and  other  Poems."  It  is  rather  a  tragic 
story  of  a  husband  who,  in  a  lit  of  unjust  jealousy,  slays 
his  wife. 


PARTING  OF  DIAN  AND  ENDYMION. 

From  "  Endymion." 

The  goddess  gasped  for  breath,  with  bosom  swelling  : 

Her  ]ii>s  unclosed,  while  her  large,  luminous  eyes 

Blazing  like  fcjtygian  skies, 

With  passion  on  the  audacious  youth  were  dwelling  : 

She  raised  her  angry  hand,  that  seemed  to  clasj) 

Jove's  thunder  in  its  grasp. 


HENRY  B.  HIRST.— THOMAS  OSBORNE  DA  VIS.— ROBERT  NICOLL. 


719 


And  tbea  she  stood  in  silence,  fixed  aud  breathless  ; 
But  presently  the  tbreateuing  arm  slid  down  ; 
The  fierce,  destroying  frowu 
Departed  from  her  eyes,  which  took  a  deathless 
Expression  of  despair,  like  Niobe's — 
Her  dead  ones  at  her  knees. 

Slowly  her  agony  passed,  and  an  Elysiau, 
Majestic  fervor,  lit  her  lofty  eyes, 
Now  dwelling  ou  the  skies: 
Meanwhile,  Endymion  stood,  cheek,  brow,  and  vision, 
Radiant  with  resignation,  stern  aud  cold, 
In  conscious  virtue  bold. 

Tlicir  glances  met ;  his,  while  they  trembled,  showing 
An  earnestness  of  purpose;   hers,  a  soul 
Whence  passion's  wild  control 
Had  passed  forever ;  while  her  whole  form,  glowing. 
Resumed  its  stateliness:   once  more  she  stood 
Erect,  in  all — the  god ! 

"Farewell,  Endymion,"  said  the  goddess,  stooping. 
Pressing  with  pallid  lips  upon  his  brow 

A  kiss  of  frozen  snow,  [iug 

And,  mourufully  turning,  passed, her  fair  head  droop- 
Upon  her  snowy  breast :  "  Farewell  forever — 
Forever  aud  forever!" 

Endymion,  stretching  forth  his  arms,  endeavored 
To  clasp  her  garment's  hem,  but  slowly,  slowly. 
She  waned  and  vanished  wholly. 
And  like  a  dream  :  the  sudden  silence  severed 
His   heart  from   him :   "  Farewell,"   it   breathed, 
"  forever ! 
Forever  and  forever !" 


(Tljomas  ©sbovuc  Ptxnis. 

Davis  (1814-1&15)  was  a  native  of  :\raIlow,  County  Cork, 
Ireland.  lie  was  a  close  student  from  early  youth,  en- 
tered Trinity  College,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Irish  Bar. 
In  company  with  John  Dillon  and  Charles  Gavan  Duffy, 
in  1842  he  founded  The  Nation,  a  powerful  organ  for  the 
most  radical  of  the  Irish  patriots.  He  showed  as  much 
lyrical  as  political  fervor  in  his  contributions.  Of  an 
exuberant,  joyous  spirit,  and  a  strict  lover  of  truth  and 
right,  he  did  not  live  to  redeem  the  high  promise  of  his 
youth. 


THE   WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come    when   you're   looked   for,  or   come    without 


waruinsr. 


Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you. 
And  the  ofteuer  yon  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore 
you. 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  iilighted. 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted  ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever. 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "True  lovers!  don't 
sever." 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose 

them  ; 

Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my  bosom. 

I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you ; 

I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you  ; 

Oh !  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vexed 

farmer. 
Or  sabre  aud  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above 

me. 
Then,  wandering,  I'll  wish  you  in  silence  to  love 
me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie. 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  ou  the  track  of  the  fairy. 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give 
her. 
Oh!  she'll  whisper  you,  "Love  as  unchangeably 

beaming, 
Aud  ti'ust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully  stream- 
ing, 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver. 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning. 
Come    when    you're   looked   for,  or   come    without 

warning, 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you ! 
And  the  ofteuer  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adoro 
you  ! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever. 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "True  lovers!  don't 
sever !" 


Hobert  3\'uoU. 

Nicoll  (1814-1837),  a  youth  of  high  promise,  cultivated 
literature  amidst  many  discouragements,  and  died  in  his 
twenty-fourth  year,  of  consumption.  lie  was  a  native 
of  Auehtergaven,  in  Pertlishirc,  Scotland.  Wiien  about 
thirteeu  he  began  to  note  down  his  thoughts  and  to 


720 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Bcribble  verses.  When  twenty,  be  remarked,  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend,  "  I  am  a  Radical  in  every  sense  of  the  term  ;" 
and  in  1830  be  became  editor  of  tlie  Lccih  Times,  repre- 
senting tlie  extreme  of  the  liberal  class  of  opinions.  He 
added  largely  to  its  circulation.  His  poems  are  short 
occasional  pieces  and  songs — the  latter  much  inferior  to 
his  serious  poems.  His  "People's  Anthem"  rises  into 
somewhat  of  true  grandeur  by  virtue  of  simplicity  ;  and 
his  lines  on  "  Death,"  believed  to  be  the  last  of  his  com- 
positions, are  entitled  to  similar  praise.  Ebeuezer  Elliott 
styles  biui  "  Scotland's  second  Burns." 


PEOPLES  ANTHEM. 

Lord,  from  Thy  blessdd  throne, 
Sorrow  look  down  upon  ! 

God  save  the  Poor! 
Toach  them  true  liberty — 
Make  them  from. tyrants  free — 
Let  their  homes  happy  be ! 

God  save  the  Poor! 

The  arms  of  wicked  men 

Do  Tiiou  with  might  restrain — 

God  save  the  Poor ! 
Raise  Thou  their  lowliness — 
Succor  Thou  their  distress — 
Thou  whom  the  meanest  bless! 

God  save  the  Poor! 

Give  them  staunch  honesty  — 
Let  their  pride  manly  be — 

God  save  the  Poor ! 
Help  them  to  hold  the  right ; 
Give  them  both  truth  and  might. 
Lord  of  all  Life  and  Light  ! 

God  save  the  Poor ! 


LIFE   IN   DEATH. 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer's  greenest  grass, 

Tlirough  which  the  modest  daisy  blushing  peeps; 

The  gentle  wind  that  like  a  ghost  doth  pass, 
A  waving  shadow  on  the  cornfield  keeps ; 

But  I  who  love  them  all  shall  never  be 

Again  among  the  woods,  or  on  the  moorland  lea ! 

The  sun  shines  sweetly — sweeter  may  it  shine; 

Blessed  is  the  brightness  of  a  summer  day ; 
It  cheers  lone  hearts ;   and  why  should  I  repine, 

Although  among  green  fields  I  cannot  stray ! 
Woods!  I  have  grown,  since  last  I  lieard  you  wave, 
Familiar  now  with  death,  and  neighbor  to  the  grave ! 


These  woods  have  shaken  mighty  luiman  souls : 
Like  a  sei)ulchral  echo  drear  they  sound ; 

E'en  as  the  owl's  wild  whoop  at  midnight  rolls 
Tbe  ivied  remnants  of  old  ruins  round. 

Yet  wherefore  tremble  ?     Can  the  soul  decay  ? 

Or  that  which  thinks  and  feels,  in  aught  e'er  fade 
awaj^  ? 

Are  there  not  aspirations  in  each  heart 
After  a  better,  brighter  world  than  this  ? 

Longings  for  beings  nobler  in  each  part — 

Things  more  exalted — steeped  in  deeper  bliss? 

Who  gave  us  these  ?    What  are  they  ?    Soul,  in  thee 

The  bud  is  bndding  now  for  immortality ! 

Death  comes  to  take  mo  where  I  long  to  be ; 

One  pang,  and  bright  blooms  the  immortal  llower ; 
Death  comes  to  lead  me  from  mortality. 

To  lands  which  know  not  one  tmhappy  hour ; 
I  have  a  hope,  a  faith — from  sorrow  here 
I'm  led  by  death  away — why  should  I  start  and  fear  ? 

If  I  have  loved  the  forest  and  the  field. 
Can  I  not  love  them  deeper,  better  there  ? 

If  all  that  power  hath  made,  to  me  doth  yield 
Something  of  good  and  beauty — something  fair — 

Freed  from  the  grossness  of  mortality. 

May  I  not  love  them  all,  and  better  all  enjoy  ? 

A  change  from  woe  to  joy — from  earth  to  heaven, — 
Death  gives  me  this — it  leads  me  calmly  where 

The  souls  that  long  ago  from  mine  were  riven 
May  meet  again !  death  answers  many  a  prayer : 

Bright  day,  shine  on !   be  glad :   days  brighter  far 

Are  stretched  before  my  eyes  than  those  of  mortals 
are! 


^Icvaulicr  Dcaufort  illcclu 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Columbia,  S.  C,  Meek  was  born  in  1814, 
and  died  in  18G.5.  He  made  tbe  law  his  profession.  He 
edited  for  a  time  TJie  Sotdhron,  a  literary  monthly  pub- 
lished at  Tuscaloosa,  Ala.  In  ISoG  he  served  as  lieuten- 
ant of  volunteers  against  the  Scminolcs.  He  was  United 
States  Attorney  for  tbe  Southern  District  of  Alabama 
from  l!>16  to  1850,  and  associate  editor  of  the  Mobile 
Daily  Register  from  184S  to  18.53.  In  18.59  he  was  elected 
Speaker  of  the  Alabama  Legislature.  In  1855  he  publish- 
ed "  The  Red  Eagle  :  a  Poem  of  the  South  ;"  and  in  18.57 
a  volume  of  orations,  songs,  and  poems  of  the  South. 
His  spirited  poem  describing  the  charge  at  Balaklava 
was  for  a  long  time  attributed  to  Alexander  Smith,  the 
young  Scottish  poet.  Many  critics  of  the  day  professed  to 
prefer  it  to  Tennyson's  "Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade." 


ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK. 


721 


BALAKLAVA. 

Oh  the  charge  at  Rahiklava ! 

Oh  that  rash  and  fatal  charge ! 
Never  Avas  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  tliat  charge  at  Balaklava, 

Ou  the  battle's  bloody  marge ! 
All  the  day  the  Russian  columns, 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks, 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  A'olumes 

Ou  the  French  aud  English  ranks ! 

On  the  gallant  allied  ranks ; 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud,  incessant  thunder ! 
When  a  strange  but  stern  command — 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command — 
Came  to  Lucan's  little  band, — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces: — • 
"  England's  lost  unless  you  save  her ! 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava !" 

Oh  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 

Ou  the  battle's  bloody  marge ! 

Far  away  the  Eussian  Eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  bill  and  dell. 

And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles. 

Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell ! 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar, 

Sweep  the  field  in  every  quarter ! 

Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies — 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Eamillies! 
And  beside  them,  lo  !  the  Lion  ! 
"With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying ! 

Glorious  standards — shall  they  waver 

On  the  field  of  Balaklava  ? 

No,  by  heavens!   at  that  command — 

Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  connnand — • 

Charges  Lucan's  little  band! 

Brave  Six  Hundred!  lo!  they  charge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge ! 

Down  yon  deep  and  skirted  valley. 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play, — 

Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 

Cossack,  Calmuck,  savage  Kalli, — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away  ! 

Down  that  new  Thermopylae, 

Flashing  swords  and  helmets  sec ! 
4G 


Underneath  the  iron  shower. 

To  the  brazen  canuon's  jaws. 

Heedless  of  their  deadly  power. 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause, — 
To  the  very  cannon's  jaws ! 

Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Roland 

At  the  field  of  Roucesvalles, 
Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley, 

Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 

Shouting,  with  his  latest  breath, 

"  Charge,  then,  gallants  !  do  not  waver, 

Charge  the  jiass  at  Balaklava !" 

Oh  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
Ou  the  battle's  bloody  marge! 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder, 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming, 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away  ; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming, 

Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay, — • 
Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay  ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus ! 

Yet  your  remnant,  brave  Six  Hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 

Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass, — 
Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 
Lo,  they  storm  the  deadly  pass ! 
Sabring  Cossack,  Calmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild,  shot-rended  valley, — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava, — 
Awful  pass  at  Balaklava ! 

Oh  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
Ou  that  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces. 

Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses, 

Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses. 

Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back. 
Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back. 
O'er  their  late  heroic  track ! 

Vain,  alas!   now  rent  aud  sundered. 

Vain  your  struggles,  brave  Two  Hundred ! 

Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep, 

In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 

Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 

From  that  hurricane  of  fire  ; — 

But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame, 

Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava, — 
Honor  to  each  hero's  name ! 


722 


CTCLOr.T.DIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  VOETRY. 


Yet  tlieir  coiiutry  long  shall  inuiiin 
For  lier  ranks  so  rashly  shoin 

In  that  licrco  and  fatal  cliargc, 
On  tho  battle's  bloody  marge. 


(f?corc\c  lllasljincitou  (JIuttcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Cutter  (1814-18G5)  was  a  native  of  Kentucky.  He  was 
a  lawyer  by  profession,  lesitlent  at  Covington,  Ky.,  and  at 
one  time  a  mcmljer  of  tlie  Indiana  Legislature.  In  the 
Mexiean  war  lie  joined  the  army  as  a  captain  of  volun- 
teers, and  served  bravely.  He  wrote  a  poem  of  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty-six  lines,  entitled  "  Buena  Vista,"  said  to 
have  been  penned  on  the  field  after  the  battle,  and  inter- 
esting as  giving  the  cxijeriences  of  one  who  took  part 
in  the  fight.  He  published  in  PhiladeliAia,  in  1857,  a 
volume  of  two  hundred  and  seventy-nine  pages,  entitled 
"  Poems,  National  and  Patriotic."  His  "  Song  of  Steam," 
though  rude  and  unpolished,  is  the  best  of  his  produc- 
tions. In  an  Indian  poem,  entitled  "  Tecumseh,"  he 
represents  the  old  chief  as  somewhat  better  versed  in 
classical  mythology  than  savages  usually  arc ;  for  he 
refers  to  the  time, 

"  When  softly  rose  the  Queen  of  Love, 
All  glowing  from  the  sea." 


SONG  OF  STEAM. 

Harness  me  clown  with  your  iron  bauds, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein  : 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hojir, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  miglit, 

And  the  pride  of  human  i)ow-cr. 

When  I  saw  an  army  npon  the  land, 

A  navy  npon  the  seas, 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  Avayward  breeze  ; — 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  which  he  daily  bore, 
As  ho  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar; — 

When  I  measured  the  panting  courser's  speed, 

Tho  flight  of  the  carrier-dove. 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  King  decreed. 

Or  tho  lines  of  impatient  Lovo, — 
I  could  not  but  think  liow  tho  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar, 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  tho  rushing  keel. 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 


Ha!   ha!   ha!   they  found  me  at  last; 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length  ; 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throno  with  a  thunder-blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength. 
Oh,  then  ye  saw  a  Avondrous  change 

On  tho  earth  and  tho  ocean  wide, 
AVIiere  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

Hurrah  !   hurrah  !   the  waters  o'er 

The  mountain's  steep  decline  ; 
Time — space — have  yielded  to  my  power — 

The  world — tho  world  is  mine ! 
Tho  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  blessed. 

Or  those  where  his  last  beams  .shine ; 
The  giant  streams  of  the  queenly  W^est, 

Or  the  Orient  floods  divine! 

Tho  ocean  pales  where'er  I  sweep. 

To  hear  my  strength  rejoice  ; 
And  tlie  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower,  trembling  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  and  the  lord  of  earth, 

The  thoughts  of  his  godlike  mind : 
The  wind  lags  after  my  going  forth, 

The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  tho  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play ; 
Where  tho  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline, 

Or  tho  dawn  of  tho  glorious  day, 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

From  tho  hidden  caves  below. 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  tho  steel, 

III  all  1  ho  shops  of  trade  ; 
I  hammer  tho  ore,  and  turn  tho  wheel. 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made ; 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint ; 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave  ; 
And  all  mj'^  doings  I  put  into  print, 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

I've  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  breast  to  decay. 

No  bones  to  bo  laid  on  the  shelf; 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  go  and  play, 

Wliile  I  manage  this  world  by  myself. 
Ihit  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Bo  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein  ; 
For  I  scorn  tho  power  of  j'our  puny  hands. 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 


VZ'.i 


iJol)u  £otl)rop  illotlcij. 


Motlcj-  (1814-1877),  though  far  better  known  as  an  his- 
torian than  a  poet,  was  yet  the  author  of  verses  of  no  or- 
dinary promise.  He  was  a  native  of  Dorchester,  now  a 
part  of  Boston,  Mass.,  and  entered  Harvard  College  at  the 
early  ago  of  thirteen.  He  began  to  write,  and  to  write 
well,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  before  his  liftcenth  year. 
In  1833  he  went  to  Germany,  met  Bismarck  (afterward 
Prince  Bismarck)  at  (iottingen,  and  in  1833  was  his  fel- 
low-lodger, fellow-student,  and  boon  companion  at  Berlin. 

"We  lived,"  writes  Bismarck  (1878),  "in  the  closest 
intimacy,  sharing  meals  and  outdoor  exercise.  *  *  *  The 
most  striking  feature  of  his  handsome  and  delicate  ap- 
pearance was  uncommonly  large  and  beautiful  eyes.  He 
never  entered  a  drawing-room  without  exciting  the  cu- 
riosity and  sympathy  of  the  ladies."  Having  returned 
to  America  and  married  (1837),  Motley  put  forth  a  novel, 
"  Morton's  Hope,"  which  was  not  a  success.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  "  Merrj'-Mouut,"  also  a  failure. 

"  It  was  a  matter  of  course,"  he  writes,  "  that  I  should 
be  attacked  by  the  poetic  mania.  I  took  the  infection  at 
the  usual  time,  went  through  its  various  stages,  and  re- 
covered as  soon  as  could  be  expected."  In  1841  Motley 
was  Secretary  of  Legation  to  the  Russian  Mission.  In 
1850  he  commenced  those  historical  studies,  the  fruits  of 
which  gave  him  a  wide  and  still  flourishing  reputation. 
His  "  History  of  the  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  "  at  once 
established  his  literar.y  fame  both  in  Europe  and  Ameri- 
ca. It  was  translated  into  all  the  principal  languages  of 
Europe,  and  was  followed  by  a  "History  of  the  United 
Netherlands."  In  1861  he  was  appointed  by  President 
Lincoln  Minister  to  Austria,  and,  soon  after  the  election 
of  Grant,  became  Minister  to  England,  a  post  he  resigned 
in  1870.  In  1876  his  health  besan  to  fail,  and  there  were 
symptoms  of  paralysis,  though  his  intellectual  powers 
kept  bright.  He  died  the  following  year.  From  a  trib- 
ute to  his  memory  by  William  W.Story  (Oct.,  1877),  we 
quote  the  following  lines  : 

"Farewell,  dear  friend  !    For  us  the  grief  and  pain, 
Who  shall  not  see  thy  living  face  agaiu ; 
For  us  the  sad  yet  iK)ble  memories 
Of  lofty  ibonghts,  of  upward-looking  eyes, 
Of  warm  affections,  of  a  spirit  bright 
With  glancing  fancies  and  a  radiant  light. 
That,  flashing,  threw  avoinid  all  common  things 
Heroic  halos  and  imaginings : 
I^othing  of  this  can  fade  while  life  shall  last, 
But  brighten,  with  death's  shadow  o'er  it  cast. 

Ah,  noble  spirit,  whither  hast  thou  fled? 
What  doest  thon  amid  the  nnnumbered  dead? 
Oh,  say  not  'mid  the  dead,  for  what  hast  thou 
Among  the  dead  to  do?    No!  rather  now, 
If  Faith  and  Hope  are  not  a  wild  deceit. 
The  truly  living  thon  hast  gone  to  meet. 
The  noble  spiiits  purged  by  death,  whose  eye 
O'erpeers  the  brief  bounds  of  mortality; 
And  they  behold  thee  rising  there  afar. 
Serenely  clear  above  Time's  cloudy  bar. 
And  greet  thee  as  we  greet  a  rising  star." 

^[otley's  departure  from  this  life  took  place  near  Dor- 
chester, England ;  and,  by  his  own  wish,  only  the  dates 


of  his  birth  and  death  appear  upon  Iiis  gravestone,  with 
the  text  chosen  by  himself,  "In  God  is  light, and  in  Him 
is  no  darkness  at  all."  An  appreciative  and  interesting 
memoir  of  Motley  by  his  early  friend.  Dr.  f).  W.  Holmes, 
appeared  in  Boston  in  1879. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT   SYRACUSE. 

Is  this  the  stately  Syracuse, 

Broud  Corinth's  favorite  child, 
Hj'inued  by  immortal  Pindar's  mnse, — 

Thus  grovelling,  thus  defiled  ? 
Tamer  of  Agrigeutum's  might, 

And  Carthage's  compeer, — 
Humbler  of  Athens  in  the  fight ! 

And  art  thon  mouldering  here  ? 

Still  Syracuse's  cloudless  sun 

Shines  brightly  day  by  day, 
And,  as  'twas  Tnlly's  boast,  on  none 

Seems  to  withhold  his  ray  ; 
Still  blooms  her  myrtle  in  the  vale, 

Her  olive  on  the  hill. 
And  Flora's  gifts  perfume  the  gale 

With  countless  odors  still — 
The  myrtle  decks  no  hero's  sword, 

Bttt  ah  !   the  olive  waves. 
Type  of  inglorious  peace,  adored 

By  hosts  of  supple  slaves! 

Round  broken  shaft  and  mouldering  tombs. 

And  desecrated  shrine. 
The  wild  goat  bounds,  the  wild  rose  blooms, 

And  clings  the  clustering  vine  ; 
And  mark  that  loitering  shepherd-boy, 

Reclined  on  yonder  rock. 
His  listless  sumnKM-  hours  employ 

In  piping  to  his  flock  ! 
Ah  !   Danhnis  here,  in  earlier  day, 

By  laughing  nymphs  was  taught. 
While  Pan  rehearsed  the  artless  lay, 

With  tenderest  music  fraught ; 
Ay,  and  the  pastoral  mnso  inspired 

Upon  these  flowery  i)lains 
Theocritus,  the  silver-lj^red. 

With  sweeter,  loftier  strains. 

I  stood  on  Acradina's  height. 

Whose  marble  lieart  supplied 
The  bulwarks,  hewn  witli  matchless  might, 

Of  Syracuse's  pride. 
Where  Dionysins  built  liis  cave, 

And,  crouching,  crept  to  hear 


724 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BEITISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tbe  unconscious  curses  of  bis  slave 

Poured  in  the  "Tyrant's  Ear;" 
The  prison  where  the  Athenians  wept, 

And  hapless  Nicias  fell — 
"With  citrons  now  and  dowers  entwined 

The  friar's  quiet  coll ! 
The  fragrant  garden  there  is  warm, 

The  lizard  basking  lies. 
And,  mocking  desolation,  swarm 

The  painted  butterflies. 

I  stood  on  Acradiiia's  height, — 

And,  spread  for  miles  around. 
Vast  sculptured  fragments  met  my  sight, 

AVith  weeds  and  ivy  crowned ; 
Brightly  those  shattered  mai'bles  gleamed. 

In  wild  profusion  strown  ; 
Tbe  city's  whitening  bones,  they  seemed. 

To  bleach  and  moulder  thrown. 
I  gazed  along  the  purple  sea, 

OVt  La^strygonia's  plain, 
Whence  sprang  of  old,  spontaneously, 

Tbe  tall  and  bearded  grain, 
And  nourished  giants: — proudly  sweep 

Those  plains,  those  cornfields  wave ! 
Do  Titans  still  the  harvest  reap? 

Go  ask  yon  toiling  slave ! 

Brightly  in  yonder  azure  sky 

Old  Etna  lifts  his  head. 
Around  whose  glittering  shoulders  fly 

Dark  vapors,  wildly  spread. 
Say,  rises  still  that  ceaseless  smoke, 

Old  Vulcan's  tires  above, 
AVhere  Cyclops  forged,  with  sturdy  stroke, 

Tbe  tininder-bolts  of  .Tove  ? 

Mark,  wliere  the  gloomy  King  of  Hell 

Descended  with  bis  bride; 
By  Cyan6  her  girdle  fell, 

Yon  reedy  fountain's  side  ; 
Where  Proserpine  descended,  still 

Tlie  crystal  water  flows. 
Though  sullied  now,  that  sister  rill 

Wlicre  Aretbnsa  rose: — 
Ay,  while  I  gaze,  eternal  Greece! 

Thy  sunny  fables  throng 
Around  me,  like  the  swarming  bees 

(ireen  Ilybla's  mount  along — 
By  Enn.a's  plain,  by  Ilybla's  mount, 

By  yon  ^Enlian  isles, 
By  storied  clifV,  by  falded  fount. 

Still,  still  thy  gcuins  smiles! 


Alas !   bow  idle  to  recall 

Bright  myths  forever  fled, 
When  real  urns  lie  shattered  all, 

Where  slept  the  mighty  dead — 
Spurn  Fancy's  wing  for  History's  pen, 

Call  u]t  yon  glorious  host. 
Not  deniigo<ls,  but  godlike  men; 

luvoke  Timoleon's  ghost! 
Or  turn  where  starry  Science  weeps, 

And  tears  the  briers  that  hide 
The  tomb  where  Archimedes  sleeps. 

Her  victim  and  her  pride ! 

In  vain,  sweet  Sicily !  the  fate 

Of  Proserpine  is  thine, 
Chained  to  a  despot's  sceptred  state, 

A  crowuless  queen  to  pine — 
Thy  beauty  lured  the  Bourbon's  lust. 

And  Ceres  flings  her  horn. 
Which  scattered  plenty,  in  the  dust, 

Again,  her  child  to  mourn. 
All  desolated  lies  thy  shore, 

Fallow  thy  fertile  plains — 
And  shall  thy  sons  aspire  no  more 

To  burst  their  iron  chains  ? 
No ;   when  yon  buried  Titan  rears 

His  vast  and  peerless  form. 
By  Etna  crushed,  ten  thousand  years, 

Through  earthquake,  fire,  and  storm, — 
Shall  man,  arising  in  his  strength. 

Erect  and  proudly  stand. 
Spurning  the  tyrant's  weight  at  length, 

Tbe  Titan  of  the  land ! 


Cljarlcs  llladiaij. 

The  son  of  an  army-otiicer,  ^lackay  was  born  in  PciUi, 
Scotland,  in  1814.  His  first  vohime  of  poems  api>€:ir(il 
in  \S?A\  since  which  he  has  put  forth  some  twelve  more 
For  several  years  be  was  editor  of  tbe  lUuMrfttrd  LondiDt 
XcifH.  In  18.53  be  travelled  in  America.  His  Autobio;,'- 
raph}'  appeared  in  1877. 


rili:    WATCHER   OX  THE   TOWER. 

"  Wliat  dost  thou  see,  lone  watcher  on  the  tower? 
Is  tbe  day  breaking?     Comes  the  wished-for  hour? 
Tell  us  tbe  signs,  and  stretch  abroad  thy  hand, 
If  tilt'  bright  morning  dawns  upon   the  laud." 

"  The  stars  are  clear  above  me  ;   searcely  one 
Has  dimmed  its  rays,  in  reverence  to  the  sun  ; 
But  yet  I  see,  on  tbe  horizon's  verge, 
Souic  fair,  faint  streaks,  as  if  tbe  light  would  surge." 


CHARLES  MACKAY. 


725 


"  Look  forth  again,  O  Avatcber  ou  tho  tower ! 
The  people  wake  aud  languish  for  the  hour ; 
Long  have  they  dwelt  in  darkness,  aud  they  pino 
For  the  full  daylight  that  tliey  kuow  must  sliiue." 

"  I  see  not  well — the  morn  is  cloudy  still ; 
There  is  a  radiance  on  the  distant  hill ; 
Even  as  I  watch,  the  glory  seems  to  grow, 
But  the  stars  blink,  and  the  night  breezes  blow." 

"  And  is  that  all,  O  watcher  on  the  tower  ? 
Look  forth  again  ;  it  must  be  near  the  hour ; 
Dost  thou  not  see  tlie  snowy  mountain  copes, 
Aud    the    green    woods    beneath     them,    ou     the 
slopes  ?" 

"A  mist  envelops  them;   I  cannot  ti'ace 
Their  outline,  but  the  day  comes  ou  apace ; 
The  clouds  roll  up  in  gold  and  amber  flakes, 
Aud  all  the  stars  grow  dim.     The  morning  breaks." 

"  We  thank  thee,  lonely  watcher  on  the  tower ; 
But  look  again,  aud  tell  us  hour  by  hour 
All  thou  beholdest ;   many  of  us  die 
Ere  the  day  comes ;   oh,  give  them  a  reply." 

"  I  see  the  hill-tops  now  ;   aud  chanticleer 
Crows  his  prophetic  carol  ou  mine  ear ; 
I  see  the  distant  woods  aud  fields  of  corn, 
And  ocean  gleamiug  in  the  light  of  morn." 

"Again — again,  O  watcher  ou  the  tower! — - 
We  thirst  for  daylight,  and  we  bide  the  hour, 
Patient,  but  longing.     Tell  us,  shall  it  be 
A  bright,  calm,  glorious  daylight  for  the  free  ?" 

"  I  hope,  but  cannot  tell.     I  hear  a  song 
Vivid  as  day  itself;   aud  clear  aud  strong 
As  of  a  lark — young  prophet  of  the  noon — 
Pouring  in  sunlight  his  seraphic  tune." 

"What  doth  he  say,  O  watcher  of  the  tower? 
Is  he  a  prophet  ?     Doth  the  dawning  hour 
Inspire  his  nuisic  ?     Is  his  chant  snblime 
With  the  full  glories  of  tho  coming  time  f 

"He  prophesies — his  heart  is  full — his  lay 
Tells  of  the  brightness  of  a  peaceful  day ! 
A  day  not  cloudless,  nor  devoid  of  storm. 
But  sunny  for  the  most,  aud  clear  aud  warm." 

"  We  thank  thee,  watcher  ou  the  lonely  tower. 
For  all  thou  tellest.     Sings  he  of  an  hour 


When  Error  shall  decay,  and  Truth  grow  strong. 
When    Right    shall    rule    supreme    aud    vanquish 
Wrong  ?" 

"  He  sings  of  brotherhood,  aud  joy,  and  peace  ; 
Of  days  when  jealousies  aud  hate  shall  cease  ; 
When  war  shall  die,  and  man's  progressive  mind 
Soar  as  unfettered  as  its  God  designed." 

"  Well  done,  thou  watcher  ou  the  lonely  tower ! 
Is  the  day  breaking?   dawus  the  happy  hour? 
We  pine  to  see  it.     Tell  us  yet  again 
If  the  broad  daylight  breaks  upon  the  plain." 

"  It  breaks — it  comes — the  misty  shadows  fly — 
A  rosy  radiance  gleams  upon  the  sky ; 
The  mountain-tops  reflect  it  calm  aud  clear; 
The  plain  is  yet  in  shade,  hut  clay  is  near." 


THE  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

There's  a  good  time  eomiug,  boys, 

A  good  time  eomiug : 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 
But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

Of  the  good  time  eomiug. 
Cauuou-balls  may  aid  the  truth, 

But  thought's  a  weapon  stronger ; 
We'll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming; 
The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword, 
And  Right,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Worth,  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind. 

And  be  acknowledged  stronger  ; 
The  iiroper  impulse  has  been  given  ; — 

W^ait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 
War  iu  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then. 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  conuug,  boys, 
A  eood  time  cominsr : 


726 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  JXI)  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 

Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pridi-, 

And  nourish  all  the  stronger; 
And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
And  a  poor  man's  family 
Shall  not  be  his  misery 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Every  child  shall  be  a  help 

To  make  his  right  arui  stronger; 
The  happier  lie,  the  more  he  has ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  comiug : 
Little  children  shall  not  toil 
Under,  or  above,  the  soil 

In  the  good  time  coming ; 
But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields, 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger ; 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  Avrite ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 
The  people  shall  be  temperate, 
And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
They  shall  nse,  and  not  abuse. 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger; 
The  reformation  has  begun ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  comiug,  boys, 

A  good  time  comiug: 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can, 
Every  woman,  every  man, 

The  good  time  coming : 
Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 

Make  the  impulse  strongi^r ; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 


NATURE  AND  HER  LOVER. 

I  remember  the  time,  thou  roaring  sea, 
When  thy  voice  was  the  voice  of  lufiuity- 
A  joy,  and  a  dread,  aud  a  mystery. 


I  remember  the  time,  yo  young  May-flowers, 
When  your  odors  and  hues  in  the  fields  and  bowers 
Fell  on  my  soul,  as  in  grass  the  showers. 

I  remember  the  time,  thou  blustering  wind, 
When   thy   voice   iu  the   woods,  to   my   dreaming 

mind. 
Seemed  the  sigh  of  the  Earth  for  human  kind. 

I  remember  the  time,  ye  snn  and  stars. 

When  ye  raised  my  soul  from  mortal  bars, 

And  bore  it  through  heaven  iu  yonr  golden  cars. 

And  has  it  then  vanished,  that  dreadful  time  ? 
Are  the  winds  and  the  seas,  and  the  stars  sublime, 
Deaf  to  thy  soul  iu  its  manly  prime  ? 

Ah  no !   ah  no !   amid  sorrow  and  pain, 

AVhen  the  world  and  its  facts  oppress  my  brain, 

In  the  world  of  spirit  I  rove — I  reign. 

I  feel  a  deep  and  a  pure  delight 

In  the  luxuries  of  sound  and  sight — 

In  the  opening  day,  in  the  closing  night. 

The  voices  of  youth  go  with  me  still, 

Through  the  field  aud  the  wood,  o'er  the  plain  and 

the  hill- 
In  the  roar  of  the  sea,  in  the  laugh  of  the  rill  ; 

Everj'  flower  is  a  love  of  mine, 

Every  star  is  a  friend  divine: 

For  me  they  blossom,  for  me  they  shine. 

To  give  me  joy  the  oceans  roll. 

They  breathe  their  secrets  to  my  soul. 

With  me  they  sing,  with  mo  coudole. 

Man  cannot  harm  me  if  he  would  ; 

I  have  such  friends  for  my  every  mood, 

In  llio  overflowing  st)litude. 

Fate  cannot  touch  me,  nothing  can  stir 
To  put  disunion  or  hate  of  her 
'Twixt  Nature  and  her  worshipper. 

Sing  to  me,  flowers  ;    preach  to  me,  skies  ; 
Ye  landscapes,  glitter  in  mine  eyes ; 
Whisper,  ye  deeps,  your  mysteries. 

Sigh  to  me,  winds;  ye  forests,  nod; 
Speak  to  mo  ever  thou  flowery  sod  ; 
Ye  are  mine — all  miue — in  the  peace  of  God. 


FRANCIS  ALEXANDER  DURIVAGE. 


727 


J^vancis  ^Icvanbcr  Durioacic. 

AMERICAN. 

Diirivag;e  was  born  in  Boston  in  1814.  His  family  name 
was  Caillaud — du  rivage  being  a  territorial  title.  His  fa- 
ther, an  estimable  teaeher  of  the  Frcueh  language,  mar- 
ried a  sister  of  Edward  Everett.  Francis  acquired  early 
a  good  knowledge  of  French  and  Spanish.  Before  he  was 
seventeen,  he  edited  the  Amateur,  a  Boston  weekly  peri- 
odical. He  contributed  to  nearly  all  the  leading  maga- 
zines, and  became  noted  as  a  humorist.  A  collection  of 
his  papers,  under  the  signature  of  "The  Old  'Un,"  illus- 
trated by  Darley,  was  published  by  Carey  and  Hart  in 
1849.  He  visited  Europe  six  times,  chiefly  to  study  the 
great  art  collections.  He  is  favorably  known  as  an  ama- 
teur artist,  as  well  as  for  his  poetry.  "William  C.  Bryant 
and  Bayard  Taylor  were  among  the  literary  friends  who 
praised  and  valued  his  poetical  jiroductions,  the  dra- 
matic element  in  which  is  a  distinguishing  quality,  to 
which  they  owe  much  of  their  effect. 


ALL. 


There  liaugs  a  sabre,  and  there  a  rein 
With  a  rusty  buckle  and  green  cui-b-chaiu ; 
A  jiair  of  spurs  on  tlie  old  gray  wall 
And  a  mouldy  saddle — well,  that  is  all. 

Come  ont  to  the  stable,  it  is  not  far; 
The  nioss-growu  door  is  hanging  ajar. 
Look  \Yithin.     Here's  an  empty  stall 
"Where  once  stood  a  charger,  and  that  is  all. 

The  good  black  steed  came  riderless  home, 
Flecked  with  blood-drops  as  well  as  foam. 
Do  you  see  that  mound  where  the  dead  leaves  fall  ? 
The  good  black  horse  pined  to  death — that's  all. 

All?     O  God!   it  is  all  I  can  speak. 

Question  me  not.     I  am  old  aud  weak. 

His  saddle  and  sabre  hang  on  the  wall, 

And  his  horse  pined  to  death.     I  have  told  you  all! 


CHEZ  BRfiBANT. 

The  vicomte  is  wearing  a  brow  of  gloom 

As  he  mounts  the  stair  to  his  fcivorite  room. 

"  Breakfast  for  two !"  the  gardens  say, 

"  Then  the  pretty  young  lady  is  coming  to-day !" 

But  the  patron  mutters,  d  Dieu  ne  plaise! 

I  want  no  clients  from  Pere  la  Chaise. 

Silver  and  crystal !   a  splendid  show  ! 

Aud  a  damask  cloth  white  as  driven  snow. 


The  vicomte  sits  down  with  a  ghastly  air — 

His  vis-a-vis  is  au  empty  chair. 

But  he  calls  to  the  </arf oh,  "Autoine!      Viie! 

Place  a  stool  for  the  lady's  feet." 

"The  lady,  monsieur?"  (in  a  quavering  tone). 

"  Yes — when  have  you  known  me  to  breakfast  alone  ? 

Fill  up  her  glass!     Versez !    Versez ! 

You  see  how  white  are  her  cheeks  to-day. 

Sip  it,  my  darling,  'twas  ordered  for  thee." 

He  raises  his  glass,  "a  toi,  Mimi!" 

The  gargon  shudders,  for  nothing  is  there 

In  the  lady's  place  but  an  empty  chair. 

But  still,  Avith  an  air  of  fierce  unrest, 

The  vicomte  addresses  an  unseen  guest. 

"  Leave  us,  Antoine ;   we  have  much  to  say, 

Aud  time  is  precious  to  me  to-day." 

When  the  gargon  was  gone  he  sprang  up  with  a 

start : 
"  Mimi  is  dead  of  a  broken  heart. 
Could  I  think,  when  she  gave  it  with  generous  joy, 
A  woman's  heart  such  a  fragile  toy  ? 
Her  trim  little  figure  no  longer  I  see ! 
Would  I  were  lying  with  thee,  Mimi ! 
For  what  is  life  but  a  hell  to  me? 
What  splendor  aud  wealth  but  misery  V 
A  jet  of  flame  aud  a  whirl  of  smoke ! 
A  detonation  the  silence  broke. 
The  landlord  enters,  aud,  lying  there, 
Is  the  dead  vicomte,  with  a  stony  glare 
Rigidly  fixed  on  an  empty  chair. 
"  II  faut  avei'tir  le  commissaire! 
2Ia  foi!   Chez  Brebant  ces  choses  sont  rares!" 


JERRY. 


His  joyous  ueigh,  like  the  clarion's  strain, 
When  we  set  before  him  his  hay  aud  grain, 

And  the  rhythmic  beat 

Of  his  flying  feet. 
We  never,  never  shall  hear  again ; 

For  the  good  horse  sleeps 

Where  the  tall  grass  weeps, 
On  the  velvet  edge  of  the  emerald  plain, 
By  the  restless  waves  of  the  billowy  grain, 
And  never  will  answer  to  voice  or  rein. 

By  whip-cord  aud  steel  ho  was  never  stirred. 
For  he  only  needed  a  whispered  word, 
And  a  slackened  rein,  to  fly  like  a  bird. 

By  loving  hands  was  his  neck  caressed — 
Hands,  like  his  own  fleet  limbs,  at  rest. 


728 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEBIC  AX  POETRY. 


Tlirongb  blinding  snow,  in  tho  murkiest  night, 

With  never  ii  himp  in  heaven  alight — 

With  the  angry  river  a  sheet  of  foam, 

Swiftly  and  safely  he  boro  me  home; 

And  I  never  resigned  myself  to  sleep 

Till  I'd  rubbed  him  down  and  bedded  him  deep. 

If  I  ever  ean  sit  iu  the  saddle  again, 

With  foot  in  stirrup  and  hand  on  rein, 

I  shall  look  for  the  like  of  Jerry  in  vain. 

Steed  of  the  desert  or  jennet  of  Spain 

Would  ne'er  for  a  moment  make  me  forget 

My  favorite  horse,  my  children's  pet. 

With  his  soft  brown  eye  and  his  coat  of  jet. 

He  would  have  answered  the  trumpet's  peal. 

And  charged  on  cannon  and  splintering  steel ; 

But  humbler  tasks  did  his  worth  reveal. 

To  mill  and  to  market,  early  and  late ; 

On  the  brown  field,  tracing  the  furrow  straight ; 

Drawing  the  carriage  with  steadj-  gait — 

Whatever  the  duty  we  had  to  ask. 

Willingly  he  performed  his  task. 

And  when  his  life-work  was  all  complete, 

He  was  found  iu  his  stable,  dead  on  his  feet. 

Aud,  in  spite  of  each  and  every  fool 

Whose  brain  and  heart  are  hardened  by  rule, 

I  have  reached  the  conclusion  that  on  the  whole. 

The  horse  that  we  loved  possessed  a  soul ! 


Son  of  Sir  Aubrey  Dc  Vcre,  the  poet,  Dc  Vcre,  born 
in  Ireland  in  1814,  lias  published  several  productions  in 
verse :  "  The  Wuklenscs,  with  other  Poems  "  (1842) ;  "  The 
Infant  Bridal,  and  other  Poems"  (1864).  He  is  also  the 
author  of"  Sketches  of  Greece  and  Turkey  "  (18.50).  His 
poems  are  marked  by  refinement  and  delicacy  of  ex])res- 
sion,  united  with  rare  sweetness  in  the  versification. 
"This  gentle  poet  and  scholar,  the  most  spiritual  of  the 
Irish  poets,"  saj's  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman,  "  though  hampered 
by  a  too  rigid  adoption  of  Wordsworth's  theory,  often 
has  an  attractive  manner  of  his  own." 


THE  TRUE   BLESSEDNESS. 

Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  trod  the  ways 
Of  secular  delights,  nor  learned  the  lore 
Which  loftier  minds  are  studious  to  abhor: 
Bles.sdd  is  he  who  hath  not  sought  the  praise 
That  perishes,  the  rapture  that  betrays ; 
Who  hath  not  spent  in  Time's  vainglorious  war 
His  youth  ;  and  found — a  school-boy  at  fourscore  !- 
How  fatal  are  those  victories  which  raise 


Tlieir  iron  trophies  to  a  temple's  height 

On  trampled  Justice ;   who  desires  not  bliss, 

But  peace ;   and  yet,  when  summoned  to  the  fight, 

Combats  as  one  who  combats  in  the  sight 

Of  God  aud  of  His  angels,  seeking  this 

Alone,  how  best  to  glorify  the  right. 


ADOLESCENTUL^  AMAVERUNT  TE  NIMIS. 

"Behold!   the  wintry  rains  are  past; 
The  airs  of  midnight  hurt  no  more: 
The  young  maids  love  thee.     Come  at  last : 
Thou  lingerest  at  the  garden-door. 

"Blow  over  all  the  garden;   blow. 

Thou  wind  that  breatliest  of  the  south. 
Through  all  the  alleys  winding  low. 
With  dewy  wing  and  honeyed  mouth. 

"But  wheresoe'er  thou  wauderest,  shape 
Thy  mnsic  ever  to  one  Name: 
Thou  too,  clear  stream,  to  cave  and  cape 
Be  sure  thou  whisper  of  the  same. 

"  By  every  i.sle  and  bower  of  musk 
Thy  crystal  clasps,  as  on  it  curls. 
We  charge  thee,  breathe  it  to  the  dusk ; 
We  charge  thee,  grave  it  in  thy  pearls." 

The  stream  obeyed.     That  Name  he  bore 
Far  out  above  the  moonlit  tide. 

The  breeze  obeyed.     He  breathed  it  o'er 
The  unforgcttiiig  pines,  and  died. 


SONNET:   HOW  ALL  THINGS  ARE  SWEET. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  nnpereeived,  because  so  lleet ; 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in  sowing: 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtoiiped  the  wheat ; 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing : 
And  still,  oh  still,  their  dying  breath  is  sweet; 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still; 
And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to  prize  them 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them  or 
denies  them. 


JAMES  HEBDERWICE.— THOMAS  WESTWOOD. 


729 


lames  tjciibcruufk. 


Heddcrwick,  editor  oiThe  Glasgow  Citizen,  a  daily  news- 
paper, was  born  in  that  eitj'  in  1814.  He  studied  for  a 
time  at  the  Loudon  University,  tlicn  became  connected 
with  the  Press.  In  1854  he  publislied  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  and  in  1S59  his  "Lays  of  Middle  Age,  and  other 
Poems." 


FIRST   GRIEF. 

They  tell  rae  first  and  early  love 

Outlives  all  after-dreams ; 
Bnt  the  memory  of  a  first  great  grief 

To  me  more  lasting  seems. 

The  grief  that  marks  our  dawning  youth 

To  memory  ever  clings, 
And  o'er  the  path  of  future  years 

A  lengthened  shadow  flings. 

Oh  !   oft  niy  mind  recalls  the  hour 

When  to  my  father's  home 
Death  came,  an  uninvited  guest, 

From  his  dwelling  in  the  tomb. 

I  had  not  seen  his  face  before — 

I  shuddered  at  the  sight ; 
And  I  shudder  yet  to  think  npou 

The  anguish  of  that  night ! 

A  youthful  brow  and  ruddy  cheek 

Became  all  cold  and  wan  ; 
An  eye  grew  dim  in  which  the  light 

Of  radiant  fancy  shone. 

Cold  was  the  cheek,  and  cold  the  brow, 

The  eye  was  fixed  and  dim  ; 
And  one  there  mourned  a  brother  dead. 

Who  would  have  died  for  him ! 

I  know  not  if  'twas  summer  then, 

I  know  not  if  'twas  spring ; 
But  if  the  birds  sang  in  the  trees, 

I  did  not  hear  them  sing. 

If  flowers  came  forth  to  deck  the  earth, 

Tiieir  bloom  I  did  not  see ; 
I  looked  upon  one  withered  flower. 

And  none  else  bloomed  for  me ! 

A  sad  and  silent  time  it  was 
Within  that  house  of  woe; 


All  eyes  were  dim  and  overcast. 
And  every  voice  was  low. 

And  from  each  cheek  at  intervals 

The  blood  appeared  to  start, 
As  if  recalled  in  sudden  haste 

To  aid  the  sinking  heart. 

Softly  wo  trod,  as  if  afraid 

To  mar  the  sleeper's  sleep, 
And  stole  last  looks  of  his  sad  face 

For  memory  to  keep. 

With  him  the  agony  was  o'er. 

And  uow  the  pain  was  ours, 
As  thoughts  of  his  sweet  childhood  rose. 

Like  odor  from  dead  flowers. 

And  when  at  last  he  w^as  borne  afar 
From  this  world's  weary  strife. 

How  oft  in  thought  did  we  again 
Live  o'er  his  little  life ! 

His  every  look,  his  every  word. 

His  very  voice's  tone, 
Came  back  to  us  like  things  whose  worth 

Is  only  iirized  when  gone. 

That  grief  has  passed  with  yeai'S  away. 

And  joy  has  been  my  lot ; 
But  the  one  is  long  remembered. 

And  the  other  soon  forgot. 

The  gayest  hours  trip  lightly  bj'. 

And  leave  the  faintest  trace  ; 
But  the  deep,  deep  track  that  sorrow  wears 

No  time  can  e'er  eflace ! 


©Ijomas  111 CG till ooL>. 


Wcstwood,  a  native  of  England,  born  in  1814,  has  pro- 
duced "Beads  from  a  Kosary  "  (1843);  "The  Burden  of 
the  Bell"  (1S50) ;  "Berries  and  Blossoms"  (1855);  and 
"The  Quest  of  tlic  Sancgreal "  (1868)!  All  these  are  in 
verse.  His  most  popular  poem,  "Little  Bell,"  original- 
ly appeared  in  the  London  Athenceum.  He  says :  "  Though 
the  writer  is  a  childless  man,  he  has  a  love  and  reverence 
for  childhood  which  can  scarcely  be  surpassed." 


THE   PET   LAMB. 

Storm  upon  the  mountain,  night  upon  its  throne ! 
And  the  little  snow-white  lamb,  left  alone — alone  ! 


730 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Storm  tipou  tho  luonntain,  rainy  torrents  beating, 
Ami  tilt'  little  snow-wliitc  lunib,  bleating,  ever  bleat- 


Down  the  glen  the  shepherd  drives  his  flocks  afar; 
Through  the  murky  mist  and  cloud  shines  no  beacon 

star. 
Fast  he  hurries  onward,  never  liejirs  the  moan 
Of  the  pretty  snow-white  lamb,  left  alone — alone ! 

At  the  shepherd's  door-way  stands  his  little  son; 
Sees  the  sheep  come  trooping  home,  counts  them  one 

by  one ; 
Counts  them  full  and  fairly:  trace  he  fiudeth  none 
Of  the  little  snow-white  lamb,  left  alone — alone! 

Up  the  glen  he  races,  breasts  the  bitter  wind. 
Scours  across  the  plain,  and  leaves  wood  and  wold 

behind ! 
Storm  upon  the  mountain,  night  upon  its  throne : 
There  he  finds  the  little  lamb,  left  alone — alone ! 

Struggling,  panting,  sobbing,  kneeling  on  the  ground, 
Kound  the  pretty  creature's  neck  both  his  arms  are 

wound  ; 
Soon  within  his  bosom,  all  its  bleatings  done. 
Home  he  bears  tho  little  lamb,  left  alone — alone! 

Oh,  the  happy  faces  by  the  shepherd's  fire ! 

High  without  tho  tempest  roars,  but  the  laugh  rings 

higher. 
Young  and  old  together  make  that  joy  their  own, 
In  their  midst  tho  little  lamb,  left  alone — alone ! 


LITTLE  BELL. 

"He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  aud  bird  and  l)east." 

Coi.ERiDon's  '^Ancient  Mariner," 

Piped  the  Blackbird  on  the  beech  wood  spray, 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What's  your  name  ?"  quoth  he. 
"  What's  your  name  ?     Oh,  stop  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold." 

"Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks, 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming,  golden  locks, 

"  Bonnie  bird  !''  <iuoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"  Here's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 


And  the  Blackbird  piped ;  you  never  beard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird  ; 

Full  of  (juips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  fur  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  that  bonnie  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o'er  and  o'er, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  brown,  bright  eyes. 

Down    the    dell    she    tripped,  and    through    the 

glade : 
Peeped  the  Squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

Aud  from  out  the  tree. 
Swung  and  leaped  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear, 
Wliile  bold  Blackbird  piped,  that  all  might  hear, 

"  Little  Bell !"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern : 

"  S(iuirrel,  Squirrel !   to  your  task  return  ; 

Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  !  the  frisky  Squirrel  hies. 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes, 

And  adown  the  tree. 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  drop,  one  by  one — 
Hark !  how  Blackbird  pipes  to  sec  the  fun ! 

"Happy  Bell!"  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade  : 
"  Squirrel,  Squirrel,  from  the  nut-tree  shade, 
Bonnie  Blackbird,  if  you're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me !" 
Down  eame  Squirrel,  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonnie  Blackbird,  I  declare  ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share ; 

Ah  !   the  merry  three  ! 

And  the  while  those  frolic  playmates  twain, 
Piped  aud  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, — 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow. 
And  shine  oiit  iu  happy  overflow 

From  her  brown,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot,  at  close  of  day, 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms,  to  pray : 


THOMAS   WESTWOOD.  — WILLIAM  HENRY  CUTLER  HOSMER. 


rsi 


Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  prayiug  voice,  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 

"What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
•'  That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed. 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?" 
Low  and  soft,  oh !  very  low  and  soft. 
Crooned  the  Blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell!"  crooned  he. 

"Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  wiTli  angels'  care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm  ;   love,  deep  and  kind. 
Shall  watch  round,  and  leave  good  gifts  behind. 

Little  Bell,  for  thee  !" 


lUUliam  ijcnnj  Cujilcr  fiosmcr. 


Hosmer,  born  in  Avon,  N.  Y.,  in  1814,  graduated  at  Ho- 
bart  College,  Geneva.  He  engaged  in  the  practice  of  the 
law,  but  afterward  held  a  position  in  the  Custom-house. 
In  early  life  he  spent  much  of  his  time  among  the  Indians, 
and  some  of  his  poems  have  reference  to  their  tradi- 
tions. His  motlier  conversed  fluently  in  the  dialect  of 
the  Seneca  tribe,  and  thus  he  became  well  acquainted 
with  the  legends  of  which  he  made  use  in  his  romance 
of  "  Tonnondis."  In  1854  two  volumes  of  his  numerous 
poems  were  published  by  Kedfleld,  New  York. 


BLAKE'S  VISITANTS. 

"  Blake,  the  painter-poet,  conceived  that  he  had  formed  friend- 
ships with  distiuguished  individuals  of  antiquity.  He  asserted 
that  they  appeared  to  him,  and  were  luminous  and  majestic 
shadows.  The  most  propitious  time  for  their  visits  was  from 
nine  at  night  till  live  in  the  morning.'' 

The  stars  shed  a  dreamy  light — 

The  wind,  like  an  infant,  sighs ; 
My  lattice  gleams,  for  the  queeu  of  night 

Looks  through  with  her  soft,  bright  eyes. 

I  carry  the  mystic  key 

That  unlocks  the  mighty  Past, 
And,  ere  long,  the  dead  to  visit  me 

Will  wake  in  his  chambers  vast. 

The  gloom  of  the  grave  forsake, 
Ye  princes  who  ruled  of  yore ! 
For  the  painter  fain  to  life  would  wake 
Your  majestic  forms  once  more. 


Yc  brave,  witli  your  tossing  plumes, 
Ye  bards  of  the  pale,  high  brow ! 
Leave  the  starless  night  of  forgotten  tombs, — 
For  my  hand  feels  skilful  uow. 

They  come,  a  shadowy  throng. 

With  the  types  of  their  old  renown — 
The  Mantuan  bard,  with  his  wreath  of  song. 

The  monarch  with  robe  and  crown. 

Tliey  come ! — on  the  fatal  Ides 

Of  March  you  conqueror  fell ; 
For  the  rich,  green  leaf  of  the  laurel  hides 

His  baldness  of  forehead  well. 

I  know,  though  his  tongne  is  still. 

By  his  pale,  j)ale  lips  apart, 
The  Roman  who.se  spell  of  voice  could  thrill 

The  depths  of  the  coldest  heart — • 

And  behind  that  group  of  queens 

Bedight  in  superb  attire, 
How  mournfully  Lesbian  Sappho  leans 

Her  head  on  a  broken  lyre ! 

That  terrible  shade  I  know 

By  the  scowl  bis  visage  wears, 
And  the  Scottish  knight,  his  noble  foe, 

By  the  broad  claymore  he  bears. 

That  warrior  king  who  dyed 

In  Saracen  gore  the  sands, 
With  his  knightly  harness  on,  beside 

The  fiery  Soldan  stands. 

Ye  laurelled  of  old,  all  hail ! 

I  love,  in  the  gloom  of  night. 
To  rob  the  Past  of  his  cloudy  veil. 

And  gaze  on  your  features  bright. 

Ha !   the  first  bright  beam  of  dawn 

On  my  window  redly  plays. 
And  back  to  their  spirit  homes  have  gone 

The  mighty  of  other  days ! 


TO  A  LONG   SILENT  SISTER  OF  SONG. 

Where  art  thou,  wood-dove  of  Hesperian  climes. 

The  sweetest  minstrel  of  our  unshorn  bowers? 

In  dreams,  methinks,  I  faintly  hear  at  times 

All  echo  of  thy  silver-sounding  rhymes : 

Alas !   that  blight  should  fall  on  fairest  flowers. 

Eternal  silence  on  angelic  lips; — 

That  tender,  starry  eyes  should  know  eclipse, 

And  mourning  love  breathe  farewell  to  the  hours! 

Speak!  has  the  grave  closed  on  thee  evermore, 


732 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Daugbtcr  of  imisic  ? — hath  thy  goldou  luto, 
With  (lust  upon  its  broken  strings,  grown  mute ; 
Thy  fiiiicy,  rainbow-huocl,  forgot  to  soar? 
To  Inisli  tiiy  warbling  is  a  grievous  wrong — 
Come  back!   come  back  to  sunlijiht  and  to  song! 


illarion  |3aul  ^ivi). 

Miss  Alrd  is  a  native  of  Glasgow,  where  she  was  born 
in  1815.  In  1S4G  appeared  her  first  work,  "  The  Home  of 
the  Heart,  and  other  Poems;"  and  in  1853  a  volume  of 
prose  and  verse,  entitled  "  Heart  Histories."  Her  hymn, 
"  Far,  far  Away,"  is  sung  in  almost  every  Sunday-school 
in  Scotland.  Her  mother  was  a  niece  of  Hamilton  Paul 
(1773-1854),  a  Scottish  poet  of  some  note. 


FAR,  FAR  AWAY. 

Had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove,  I  wouhl  fly 

Far,  far  away ;  far,  far  away ; 
Where  uot  a  cloud  ever  darkeus  the  sky. 

Far,  fur  away  ;   far,  far  away  ; 
Fadeless  the  flowers  in  yon  Eden  that  T)low, 
Green,  green  the  bowers  where  the  still  waters  flow, 
Hearts,  like  their  garments,  as  pnre  as  the  suow. 

Far,  far  away  ;   far  away. 

There  never  trembles  a  sigh  of  regret, 

Far,  far  away  ;   far,  far  away  ; 
Stars  of  the  morning  in  glory  ne'er  set, 

Far,  far  away  ;  far,  far  away ; 
There  I  from  sorrow  ever  would  rest, 
Leaning  in  joy  on  Immanuel's  breast ; 
Tears  never  fall  in  the  homes  of  the  blessed. 

Far,  far  away ;   far  away. 

Friends,  there  united  in  gh)ry,  ne'er  part. 

Far,  far  away ;  far,  far  away ; 
One  is  their  temple,  their  home,  and  their  heart. 

Far,  far  away  ;   far,  far  away  ; 
Tiio  river  of  crystal,  the  city  of  gold. 
The  portals  of  pearl,  such  glory  untold, 
Tlionght  cannot  image,  and  tongue  hath  not  foM. 

Far,  far  away  ;   far  away. 

List !   what  yon  liarpers  on  golden  harps  phiy ; 

Come,  come  away  ;   come,  come  away  ; 
Falling  and  frail  is  yonr  cottage  of  clay; 

Come,  come  away  ;  come,  come  away ; 
Come  to  these  mansions,  there's  room  yet  for  you. 
Dwell  with  the  Friend  ever  faithful  and  true ; 
Sing  ye  the  song,  ever  old,  ever  new; 

Come,  come  away  ;   come  away. 


i^rcbcriflx  lllilliam  i^abcr. 

Fuher  (1815-lSOIJ)  was  originally  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  but  became  a  convert  to  the  Cath- 
olic religion,  and  a  priest  in  that  Church.  He  was  the. 
author  of  some  live  volumes  of  poems,  some  of  them  of 
singular  grace,  tenderness,  and  beauty.  He  wrote  "  The 
Cherwell  Water-Lily,  and  other  Poems"  (1840);  "The 
Styrian  Lake,  and  other  Poems"  (1842);  "Sir  Lancelot: 
a  Poem"  (1844);  "The  Rosary,  and  other  Poems"  (1845); 
and  several  papers  in  the  "Lives  of  the  English  Saints," 
edited  by  Dr.  Newman.  Fabcr  became  distinguished  as 
an  earnest  and  eloquent  preacher.  His  theological  writ- 
ings, after  his  conversion,  were  numerous  and  able. 


THE  LIFE  OF  TRUST. 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  His  part 
Upon  the  battle-field  of  earth. 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart ! 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God : 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  ns  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  wo  need  Him  most. 

Oh,  there  is  less  to  try  our  faith 

In  our  mysterious  creed 
Than  in  the  godless  look  of  earth, 

In  these  our  hours  of  need. 

Ill  masters  good;   good  seems  to  chaugc 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-pnrposcs. 

The  Church,  the  Sacraments,  the  Faith, 

Their  uphill  journey  take, 
Lose  here  what  there  they  gain,  and,  if 

We  lean  upon  them,  break. 

It  is  not  so,  but  so  it  looks. 

And  we  lose  courage  then, 
And  doubts  will  come  if  God  liath  kept 

His  promises  to  men. 

Ah!   God  is  other  than  we  think; 
His  ways  are  far  above, — 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FABER. 


r33 


Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 
Only  by  childlike  love. 

The  look,  the  fiishion  of  God's  ways. 

Love's  lifelong  study  ai*e; 
She  can  behold,  and  gness,  and  act, 

When  Reason  would  not  dare. 

She  hath  a  prudence  of  her  own ; 

Her  step  is  firm  and  free ; 
Yet  there  is  cautions  science  .too 

In  her  simplicity. 

Workman  of  God !   oh,  lose  not  heart. 

But  learn  what  God  is  like, 
And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 

Thoii  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Oh,  blessed  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
Tliat  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible! 

And  blessed  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie. 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye ! 

Oh,  learn  to  scorn  the  praise  of  men  ; 

Oh,  learn  to  lose  with  God! 
For  Jesus  won  tlie  world  through  shame, 

And  beckons  thee  his  road. 

God's  glory  is  a  wondrous  thing, 
Most  strange  in  all  its  ways. 

Anil,  of  all  things  on  earth,  least  like 
Wliat  men  agree  to  praise. 

As  He  can  endless  glory  weave 
From  time's  misjudging  shame. 

In  His  own  world  He  is  content 
To  play  a  losing  game. 

Muse  on  his  justice,  downcast  Soul! 

Muse,  and  take  better  heart ; 
Back  with  thine  angel  to  the  field. 

Good  luck  shall  crown  thy  part ! 

God's  justice  is  a  bed  where  we 

Our  anxious  hearts  may  lay, 
And,  weary  with  ourselves,  may  sleep 

Our  discontent  away. 


For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God, 
And  right  the  daj'  must  win  ; 

To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 
To  falter  would  be  sin ! 


HARSH  JUDGMENTS. 

O  God!   whose  thoughts  are  brightest  light, 

Whose  love  runs  always  clear, 
To  whose  kind  wisdom  sinning  souls. 

Amid  their  sins,  are  dear, — 

Sweeten  my  bitter-thoughted  heart 

Witb  charity  like  thine, 
Till  self  shall  be  the  only  spot 

On  earth  that  does  not  shine. 

Hard-hearteduess  dwells  not  with  souls 
Round  whom  thine  arms  are  drawn ; 

And  dark  thoughts  fade  away  in  grace, 
Like  cloud-spots  in  the  dawn. 

Time  was  when  I  believed  that  wrong 

lu  others  to  detect 
Was  part  of  genius,  and  a  gift 

To  cherish,  not  reject. 

Now,  better  taught  by  thee,  O  Lord ! 

This  truth  dawns  on  my  mind, 
The  best  effect  of  heavenly  light 

Is  earth's  false  eyes  to  blind. 

He  whom  no  praise  can  reach  is  aye 
Men's  least  attempts  approving: 

Whom  justice  makes  all-merciful. 
Omniscience  makes  all-loving. 

When  we  ourselves  least  kindly  are, 

We  deem  the  world  unkind : 
Dark  hearts,  in  flowers  where  honej'  lies. 

Only  the  poison  find. 

How  thou  canst  think  so  well  of  us. 

Yet  be  the  God  thou  art, 
Is  darkness  to  my  intellect. 

But  sunshine  to  my  heart. 

Yet  habits  linger  in  the  soul: 
More  grace,  O  Lord !  more  grace ; 

More  sweetness  from  thy  loving  heart, 
More  sunshine  from  thy  face ! 


734 


CYCLOrJWIA    OF  JHUTISJl   AX  J)   AMKUICAX  POETRY. 


^Ifrct)  Domett. 


Born  in  Ensland  al)ont  \H\h  (Mecording  to  some  au- 
thorities, in  tSll),  Domett  contributed  lyrics  to  Black- 
■ii'OOcVs  Mafjaziiic  as  early  as  18;J7.  But  he  became  a  great 
traveller,  and  passed  some  time  in  Australia— his  friends 
not  knowing  what  had  become  oC  him.  Browning  ad- 
dressed a  poem  to  him,  beginning — 

"What's  become  of  Waring 
Siucc  he  gave  us  all  the  slip. 
Chose  land-travel  or  seafaring 
Boots  and  chest,  or  staff  and  scrip. 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town  ?" 

Domett  does  not  seem  to  have  redeemed  the  high  prom- 
ise of  his  youth.  We  subjoin  one  of  the  best  of  his 
poems. 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

It  -n-as  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  iifty-threo 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  qneeti  of  lainl  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars. 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain  ; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago. 

'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night, 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome, 
lmi)atient,  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ; 
Triumplial  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway  ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away. 

In  tlie  solenni  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor : 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  i)assed,  for  naught 

Tnld  what  was  going  <ui  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars,  bis  only  thought — 

The  nir,  how  calm,  and  cold,  ami  thin, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

O  strange  indifierence !   low  and  high 
Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares ; 


The  earth  was  still,  but  knew  not  why, 

The  world  was  listening  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever! 
To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed 
Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
lu  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 


It  is  the  calm  and  silent  night! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  Joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

Tlio  darkness — charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn — 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  uew-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 


pi)ilip  James  Uailcti. 

Bailey,  a  native  of  Nottingham,  England,  was  born  in 
1810.  He  published  at  the  age  of  twenty  a  poem  entitled 
"Festus,"  which  passed  through  many  editions  both  in 
England  and  America.  Few  poems  have  so  inmiediately 
excited  so  much  attention.  It  was  followed  by  "The 
Angel  World"  (1&50).  "The  Mystic"  (ia>5),  "The  Age: 
a  Colloquial  Satire"  (18.58),  and  "  The  Universal  Hymn" 
(18(57).  No  one  of  these  had  a  success  equal  to  his  lirst 
juvenile  production. 


LOVE,  THE   END   OF  CREATED   BEING. 

FuoM  "  Festcs." 

Love  is  the  happy  privilege  of  the  mind — 

Love  is  the  reason  of  all  living  things. 

A  Trinity  there  seems  of  principles. 

Which  represent  and  rule  created  life — 

The  love  of  self,  our  fellows,  and  our  God. 

In  all  throughout  one  connnotr  feeling  reigns: 

Each  doth  maintain,  and  is  maintained  by  the  otlnM- 

All  are  compatible — all  needful ;    one 

To  life, — to  virtue  one, — and  one  to  bliss: 

Which  thus  together  make  the  power,  the  end. 

And  the  i)erfection  of  created  Being : 

From  thesci  three  principles  comes  »!very  di^Ml, 

Desire,  and  will,  and  reasoning,  good  or  bad; 

To  these  they  all  determine — sum  and  scheme: 

The  three  are  one  in  centre  and  in  round  ; 

Wra]>ping  the  world  of  life  as  do  the  skies 

Our  world.     Hail,  air  of  love,  by  which  we  live  I 

How  sweet,  how  fragrant!     Spirit,  though  iniseen  — 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY.— JOHN  GODFREY  SAKE. 


735 


Void  of  gross  sigu — is  scarce  a  simple  essence, 

Immortal,  immaterial,  though  it  be. 

One  only  simple  essence  liveth — Gotl, — 

Creator,  nncreate.     The  brutes  beneath. 

The  angels  high  above  us,  with  ourselves, 

Are  but  compounded  things  of  mind  and  form. 

In  all  things  animate  is  therefore  cored 

Au  elemental  sameness  of  existence  ; 

For  God,  being  Love,  in  love  created  all. 

As  he  contains  the  whole  and  penetrates. 

Seraphs  love  God,  and  angels  love  the  good : 

We  love  each  other ;   and  these  lower  lives, 

"Which  walk  the  earth  in  thousand  diverse  shapes. 

According  to  their  reason,  love  us  too : 

The  most  intelligent  aftect  us  most. 

Nay,  man's  chief  wisdom's  love — the  love  of  God. 

The  uew  religion — final,  perfect,  pure, — 

Was  that  of  Christ  and  love.    His  great  command — 

His  all-sufificing  precept — was't  not  love  ? 

Truly  to  love  ourselves  we  must  love  God, — ■ 

To  love  God  we  must  all  his  creatures  love, — 

To  love  his  creatures,  both  ourselves  and  him. 

Thus  love  is  all  that's  wise,  fair,  good,  and  happy ! 


THOUGHTS   FROM  "  FESTUS." 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years ;  in  thoughts, not  breaths; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.  He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best ; 
And  he  whose  heart  beats  quickest  lives  the  longest ; 
Lives  in  one  hour  more  than  in  years  do  some 
Whose  fat  blood  sleeps  as  it  slips  along  their  veins. 


Keep  the  spirit  pure 
From  worldly  taint  by  the  repellent  strength 
Of  virtue.     Think  on  noble  thoughts  and  deeds 
Ever ;   still  count  the  rosary  of  truth. 
And  practise  precepts  which  are  proven  wise. 
Walk  boldly  and  wisely  in  the  light  thou  hast : 
There  is  a  hand  above  will  help  thee  on. 
I  am  an  omuist,  and  believe  in  all 
Religions, — fragments  of  one  golden  world 
Yet  to  be  relit  in  its  place  in  heaven. 


ilolju  (5oL)frctj  0ai"£. 

AMERICAN. 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  the  humorous  poets  of 

America,  Saxe  was  born  in  Highgate,  Vt.,  in  1816,  and 

was  graduated  at  Middlebury  College  in  the  class  of 

1839.    After  practising  law  for  a  time,  he  abandoned  it 


for  literature,  editing,  and  lecturing.  lie  has  published 
several  volumes  of  poems,  wliicli  have  had  a  large  sale. 
For  some  time  lie  was  a  resident  of  Albany,  N.  Y. 


THE   SUPERFLUOUS  MAN. 

I  long  have  been  iiuzzled  to  guess. 

And  so  I  have  frequently  said. 
What  the  reason  could  really  be 

That  I  never  have  happened  to  wed  ; 
But  now  it  is  perfectly  clear 

I  am  under  a  natural  ban  ; 
Tlie  girls  are  already  assigned — 

And  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ! 

Those  clever  statistical  chaps 

Declare  the  numerical  run 
Of  women  and  men  in  the  world 

Is  Twenty  to  Twenty-and-oue  : 
And  hence  in  the  pairing,  you  see. 

Since  wooing  and  wedding  began, 
For  every  connubial  score 

They've  got  a  superfluous  man! 

By  twenties  and  twenties  they  go. 

And  giddily  rush  to  their  fate. 
For  none  of  the  number,  of  course. 

Can  fail  of  the  conjugal  mate  ; 
But  while  they  are  yielding  in  scores 

To  nature's  inflexible  plan, 
There's  never  a  woman  for  me, — 

For  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ! 

It  isn't  that  I  am  a  churl. 

To  solitude  over-inclined. 
It  isn't  that  I  am  at  fault 

In  morals  or  manners  or  mind  ; 
Then  what  is  the  reason,  you  ask, 

I'm  still  with  the  bachelor  clan  ? 
I  merely  was  numbered  amiss, — 

And  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ! 

It  isn't  that  I  am  in  want 

Of  personal  beauty  or  grace. 
For  many  a  man  with  a  wife 

Is  uglier  far  in  the  face : 
Indeed,  among  elegant  men 

I  fancy  myself  in  the  van  ; 
But  what  is  the  value  of  that, 

When  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ! 

Although  I  am  fond  of  the  girls. 
For  aught  I  could  ever  discern, 


7:\(i 


CTCLOrJWIA  OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


Tho  tender  emotiou  I  feel 

Is  one  that  tbey  never  rcliirii  ; 

'Tis  idle  to  quarrel  Avith  fate, 
For,  striig<fle  as  hard  as  1  can, 

They're  mated  already,  you  know, 
And  I'm  a  superfluous  man! 

No  wonder  I  grumble  at  times, 

With  women  so  pretty  and  plenty. 
To  know  that  I  never  was  born 

To  figure  as  one  of  the  Twenty ; 
But  yet,  when  the  average  lot 

With  critical  vision  I  scan, 
I  think  it  may  be  for  the  best 

That  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ! 


JUSTINE,  YOU   LOVE    ME   NOT! 

"  Ilelas  !  V01I8  ne  m'niniez  pas." — Piron. 

I  know,  Justine,  you  speak  me  fair 

As  often  as  we  meet ; 
And  'tis  a  luxurj'^,  I  swear, 

To  bear  a  voice  so  sweet ; 
And  yet  it  does  not  please  me  quite. 

The  civil  way  you've  got ; 
For  me  you're  something  too  polite — 

Justine,  you  love  me  not ! 

I  know,  Justine,  you  never  scold 

At  aught  that  I  may  do  : 
If  I  am  passionate,  or  cold, 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  you. 
"A  charming  temper,''  say  tho  men, 

"  To  smootb  a  husband's  lot :" 
I  wisli  'twere  rufiled  now  and  tiien — 

Justine,  you  love  me  not ! 

I  know,  Justine,  you  wear  a  smile 

As  beaming  as  the  sun  ; 
But  who  supposes  all  the  while 

It  shines  for  only  one  ? 
Tiiough  azure  skies  are  fair  to  sec, 

A  transient  cloudy  spot 
In  yours  would  promise  more  to  me — 

Justine,  you  love  me  not ! 

I  know,  Justine,  yon  make  my  name 

Your  eulogistic  tiienie. 
And  say — if  any  cliance  to  blame — 

You  hold  me  in  esteem. 
Sucb  words,  for  all  their  kindly  scope. 

Delight  me  not  a  jot ; 


Just  so  you  would  have  praised  the  Pope- 
Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

I  know,  Justine — for  I  have  heard 

What  friendly  voices  tell — 
You  do  not  blush  to  say  the  word, 

"  You  like  me  passing  well ;" 
And  thus  the  fatal  sound  I  bear 

That  seals  my  lonely  lot : 
There's  nothing  now  to  hope  or  fear — 

Justine,  you  lore  me  not ! 


JJIjilip  JJcuLiUton  Cooke. 


The  son  of  an  emhient  lawyer,  Cooke  (1816-18.50)  was  a 
native  of  Martinsbiiri;',  Va.  He  entered  Princeton  Col- 
li'i^c  at  fifteen,  studied  law  with  his  father,  and  before  he 
was  of  age  had  married  and  begun  practice.  He  was  ex- 
travagantly fond  of  field  sports,  and  grew  to  be  the  most 
famous  hunter  of  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  He  i^ublislicd 
a  volume  of  "  Froissart  Ballads  "  in  1.S47,  in  which  his 
"  Florence  Vane"  is  introduced  ;  wrote  novels  and  tales 
for  the  Southern  Literary  Messenfjer,  when  it  was  edited  bj' 
Poe ;  and  also  for  Grahani's  Marjazitie ;  and  became  an 
aceoniplished  man  of  letters  instead  of  a  busy  lawyer, 
lie  died  young,  of  pneumonia,  got  in  a  hunting  expedi- 
tion ;  leaving  one  son  and  several  daughters.  John  Es- 
ten  Cooke,  his  brother  (born  1830),  has  been  a  prolific  and 
interesting  writer,  chiefly  of  prose.  Of  Philip  he  says  : 
"  I  can  sum  up  my  brother's  character  by  saying  that  he 
was  an  admirable  type  of  a  sensitive,  refined,  and  high- 
ly cultivated  gentleman."  Impulsive  and  chivalrous,  he 
once  galloped  twenty  miles  to  throw  a  bouquet  into  the 
window  of  his  cousin,  the  "Florence  Vane ''  of  his  grace- 
ful little  lyiic,  which,  it  is  interesting  to  know,  was  the 
oirsi)ring  of  a  genuine  passion,  and  not  of  mere  fancy. 
He  was  profoundly  read  in  the  English  masters  of  verse, 
from  Chaucer  to  our  own  day. 


FLORENCE  VANE. 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane. 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early 

Hath  come  again  ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Tlie  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

Tlie  ruin  old. 
Where  thou  didst  nnvrk  my  story, 

At  even  told, — 


PHILir  VENBLETON  COOKE.— CHRISTOPHER   CHRISTIAN  COX. 


737 


That  spot — the  hues  Elysiau 
Of  sky  and  plain — 

I  treasure  iu  ray  vision, 
Florcuco  Vaue. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  tlian  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Floreuco  Yaue. 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  uuder — 

Alas  the  day ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vaue. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep. 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep : 
May  their  bloom  iu  beauty  vying 

Never  wane, 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane ! 


(llljvistopljcr  Cljiistian  €qx. 


Born  ill  Baltimore,  Md.,  iu  1816,  Cox  graduated  at  Yale 
College  in  1835 ;  was  admitted  to  practice  medicine  in 
1838;  was  Brigade-surgeon  of  the  United  States  in  1860, 
and  Surgeon -general  of  Marj'land  in  1863.  An  out- 
spoken upholder  of  the  Union,  he  was  elected  Lieuten- 
ant-governor of  Maryland  in  1865.  In  1869  he  received 
the  degree  of  LL.D.  from  Trinity  College,  Hartford.  In 
1871  he  was  President  of  the  Board  of  Health,  Washing- 
ton, D.  C. ;  and  in  18T9  was  sent  Commissioner  to  the 
World's  Fair  iu  Australia,  whence  he  returned  in  impair- 
ed health.  His  poems  have  appeared  mostly  in  the  mag- 
azines, and  arc  characterized  by  qualities  suggestive  of 
the  affectionate  nature,  the  tenderness,  and  intellectual 
grace,  which  endeared  the  writer  to  many  attached 
friends. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO. 

What  stars  have  faded  from  our  sky ! 
What  hopes  unfolded  but  to  die ! 
47 


What  dreams  so  fondly  pondered  o'er 
Forever  lost  the  hue  they  wore  : 
How  like  a  death-knell,  sad  and  slow, 
Eolls  through  the  soul, "  one  year  ago !" 

AVhere  is  the  fiieo  we  loved  to  greet  ? 
The  form  that  graced  the  lireside  seat? 
The  gentle  smile,  the  winning  way, 
That  blessed  our  life-path  day  by  day  ? 
Where  fled  those  accents  soft  and  low, 
That  thrilled  our  hearts  "  one  year  ago  ?" 

Ah!  vacant  is  the  fireside  chair. 
The  smile  that  won  uo  longer  there : 
From  door  and  hall,  from  porch  and  lawn, 
The  echo  of  that  voice  is  gone, 
And  we  who  linger  only  know 
How  much  was  lost  "  one  year  ago !" 

Beside  her  grave  the  marble  white 
Keeps  silent  guard  by  day  and  night ; 
Serene  she  sleeps,  nor  heeds  the  tread 
Of  footsteps  near  her  lowly  bed : 
Her  pulseless  breast  no  more  may  know 
The  pangs  of  life  "  one  year  ago." 

But  why  repine  ?     A  few  more  years, 

A  few  more  broken  sighs  and  tears, 

And  we,  enlisted  with  the  dead. 

Shall  follow  where  her  steps  have  led ; 

To  that  far  world  rejoicing  go 

To  which  she  passed  "one  year  ago." 


HASTE  NOT,  EEST  NOT. 

After  the  Gekman  of   Schillek. 

Without  haste,  without  rest: 
Bind  the  motto  to  thy  breast ; 
Bear  it  witli  thee  as  a  spell, 
Storm  or  sunshine,  guard  it  well ; 
Heed  not  flowers  that  round  thee  bloom- 
Bear  it  onward  to  the  tomb. 

Haste  not :   let  no  reckless  deed 
Mar  for  aye  the  spirit's  speed ; 
Ponder  well,  and  know  the  right — 
Forward  then  with  all  thy  might ! 
Haste  not :  years  cannot  atone 
For  one  reckless  action  done. 

Rest  not :   time  is  sweeping  by — 
Do  and  dare  before  thou  die : 


738 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AM)   AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


Somethiug  mighty,  and  sublime 
Leave  beliiiul  to  conquer  time  : 
Glorious  'tis  to  live  for  aye, 
When  these  forms  have  passed  away. 

Haste  not,  rest  not:   calmly  Avait ; 
Meekly  bear  the  storms  of  fate ; 
Duty  be  thy  iiolar  guide — 
Do  the  right  whate'er  betide ! 
Haste  not,  rest  not:   conflicts  past, 
Good  shall  crown  thy  work  at  last ! 


Cljavlcs  (C^amagc  (J:astman. 

AMERICAN. 

Eastman  (181G-1SG0)  was  a  native  of  Fryebuvi?,  Mc, 
the  son  of  a  watch-maker.  At  einliteen  he  became  a  stu- 
dent at  the  University  of  Vermont,  Burlington.  Here, 
to  maintain  himself,  he  tauu;ht  and  wrote  for  the  news- 
papers, and  finally  entered  upon  the  career  of  an  eilitor. 
In  1846  he  bouiiiit  the  Vermont  Patriot,  published  at 
Montpelier,  in  the  editorship  of  which  he  continued 
until  Ills  death.  An  edition  of  the  poems  of  Eastman, 
copyrighted  by  his  widow,  was  published  in  ^loutpelier, 
in  1880. 


SCENE    IN  A  VERMONT  WINTER. 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter-time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  l)e! 
The  roar  of  the  storm  is  heard  like  the  chime 

Of  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea. 
The  moon  is  full,  but  the  wings  to-night 
Of  the  furious  blast  dash  out  her  light ; 
And  over  the  sky,  from  south  to  north, 
Not  a  star  is  seen  as  the  storm  comes  forth 

In  the  strength  of  a  miglity  glee. 

All  (lay  had  t!i(^  snow  come  down — all  day. 

As  it  never  came  down  Ijcfore, 
Till  over  the  ground  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet  or  more. 
Tlio  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone  ; 
Tiie  Avindows  blocked  and  the  well-curb  gone  ; 
The  hay-stack  rose  to  a  mountain-lift ; 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 

As  the  night  set  in,  came  wind  and  hail, 
Wliile  the  air  grew  sharp  and  chill, 

And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  gale 
Was  heard  on  the  distant  hill  ; 

And  the  norther!   see!   on  the  mountain  peak, 

In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek! 


He  shouts  on  the  plain.  Ho !  ho ! 
He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow. 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will! 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  fouiul  abroad. 

In  the  hail  and  the  freezing  air, 
Lies  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  lield  by  the  road. 

With  the  snow  on  his  shaggy  hair. 
As  the  wind  drives,  see  him  crouch  and  growl. 
And  shut  his  eyes  with  a  dismal  howl ; 
Then,  to  shield  himself  from  the  cutting  sleet, 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet, — 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

An  old  man  came  from  the  town  to-night, 

But  he  lost  the  travelled  way ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod  with  main  and  might 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh ; 
But  deeper  still  the  snow-drifts  grew. 
And  colder  still  the  tierce  wind  blew  ; 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown, 
At  last  o'er  a  log  had  floundered  down. 

That  deep  in  a  hollow  lay. 

Many  a  plunge,  with  a  frenzied  snort, 

She  made  in  the  heavy  snow ; 
And  her  master  urged,  till  his  l)reath  grew  short. 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow ; 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight. 
His  hands  were  mnnb,  and  had  lost  their  might; 
So  he  struggled  back  again  to  his  sleigh. 
And  strove  to  shelter  him.self  till  day, 

With  his  coat  and  the  buflalo. 

lie  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein, 

Ti)  rouse  up  his  dying  steed; 
And  tlie  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 

For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
For  awhile  he  strives  with  a  wistful  cry 
To  catch  the  glance  of  his  drowsy  eye  ; 
And  wags  his  tail  wl)en  the  rude  winds  flap 
Tlie  skirts  of  his  co;it  across  his  lap. 

And  whines  that  he  takes  uo  heed. 

Tlie  wind  goes  down,  the  storm  is  o'er, 

*Tis  the  hour  of  midnight  past; 
The  forest  writhes,  and  bends  no  more 

In  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast. 
The  moon  looks  out  with  a  silver  light 
On  the  high  old  hills,  with  the  snow  all  white, 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
Of  ledge  and  tree,  and  ghostly  stump, 

On  the  silent  plain  are  cast. 


CHARLES  GAMAGE  EASTMAX.— THEODORE  MARTJX. 


7:3U 


But  colli  and  dead — by  the  hidden  log — 
Are  they  who  came  from  the  town  ; 

The  man  in  the  sleigh,  the  faithful  dog, 
And  the  beautiful  Morgan  brown  ! 

He  sits  in  his  sleigh ;   with  steady  grasp 

He  holds  the  reius  ia  his  icy  clasp; 

The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet, 

And  the  mare  half  seen  throngh  the  crusted  sleet 
Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 


THANATOS. 

Hush !   her  face  is  chill,  and  the  summer  blossom. 
Motionless  and  still,  lies  npou  her  bosom  ; 
On  the  shroud  so  white,  like  snow  in  winter  weather, 
Her  marble  hands  nnite  qnietly  together. 

Ah,  how  light  the  lid  on  the  thin  cheek  presses! 
Still  her  neck  is  hid  by  her  golden  tresses  ; 
And  the  lips,  that  Death  left  a  smile  to  sever, 
Part  to  woo  the  breath,  gone,  alas!   forever. 


^Ijcoborc  fHartin. 


Martin,  the  son  of  a  lawyer,  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in 
1816.  On  the  completion  of  his  studies  at  the  Univer- 
sity, he  qualified  himself  as  a  solicitor,  and  in  1846  es- 
tablished himself  in  that  capacity  in  London.  He  was 
associated  with  Aytoun  in  the  "Bon  Gaultier  Ballads," 
which  passed  through  twelve  editions.  But  it  was  by 
his  excellent  translations  from  Heine,  Goethe,  and  oth- 
er German  writers,  and  his  successful  version  of  Horace 
(1860),  that  he  won  most  fame.  In  1863  appeared  his 
"Poems,  Original  and  Translated:  printed  for  Private 
Circulation  ;"  and  in  187.5  the  lirst  volume  of  a  "Memoir 
of  Prince  Albert :"  a  work  prepared  under  the  Queen's 
authority,  and  the  second  volume  of  which  appeared  in 
1880,  when  he  was  knighted  by  the  Queen,  and  became 
Sir  Theodore  Martin.  In  18.51  he  was  married  to  Miss 
Helen  Faucit,  the  popular  and  accomplished  actress.  As 
a  lawyer  he  has  been  prominent  and  active. 


NAPOLEON'S  MIDNIGHT  REVIEW. 

TnoM  THE  German  of  Baron  Joseph  Christian  von  Zedlitz. 

At  midnight,  from  the  sullen  sleep 

Of  death  the  drummer  rose; 
The  night  winds  wail,  the  moonbeams  pale 

Are  bid  as  forth  he  goes ; 
With  solemn  air  and  measured  step 

He  paces  on  his  rounds. 
And  ever  and  anon  with  might 

The  doubling  drum  he  sounds. 


His  fleshless  arms  alteruatelj^ 

The  rattling  sticks  let  fall. 
By  turns  they  beat  in  rattliugs  meet 

ReveilliS  aud  roll-call; 
Oh  !   strangely  drear  fell  on  the  ear 

The  echoes  of  that  drum. 
Old  soldiers  from  their  graves  start  up 

And  to  its  summons  come. 

They  who  repose  'mong  Northern  snows, 

In  icy  cerements  lapped, 
Or  in  the  mould  of  Italy 

All  sweltering  are  wrapped, — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  oozy  Nile, 

Or  desert's  whirling  sand, 
Break  from  their  graves,  aud,  armdd  all. 

Spring  up  at  the  command. 

And  at  midnight,  from  death's  sullen  sleep. 

The  trumpeter  arose ; 
He  mounts  his  steed,  and  loud  and  long 

His  pealing  trumpet  blows ; 
Each  horseman  heard  it,  as  he  lay 

Deep  in  bis  gory  shroud. 
And  to  the  call  these  heroes  all 

On  airy  coursers  crowd. 

Deep  gash  and  scar  their  bodies  mar — 

They  were  a  ghastly  tile — ■ 
And  underneath  the  glittering  casques 

Their  bleached  skulls  grimly  smile; 
With  haughty  mien  they  grasp  their  swords 

Within  their  bony  bands, — 
'Twould  fright  the  brave  to  see  them  wave 

Their  long  aud  gleaming  brands. 

Aud  at  midnight,  from  the  sullen  sleep 

Of  death,  the  chief  arose. 
Behind  him  move  bis  oflScers, 

As  slowljr  forth  be  goes. 
His  hat  is  small — upon  his  coat 

No  star  or  crest  is  strung, 
And  by  his  side  a  little  sword — 

His  only  arms — is  hung. 

The  wan  moon  threw  a  livid  hue 

Acro.ss  the  mighty  plain. 
And  he  that  wore  the  little  hat 

Stepped  proudly  forth  again — 
And  well  these  grizzly  warriors 

Their  little  chieftain  knew. 
For  whom  they  left  their  graves  that  night 

To  muster  in  review. 


7A0 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"Present — recover  arms!"     The  cry 

Runs  rouucl  in  eaj^LM"  lium; 
Before  him  all  that  ho.st.  delilcs 

While  rolls  the  doiililiiii;  tlnini. 
"Halt!"  then  ho  calls — his  generals 

And  captains  cluster  near — 
lie  turns  to  one  that  stands  beside 

And  whisjiers  in  his  car. 

From  rank  to  rank,  from  rear  to  flank 

Jt  wings  along  the  Seine  ; 
The  word  that  chieftain  gives  is  "France!" 

The  answer—"  Sainte-IK^lene !" 
And  thus  departed  Ciesar  holds, 

At  midnight  hour  alway, 
The  grand  review  of  his  old  hands 

In  the  Champs  Elys6es. 


SIE  HABEN  MICH  GEQUALET. 

From  Heine. 

People  have  teased  and  vexed  me, 
Worried  me  early  and  late : 

Some  with  the  love  they  bore  me, 
Other  some  with  their  hate. 

They  drugged  my  glass  with  poison, 
They  poisoned  the  bread  I  ate : 

Some  with  the  love  they  bore  me, 
Other  some  with  their  hate. 

But  she  who  has  teased  and  vexed  me, 
And  worried  me  far  the  most — 

She  never  hated  me,  never, 

And  her  love  I  could  never  boast. 


THE  EXCELLENT  MAN. 
I'noM  Heine. 
They  gave  me  advice  and  counsel  in  store. 
Praised  me,  and  honored  me  more  and  more; 
Said  that  I  only  should  "wait  awhile," 
Offered  their  patronage,  too,  with  a  smile. 

But,  with  all  their  honor  and  nppr()))ation, 
I  should,  long  ago,  have  died  of  starvation, 
Had  there  not  come  an  excellent  man, 
Wlio  bravely  to  help  me  along  began. 

Good  fellow !   he  got  mo  the  food  I  ate, 
His  kindness  and  care  I  shall  never  forget; 
Yet  I  cannot  embrace  him,  though  other  folks  can, 
For  I  myself  am  this  excellent  num. 


CaLin  JJolju  £icott. 


'I'lio  aiillioress  (jl'tlic  worils  and  music  of  many  popu- 
lar and  spirited  songs,  Ladj'  Jolin  Scott  was  born  near 
Edinburgh,  about  the  year  1810.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Anne  Alicia  Spottiswoodc.  In  18ii6  she  married  Lord 
Joliu  Douglas  8cott,  who  died  in  1860.  She  sliows  gen- 
uine lyrical  power,  and  some  of  the  spirit  of  Ossian  in 
her  songs. 

LAMMEKMOOK. 

0  wild  and  stormy  Lammermoor! 
Would  I  could  feel  once  more 

The  cold  north  wind,  the  wintry  blast 
That  sweeps  thy  mountains  o'er. 

Would  I  could  see  thy  drifted  snow 
Deep,  deep  in  clench  and  glen, 

And  hear  the  scream  of  the  wild  birds, 
And  was  free  on  thy  hills  again! 

1  hate  this  dreary  Southern  land, 
I  weary  day  by  day 

For  the  inusic  of  thy  many  sti'cams 

In  the  birch-woods  far  away! 
From  all  I  love  they  banish  me, 

But  my  thoughts  they  cannot  chain  ; 
And  they  bear  me  back,  wild  Lammermoor! 

To  thy  distant  hills  again! 


ETTRICK. 

O  murmnriug  waters! 

Have  ye  no  message  for  me  ? 
Ye  come  from  the  hills  of  the  West, 

Where  his  step  wanders  free. 
Did  ho  not  Avhisper  my  name  ? 

Did  he  not  utter  one  word  ? 
And  trust  that  its  sound  o'er  the  rush 

Of  thy  streams  might  be  heard. 

O  murmuring  waters! 

The  sounds  of  the  moorlands  I  hear. 
The  scream  of  the  heron  and  eagle, 

'J'ho  bell  of  the  deer; 
The  rustling  of  heather  and  fern, 

The  shiver  of  grass  on  the  lea, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  from  the  hill, — 

Hast  thou  no  voice  for  me? 

O  murmuring  waters! 

Flow  on — ye  have  no  voice  for  me; 
Bear  the  wild  songs  of  the  hills 

To  the  depths  of  the  sea ! 


LADY  JOHN  SCOTT.— ROBERT  TRAILL  S PENCE  LOWELL.— FRANCES  BROWX. 


Ml 


Bright  stream,  from  the  founts  of  the  west, 
Rush  on  with  thy  music  ami  glee ! 

Oh !   to  he  borue  to  my  rest 
In  the  cohl  waves  with  thee! 


Uobcrt  Zva\[[  Spcncc  £ou)cU. 


Born  in  Boston  in  1816,  Lowell  graduated  at  Harvard 
in  18o3.  He  entered  tlie  ministry  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
in  1843,  and  olflciated  for  a  time  as  chaplain  to  the  Bish- 
op of  Newfoundland  and  Jamaica.  He  is  the  author  of 
"Tiie  New  Priest  in  Conception  Bay,"  a  novel ;  and  lie 
published,  in  1S60,  a  volume  of  poems.  He  is  a  brother 
of  James  Russell  Lowell,  the  poet. 


LOVE  DISPOSED   OF. 

Here  goes  Love !     Now  cut  him  clear, 

A  weight  about  his  neck  : 
If  he  linger  longer  here, 

Our  ship  will  be  a  wreck. 
Overboard !   overboard ! 

Down  let  him  go! 
lu  the  deep  he  may  sleep 

Where  the  corals  grow. 

He  said  he'd  woo  the  gentle  breeze, 

A  bright  tear  in  her  eye; 
But  she  was  false  or  hard  to  x^lease, 

Or  he  has  told  a  lie. 
Overboard!   overboard! 

Dowu  iu  the  sea 
He  may  find  a  truer  mind, 

Where  the  mermaids  be. 

He  sang  us  mauy  a  merry  song 

While  the  breeze  was  kind  ; 
But  he  has  been  lamenting  long 

The  falseness  of  the  wiud. 
Overboard !   overboard ! 

Under  the  wave 
Let  him  sing  where  smooth  shells  ring 

Iu  the  ocean's  cave. 

He  may  struggle ;   he  may  weep ; 

We'll  be  stern  and  cold ; 
His  grief  will  find,  within  the  deep. 

More  tears  than  can  be  told. 
He  has  gone  overboard ! 

We  will  float  on ; 
We  shall  find  a  truer  wind. 

Now  that  he  is  gone. 


i^ranccs  Broiun. 

Daughter  of  the  postmaster  of  Stranolar,  Ireland,  Miss 
Brown  was  born  in  ISIO.  When  only  eighteen  months 
old,  she  lost  her  eyesight  from  small-pox ;  and  the  de- 
velopment other  poetical  faculty  under  this  deprivation 
is  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  triumph  of  the  spiritual 
nature  over  physical  obstructions.  In  1847  appeared  her 
"Lyrics  and  Miscellaneous  Poems,"  and  she  has  since 
contributed  largely  to  periodical  works.  A  pension  of 
twenty  pounds  a  year  was  settled  on  her  by  government. 


LOSSES. 

Upon  the  white  sea-saud 

There  sat  a  pilgrim  baud. 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known. 

While  evening  waned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay. 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

One  spake  with  qxiivering  lip. 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship. 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone  dowu ; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe — 

For  a  fair  face,  long  ago. 
Lost  iu  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  ruth. 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ; 

And  one  upon  the  West 

Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest 
For  far-oif  hills  whereon  its  joys  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told, 
Some  spake  of  friends  who  were  their  trust  no  more. 

And  one  of  a  green  grave 

Beside  a  foreign  wave. 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done. 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free : 

"  Sad  losses  ye  have  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet. 
For  a  believing  heart  is  gone  from  me." 

"Alas,"  these  pilgrims  said, 
"For  the  living  and  the  dead — 

For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 
For  the  wrecks  of  laud  and  sea ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee. 

Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest  loss." 


742 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  liinTlsll  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Danib  Barltcr. 

AMERICAN, 

Barker  (181G-1874)  was  a  native  of  Exeter,  Me.  Wlicn 
seven  years  old  lie  lost  his  father,  and  thus  early  learned 
the  lesson  of  self-dependence.  He  was  educated  at  the 
Foxcroft  Academy,  and  became  himself  a  teacher;  then 
tried  the  trade  of  a  blacksmith,  but  liiially  qiialilied  him- 
self as  a  lawyer,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar.  Sympathy 
for  the  distressed  was  one  of  his  prominent  traits.  While 
he  repudiated  doijinas,  he  had  a  firm  faith  in  immortali- 
ty and  a  divine  Providence.  Uprij^ht  and  charitable,  he 
faithfullj"  practised  the  good  he  preached  in  his  unpre- 
tending verses.  A  collection  of  his  poems,  edited  by  his 
brother,  was  published  in  Hangor,  Me.,  in  1870. 


THE   COVEKED  BRIDGE. 

Tell  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary  form, 
There's  ii  world  of  the  iiurest  bliss, 

That  i.s  linked  as  that  soul  and  form  are  linked, 
By  a  covered  bridge  with  this. 

Yet  to  reach  that  realm  on  the  other  shore, 
We  must  pass  through  a  transient  gloom, 

And  must  walk  nn.secu,  unhelpcd,  and  alone, 
Through  that  covered  bridge — the  tomb. 

But  we  all  pass  over  on  equal  terms, 
For  the  universal  toll  / 

Is  the  outer  garb,  which  the  hand  of  God 
Has  flung  around  the  soul. 

Though  the  eye  is  dim,  and  the  bridge  is  dark. 

And  the  river  it  spans  is  wide. 
Yet  Faith  points  through  to  a  shining  mount 

That  looms  on  the  other  side. 

To  euabh-  our  feet,  in  the  next  day's  inarch, 

To  clinih  lip  that  golden  ridge, 
^Ve  must  all  lie  down  for  a  one  niglit's  rest 

Inside  of  the  covered  bridge. 


THE  UNDER   DOG   IN   THE   FIGHT. 

I  know  that  the  world — that  the  great  big  wcnld- 

From  the  peasant  up  to  the  king, 
Has  a  diflerent  tale  from  the  tale  I  tell, 

And  a  different  song  to  sing. 

But  for  me, — and  I  care  not  a  single  fig 
If  they  say  I  am  wrong  or  am  right, — 

I  shall  always  go  in  for  the  weaker  dog, 
For  the  under  dog  in  the  light. 


I  know  that  the  world — that  the  great  big  world — 

Will  never  a  moment  stop 
To  see  which  dog  may  be  iu  the  fault, 

But  will  shout  for  the  dog  on  top. 

But  for  me — I  never  shall  pause  to  ask 

Which  dog  may  be  iu  the  right — 
For  my  heart  will  beat,  while  it  beats  at  all, 

For  tbo  under  dog  iu  the  fight. 

Perchance  what  I've  said  I  had  better  not  said, 
Or,  'twere  better  I  had  .said  it  incog., 

But  with  heart  and  with  glass  filled  chock  to  the 
brim, — 
Here  is  luck  to  the  bottom  dog! 


<l1)c  I3rontc  i^amihi. 


Charlotte,  Emily,  and  Anne  Bronte  were  daughters 
of  the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte,  a  native  of  Ireland,  who  in 
1820  moved,  with  his  wife  and  ten  children,  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Ilaworth,  four  miles  from  Keighlcy,  England. 
His  income  was  one  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  a  year. 
The  three  daughters  showed  remarkable  literary  abili- 
ties. Charlotte  (1816-1855)  wrote  the  celebrated  novel 
of  "Jane  Eyre"  (1847),  and  became  famous.  Emily 
(1818-1848)  wrote  "  Wuthering  Heights  "  (1847),  a  novel ; 
and  Anne  (1820-1849)  wrote  "The  Tenant  of  Wildfell 
Hall,"  also  published  in  1847.  The  three  sisters  had 
published  in  1846  "Poems  by  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton 
Bell  " — pscudouymes  representing  Charlotte,  Emily,  and 
Anne  respectively.  Of  these  Emily  seems  to  have  shown 
the  most  decided  talent  for  poetry.  Charlotte  married 
(1854)  her  father's  curate,  Mr.  Nicholls,  but  died  the  next 
year.  An  interesting  memoir  of  her  by  Mrs.  Gaskcll  ap- 
peared in  1857.  The  other  two  sisters  died  young  and 
unmarried.  "The  bringing  out  our  book  of  poems," 
writes  Charlotte,  "  was  hard  work.  As  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, neither  we  nor  our  poems  were  at  all  wanted." 


LIFE. 
Charlotte  Bronte. 

Life,  believe,  is  not  a  dream, 

So  dai'k  as  sages  say ; 
Oft  .1  little  morning  rain 

Foretells  a  pleasant  day  : 
Sometimes  there  are  clouds  of  gloom. 

But  these  are  transient  all ; 
If  the  shower  will  make  the  roses  bloom, 

Oh,  why  lament  its  fall? 
Rapidly,  merrily, 

Life's  sunny  hours  flit  by, 
Gratefully,  cheerily. 

Enjoy  them  as  they  fly. 


THE  BB0NT£  family. 


74:? 


What  though  Death  at  times  steps  in, 

Aud  calls  our  Best  away  ? 
What  though  Sorrow  seems  to  Aviii, 

O'er  Hope  a  heavy  sway  ? 
Yet  Hope  agaiu  elastic  springs, 

Uncouquered,  though  she  fell ; 
Still  buoyant  are  her  goldeu  wings, 

Still  strong  to  bear  us  well. 
Manfnllj-,  fearlessly. 

The  day  of  trial  bear. 

For  gloriously,  victoriously. 

Can  courage  quell  despair! 


FROM   "THE  TEACHER'S  MONOLOGUE." 

Charlotte  Bronte. 

Life  will  be  gone  ere  I  have  lived ; 

Where  now  is  Life's  first  prime  ? 
Fve  worked  and  studied,  longed  and  grieved, 

Through  all  that  rosy  time. 
To  toil,  to  think,  to  long,  to  grieve — 

Is  siich  my  future  fate  ? 
The  morn  was  dreary,  must  the  eve 

Be  also  desolate  ? 
W^ell,  such  a  life  at  least  makes  Death 

A  welcome,  wished-for  friend  ; 
Then  aid  me,  Reason,  Patience,  Faith, 

To  sufl'er  to  the  end  I 


FROM  '•'  ANTICIPATION." 

Emily  Bronte. 

It  is  Hope's  spell  that  glorifies, 
Like  youth  to  my  maturer  eyes, 
All  Nature's  million  mysteries. 

The  fearful  and  the  fair : 
Hope  soothes  me  iu  the  griefs  I  know  ; 
She  lulls  my  pain  for  others'  woe, 
Aud  makes  me  strong  to  undergo 

What  I  am  born  to  bear. 

Glad  Comforter!   will  I  not  brave 
Uuawed  the  darkness  of  the  grave, — 
Nay,  smile  to  hear  Death's  billows  rave- 
Sustained,  my  Guide,  by  thee  ? 
The  more  unjust  seems  present  fate, 
The  more  my  spirit  swells  elate. 
Strong,  in  thy  strength,  to  anticijiate 
Rewardiu"-  destinv  ! 


A   DEATH   SCENE. 


Emily  Bronte. 


"  O  Day  !   he  cannot  die, 

When  thou  so  fair  art  shining! 

O  Suu !   in  such  a  glorious  sky. 
So  tranquilly  declining ; 

"  He  cannot  leave  thee  now. 

While  fresh  west  winds  are  blowing, 
Aud  all  around  his  youthful  brow 

Thy  cheerful  light  is  glowing ! 

"  Edward,  awake,  awake. 

The  golden  evening  gleams 
Warm  aud  bright  on  Arden's  lake — 

Arouse  thee  from  thy  dreams ! 

"Beside  thee,  on  my  knee, 

My  dearest  friend !   I  pray 
That  thou  to  cross  the  eternal  sea 

Would'st  yet  one  hour  delay  ; 

"  I  hear  its  billows  roar — 

I  see  them  foaming  high ; 
But  no  glimpse  of  a  further  shore 

Has  blessed  my  straining  eye. 

"  Believe  not  what  they  urge 

Of  Eden  isles  beyond  : 
Turn  back,  from  that  tempestuous  surge, 

To  thy  own  native  land. 

"It  is  not  death,  but  pain 

That  struggles  in  thy  breast — 

Naj',  rally,  Edward,  rouse  again  : 
I  cannot  let  thee  rest !" 

One  long  look  that  sore  reproved  me 
For  the  woe  I  could  not  bear — 

One  mule  look  of  suffering  moved  me 
To  repent  my  useless  prayer. 

And,  with  sudden  check,  the  heaving 

Of  distraction  passed  away  ; 
Not  a  sign  of  further  grieving 

Stin-ed  my  soul  that  awful  day. 

Paled  at  length,  the  sweet  sun  setting ; 

Sank  to  peace  the  twilight  breeze ; 
Summer  dews  fell  softly,  wetting 

Glen,  and  glade,  and  silent  trees. 


744 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Then  his  eyes  began  to  weary, 
"Weighed  beneath  a  mortal  sleep ; 

And  their  orbs  grew  strangely  dreary, 
Clouded,  even  as  they  would  weep. 

]5ut  they  wept  not,  but  they  changed  not, 
Never  moved,  and  never  closed  ; 

Troubled  still,  and  still  they  ranged  not — 
Wandered  not,  nor  yet  reposed ! 

So  I  knew  that  Uo  was  dying — 

Stooped  and  raised  his  languid  head ; 

Felt  no  breath,  and  heard  no  sighing, — 
So  I  knew  that  he  was  dead ! 


IF  THIS   BE  ALL. 
Anne  Bronte.' 

O  God!   if  this  indeed  bo  all 

That  Life  can  show  to  me  ; 
If  on  my  aching  brow  maj'  fall 

No  freshening  dew  from  Thee ; — 
If  with  no  brighter  light  than  this 

The  lamp  of  Hope  may  glow. 
And  I  may  only  dream  of  bliss, 

And  wake  to  weary  woe ; — 
If  friendship's  solace  must  decay. 

When  other  joys  are  gone. 
And  love  must  keei)  so  far  away. 

While  I  go  wandering  on, — 
Wandering  and  toiling  without  gain, 

Tho  slave  of  others'  will. 
With  constant  care  and  frequent  i^ain, 

Despised,  forgotten  still ; 
Grieving  to  look  on  vice  and  sin, 

Yet  powerless  to  quell 
Tlie  silent  current  from  within, 

The  outward  torrent's  swell : 
While  all  the  good  I  would  impart, 

The  feelings  I  would  share, 
Are  driven  backward  to  my  heart, 

And  turned  to  wormwood  there ; — 
If  clouds  must  ever  keep  from  sight 

The  glories  of  the  Sun, 
And  I  must  sutler  Winter's  blight 

Ere  Summer  is  begun ; — 
If  Life  must  be  so  full  of  care. 

Then  call  me  soon  to  Thee  ! 
Or  give  mo  strength  enough  to  bear 

My  load  of  misery. 

'  The  poems  of  Auue,  like  those  of  her  sisters,  have  a  marked 
personal  beariug. 


lUilliam  drllcni  (Hljanning. 

AMERICAN. 

A  nephew  of  the  eminent  American  preacher  (1780- 
1842)  of  the  same  name,  Clianning,  the  son  of  Dr.  Walter 
Ciianniiig,  a  well-known  physician,  was  born  in  Boston, 
1817.  lie  has  publi.slied  :  "  Poems,  First  Series  "  (184.S), 
"  Second  Series  "  (1847) ;  "  Youth  of  the  Poet  and  Paint- 
er, Psycholoi^ical  Essays  "  (1844) ;  "  Conversations  in 
Komc,  between  an  Artist,  a  Catholic,  and  a  Critic " 
(1)>17) ;  "  The  Woodman,  and  other  Poems  "  (1849).  His 
productions  arc  suggestive  of  reserved  power.  Emerson 
once  characterized  them  as  "  poetry  for  poets." 


TO  MY  COMFANIONS. 

Ye  heavy-hearted  mariners 

Who  sail  this  shore ! 
Yo  patient,  ye  who  labor 

Sitting  at  the  sweeping  oar, 
And  see  afar  the  flashing  sea-gulls  play 
On  the  free  waters,-^and  the  glad  bright  day 
Twine  Avitli  his  hand  the  spray ! 

From  out  your  dreariness, 

From  your  heart  weariness, 

I  speak,  for  I  am  yours 

On  these  gray  shores. 

Nay,  nay,  I  know  not,  mariners! 

What  cliffs  tliey  are 
That  high  uplift  their  smooth  dark  fronts, 

And  sadly  round  us  bar ; 
I  do  imagine  that  the  free  clouds  plaj' 
Above  those  eminent  heights;  that  somewhere  Day 
Ivides  his  triumphant  way. 

And  hath  secure  dominion 

Over  our  stern  oblivion, — 

But  see  no  path  thereout 

To  free  from  doubt. 


A  POET'S   HOPE. 

Lady,  tlierc  is  a  hope  that  all  men  have. 
Some  mercy  for  their  faults,  a  grassy  place 

To  rest  in,  and  a  flower-strewn,  gentle  grave; 
Another  hope  whidi  pnrilies  our  race, 

That  when  tliat  fearful  bourn  forever  past, 

Tliey  may  lind  rest, — and  rest  so  long  to  last ! 

I  seek  it  not,  I  ask  no  rest  forever. 

My  path  is  onward  to  the  farthest  shores, — 

Upbear  mo  in  your  arms,  unceasing  river! 

Tiiat  from  tho  soul's  clear  fountain  swiftly  iiours, 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CRJXXIXG.—UEXItY  DAVID   TUOREAU. 


745 


Motionless  uot,  until  tbo  end  is  won, 

Wliicli  now  I  feel  bath  scarcely  felt  the  snu ! 

To  feel,  to  know,  to  soar  unlimited^ 

'Mill  throngs  of  ligbt-wingeil  angels,  sweeping  far, 
And  pore  upon  tbe  realms  uuvisited, 

Tbat  tesselate  tbe  unseen,  uutbongbt  star, 
To  be  tbe  thing  that  now  I  feebly  dream 
Flashing  within  my  fiiintest,  deepest  gleam  ! 

Ah!   caverns  of  my  soul!   bow  thick  your  shade. 
Where  flows  tbat  life  by  which  I  faintly  see, — 

Wave  your  bright  torches,  for  I  need  your  aid. 
Golden-eyed  demons  of  my  ancestry ! 

Your  son,  though  blinded,  bath  a  light  within, 

A  heavenly  fire  which  ye  from  suns  did  win. 

0  Time  !   O   Death !   I  clasp  yon  in  my  arms. 
For  I  can  soothe  an  infinite  cold  sorrow. 

And  gaze  contented  on  your  icy  charms. 

And  that  wild  snow-pile  which  we  call  to-morrow; 
Sweep  on,  O  soft  and  azure-lidded  sky  ! 
Earth's  waters  to  your  gentle  gaze  reply. 

1  am  not  earth-born,  though  I  here  delay; 
Hope's  child,  I  summon  infiniter  powers. 

And  laugh  to  see  tbo  mild  and  sunny  day 

Smile  on  the  shrunk  and  thin  autumnal  hours ; 
I  laugh,  for  hope  hath  bajipy  place  with  me, — • 
If  my  bark  siuks,  'tis  to  another  sea. 


^twxxs  Pax)ib  iiljorcau. 

AMERICAN, 
Thoreau  (1817-1863)  was  a  native  of  Boston,  Mass.,  and 
was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1837.  His  father 
was  a  maker  of  lead -pencils  at  Concord.  Henry  sup- 
ported himself  by  surveying,  teaching  school,  carpenter- 
ing, and  other  work.  But  the  burdens  and  restrictions 
of  society  were  intolerable  to  his  free,  miconventional 
nature.  He  remained  single;  he  never  attended  church, 
never  voted,  and  never  paid  a  tax.  The  town-constable 
once  attempted  to  collect  a  poll-tax  of  him,  and  took 
him  to  jail ;  but  after  a  sliort  imprisonment  he  Avas  set 
at  liberty'.  In  184.5  he  built  for  himself  a  wooden  house, 
or  hut,  on  the  shore  of  Waldcn  Fond,  near  Concord,  and 
lived  there  several  years.  He  gives  this  account  of  liis 
expenses  for  a  year:  The  house  cost  bim  .*;:28  12}.<;  his 
crop  of  vegetables  was  valued  at  §23  44,  and  the  outgoes 
were  S14  T2}i.  The  cost  of  groceries  for  eight  moutlis 
was  $8  74,  and  for  clothing  §8  40.  Total  expenses  for  the 
year,  S61  99^^.  Thoreau  published  "A  Week  on  Concord 
and  Merrimae  Elvers"  (1849);  "Walden,  or  Life  in  the 
Woods  "  (1854) ;  "  Excursions  "  (1863) ;  "  Maine  Woods, 
Cape  Cod,  A  Yankee  in  Canada,  Letters  to  various  Per- 
sons "  (1865).    His  poetry  is  for  tbe  most  part  scattered 


through  his  prose  writings.  Some  of  it  was  contributed 
to  Tlic  Dial.  Tlic  thought  in  it  is  often  too  subtle  and 
recondite  to  be  traced  witliout  an  elfort.  In  a  letter 
wliich  Hawthorne  wrote  us,  under  date  of  Concord,  Oc- 
tober 31st,  1843,  we  find  this  pertinent  passage  :  "There 
is  a  gentleman  in  this  town  by  tlie  name  of  Thoreau,  a 
graduate  of  Cambridge,  and  a  fine  schohir,  especially  in 
old  English  literature — but  withal  a  wild,  irregular,  In- 
dian-like sort  of  fellow,  who  can  find  no  occupation  in 
life  that  suits  him.  He  writes,  and  sometimes — often, 
for  aught  I  know — very  well  indeed.  He  is  somewhat 
tinctured  with  transcendentalism  ;  but  *  *  *  is  a  genuine 
and  exquisite  observer  of  nature — a  character  almost  as 
rare  as  that  of  a  true  poet.  He  writes  poetry  also — for 
instance,  'To  the  Maiden  in  the  East,'  'The  Summer 
Rain,'  and  other  pieces  in  The  Dial  for  October,  which 
seem  to  be  very  careless  and  imperfect,  but  as  true  as 
bird -notes.  The  man  has  stuff  to  make  a  reputation 
of,  and  I  wish  you  would  find  it  consistent  with  your 
interest  to  aid  him  in  attaiuiug  that  object." 


SMOKE  IN  WINTEK. 

The  sluggish  smoke  curls  up  from  some  deep  dell, 
The  stifiened  air  exploring  in  the  dawn. 
And  making  slow  acquaintance  with  tbe  day  ; 
Delaying  now  upon  its  heavenward  course 
In  wreathed  loiterings  dallying  with  itself. 
With  as  uncertain  jinrpose  and  slow  deed, 
As  its  half-wakened  master  by  the  hearth. 
Whose  mind  still  slumbering  and  sluggish  thoughts 
Have  not  yet  swept  into  the  onward  current 
Of  the  new  day ; — and  now  it  streams  afar. 
The  while  the  chopper  goes  with  step  direct, 
And  mind  intent  to  swing  tbe  early  axe ! 

First  in  the  dusky  dawn  he  sends  abroad 
His  early  scout,  bis  emissary,  smoke. 
The  earliest,  latest  pilgrim  from  tbe  roof. 
To  feel  the  frosty  air,  inform  the  day ; 
And  while  he  crouches  still  beside  the  hearth. 
Nor  musters  courage  to  unbar  the  door, 
It  has  gone  down  the  glen  with  tbe  light  wind, 
And  o'er  the  plain  unfurled  its  venturous  wreath. 
Draped  the  tree-tops,  loitered  upon  the  hill, 
And  warmed  the  pinions  of  the  early  bird  ; 
And  now,  perchance,  high  in  tbe  crispy  air, 
Has  caught  sight  of  the  day  o'er  the  earth's  edge, 
And  greets  its  master's  eye  at  his  low  door. 
As  some  refulgent  cloud  in  the  upper  skj-. 


UPON   THE   liEAClT. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  tlie  beach. 
As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go ; 

My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 
Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 


M(i 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


My  sole  einploj'ment  'tis,  aud  scrnpulons  care, 
To  set  my  gains  beyond  the  reaeli  of  tides, — 

Eaeh  sniootlicr  ]>el)l)le,  and  caeh  slicll  more  rare, 
^^■lliell  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  eonlides. 

I  liavo  bnt  lew  companions  on  the  shore, — 
Tliey  scorn  the  strand  wlio  sail  upon  the  sea; 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  u[)()n  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view; 

Along  the  shore  my  haud  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  manj'  a  shipwrecked  crew. 


Cjoracc  Binucij  lllallacc. 

AMERICAN. 
Wallace  (1S17-1853)  was  a  native  of  Pliiladelpliia,  a 
nephew  of  the  eminent  jurist,  Horace  Binncy,  aud  a 
cousin  of  Horace  Binncy  Sargent.  He  graduated  at 
Priucctou  in  the  class  of  1835;  studied  both  medicine 
and  law,  but  practised  neither.  He  travelled  in  Europe 
between  1849  aud  1852,  and  died  in  Paris.  He  had  beeu 
intimate  with  the  celebrated  Comte,  much  of  whose  phi- 
losophy, however,  he  rejected.  His  first  publication  was 
"  Stanley,"  a  novel  written  at  the  age  of  twenty.  After 
his  death  appeared  "Art  and  Scenery  in  Europe,"  "Lit- 
erary Criticism,  and  other  Pajiers."  Daniel  Webster  said 
of  him  :  "  I  doubt  whether  history  displays  a  loftier  nat- 
ure, or  one  more  usefully  or  profoundly  cultivated,  at 
thirty  years  of  age." 

ODE   OX  THE   RHINE'S   RETURNING   INTO 
GERMANY  FROM   FRANCE. 

Oh  sweet  i.s  thy  current  by  town  and  by  tower, 
The  green  sunny  vale  and  the  dark  linden  bower; 
Thy  waves  as  they  dimple  smile  back  on  the  jtlain, 
And  Rhine,  ancient  river,  thou'rt  (Jernian  ugain  ! 

The  roses  are  sweeter,  the  air  is  more  free. 
More  blithe  is  the  song  of  the  bird  on  the  tree; 
The  yoke  of  the  mighty  is  brtdicn  in  twain, 
And  Ivhine,  dearest  river,  thou'rt  German  again  ! 

The  land  is  at  ])eaee  and  breaks  forth  into  song, 
The  hills,  in  their  echoes,  the  cadence  prolong. 
The  sons  of  the  forest  take  up  the  glad  strain, 
"Our  Rliine,  our  own  river,  is  German  again  I"' 

Thy  daughters,  sweet  river,  thy  daughters  so  fair, 
With  their  eyes  of  dark  azui'c  and  soft,  sunny  hair, 
Repeat  'mid  their  dances  at  evo  on  tlio  plain, 
"Our  Rhine,  our  own  river,  is  (Jerman  again!"' 


a51i^a  Cook. 

Born  in  SouthwarU,  London,  in  1817,  the  daughter  of  a 
tradesnum,  Miss  Cook  published  in  1840  a  volume  enti- 
tled "  Melaia,  and  other  Poems."  Slic  contributed  a 
gieat  variety  of  short  poems  to  periodical  works,  and  in 
184!)  established  a  weekly — Eliza  Cook's  Journal — which 
had  a  fair  success  from  1849  to  1853,  when  failing  health 
comiielled  her  to  give  it  up.  She  seems  to  have  had  that 
"  fatal  facility  "  in  rhyming  wliich  is  a  bar  to  excellence  ; 
but  many  of  her  poems  are  spirited  and  pleasing.  In 
1804  she  received  a  literary  jjcnsiou  of  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  In  1874  an  edition  of  her  complete  poet- 
ical works  was  published.  The  "Old  Arm-chair"  was 
set  to  music,  and  became  quite  a  po^jular  song. 


THE   OLD   ARM-CHAIR. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  mo  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair? 

I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  ])rize, 

I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  aud  embalmed  it  with 

sighs ; 
'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 
Not  a  tic  Avill  break,  not  a  link  Avill  start. 
Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ?   a  mother  sat  there. 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give. 

To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide. 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer. 

As  I  kuelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  Avatched  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim  and  her  locks  were  gray  ; 

And  I  almost  Avorshipped  her  when  she  smiled 

And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  lier  child. 

Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped — 

My  idol  Avas  shattered,  my  earth-star  lied  ; 

I  learned  how  much  the  heart  can  bear. 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'Tis  past  !   'tis  past !  bnt  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  (piivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow: 
'Twas  there  she  nui-scd  me,  'twas  there  she  died  : 
And  memory  Hows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak. 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek; 
Hut  I  loA-e  it,  I  loA'o  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  nmther's  old  arm-chair. 


MRS.  EMILY  JUDSON.— THOMAS   BURBIDGE. 


747 


illrs.  (I:milv)  3ui)son. 

AMERICAN. 

Mifs  Clmbbuck  (ISl 7-1854)  was  a  native  ofMorrisville, 
N.  Y.  At  an  early  age  she  went  to  Utica  as  a  teacher, 
and  there  made  her  first  attempts  at  authorship.  She 
■wrote  under  the  assumed  name  of  Fanny  Forrester,  and 
published  a  collection  of  her  essays  and  sketches  in  two 
volumes  under  the  title  of  "  Alderbrook."  This  work 
had  quite  a  success.  In  1846  she  married  Dr.  Judson,  the 
missionary,  and  sailed  for  Burmah.  She  returned  home 
after  her  husband's  decease,  but  followed  him  soon  after. 


WATCHING. 
Sleep,  love,  sleep ! 
The  dusty  day  is  done. 

Lo !   from  afar  the  freshening  breezes  sweep. 
Wild  over  groves  of  balm, 
Down  from  the  towering  palm, 
In  at  the  open  casement  cooling  run, 
And  round  tby  lowly  bed, 
Tby  bed  of  pain, 
Bathing  tby  patient  bead, 
Like  grateful  sbowers  of  rain. 
They  come ; 

While  the  white  curtains,  wavering  to  and  fro. 
Fan  the  sick  air. 

And  pityingly  the  sbadows  come  and  go, 
With  gentle  human  care. 
Compassionate  and  dumb. 

The  dusty  day  is  done, 

The  night  begun  ; 

While  prayerful  watcb  I  keep. 

Sleep,  love,  .sleep  I 

Is  there  no  magic  in  the  touch 

Of  fingers  thou  dost  love  so  much  ? 

Fain  would  they  scatter  poppies  o'er  thee  now  ; 

Or,  with  a  soft  caress, 

The  tremulous  lip  its  own  nepenthe  press 

Upon  the  weary  lid  and  aching  brow. 

While  prayerful  watcb  I  keep — 

Sleep,  love,  sleej) ! 

On  the  pagoda  spire 

The  bells  are  swinging. 

Their  little  golden  circles  in  a  flutter 

With  tales  the  wooing  winds  bave  dared  to  utter. 

Till  all  are  singing 

As  if  a  choir 

Of  golden-nested  birds  in  heaven  were  singing; 

And  with  a  lulling  sound 

The  music  floats  around, 


And  drops  like  balm  into  the  drowsy  ear; 

Commingling  with  the  bum 

Of  the  Sepoy's  distant  drum. 

And  lazy  beetle  ever  droning  near, — 

Sounds  these  of  deepest  silence  born 

Like  night  made  visible  by  morn ; 

So  silent  that  I  sometimes  start 

To  bear  the  tbrobbiugs  of  my  heart. 

And  watcb  with  shivering  sense  of  pain 

To  see  thy  pale  lids  lift  again. 

The  lizard,  with  bis  mouse-like  eyes. 

Peeps  from  the  mortise  in  surpri.se 

At  such  strange  quiet  of  the  day's  harsh  din  ; 

Then  ventures  boldly  out. 

And  looks  about, 

And  with  bis  hollow  feet 

Treads  bis  small  evening  beat. 

Darting  upon  his  prey 

In  such  a  tricksy,  winsome  sort  of  way. 

His  delicate  marauding  seems  uo  sin. 

And  still  the  curtains  swing, 

But  noiselessly ; 

Tlie  bells  a  melancholy  murmur  ring. 

As  tears  were  in  the  sky  ; 

More  heavily  the  sbadows  fall 

Like  the  black  foldings  of  a  pall. 

Where  juts  the  rough  beam  from  the  wall; 

The  candles  flare 

With  fresher  gusts  of  air ; 

The  beetle's  drone 

Turns  to  a  dirge-like,  solitary  moan  ; 

Night  deepens,  and  I  sit,  in  cheerful  doubt,  alone. 


ttljomas  Burbiiicic. 


Burbidge,  the  friend  and  school-mate  of  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  published  with  him  in  1849  a  volume  of  poems 
under  tlie  title  of  "  Ambarvalia."  He  was  born  in  Eng- 
land in  1817. 


SONNET. 

Oh  leave  thyself  to  God!   and  if  indeed 
'Tis  given  thee  to  perform  so  vast  a  task, 
Thinlc  not  at  all — think  not,  but  kneel  and  ask. 
O  friend,  by  thought  was  never  creature  freed 
From  any  sin,  from  any  mortal  need: 
Be  patient!   not  by  thought  canst  thou  devise 
What  course  of  life  for  thee  is  right  and  wise ; 
It  will  be  written  up,  and  thou  wilt  read. 
Oft  like  a  sudden  pencil  of  rich  ligiit. 
Piercing  the  thickest  umbrage  of  tlie  wood, 


748 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Will  shoot,  amid  our  troubles  iiifuiito, 

Tlio  Spirit's  voice;   oft,  like  the  balmy  Hood 

Of  morn,  surprise  the  universal  night 

With  glory,  and  make  all  things  sweet  and  good. 


EVEN-TIDE. 

Comes  something  down  with  even-tide 
Beside  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 

Beside  the  floating  scents,  beside 

The  twinkling  shadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  rippling  face, 

Flash  after  flash  the  white 
Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place ; 

The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream  ; — 
How  many  a  marvellous  power 

Sleeps  ia  us, — sleeps,  and  doth  uot  dream ! 
This  knew  I  in  that  hour. 

For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 

No  more  was  iu  me  stirred ; 
My  life  Avas  in  the  river's  life, 

And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river  we  were  one : 

Tlie  shade  beneath  the  bank, 
I  felt  it  cool ;   the  setting  sun 

Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was  ;    the  mystery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been, 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  an  hour? 

I  knew  not ;   but  I  mourned 
When  from  that  realm  of  awful  j)ower 

I  to  these  fields  returned. 


Samcs  ^.  i'iclbs. 

AMERICAN. 
Fields  was  born  in  1817,  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.  While 
yet  a  child  he  lost  his  father,  a  sea-captain.  He  became 
a  clerk  in  a  Boston  book-store,  tliougli  he  had  been  lil- 
ted for  college,  and  his  tastes  were  literary.  Successful 
as  a  publisher,  he  withdrew  from  business  iu  1803,  and 
attained  \\vj;\\  popularity  as  a  lecturer.  In  his  few  poems 
he  shows  a  delicate  fancy  and  a  fine  lyrical  vein.  His 
volumes  of  verse  have  been  printed  for  private  circula- 
tion only. 


LAST  WOKDS  IN  A  STRANGE  LAND. 

Oh  to  bo  homo  again,  home  again,  home  again  ! 

Under  tlie  apple-boughs,  down  by  the  mill ; 
Mother  is  calling  me,  father  is  calling  me. 

Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  be  wandering,  wandering 
Through  the  green  meadows  and  over  the  hill  ; 

Sisters  are  calling  me,  brothers  are  calling  me. 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still. 

Oh,  onco  more  to  bo  home  again,  home  again. 
Dark  grows  my  sight,  and  the  evening  is  chill, — 

Do  you  not  hear  how  the  voices  are  calling  me, 
Calling  me,  calling  me,  calling  me  still? 


AGASSIZ. 

Once  iu  the  leafy  prime  of  Spring, 
When  blossoms  whitened  every  thorn, 

I  wandered  through  the  Yale  of  Orbe, 
Where  Agassiz  was  born. 

The  birds  in  boyhood  he  had  known, 
Went  flitting  through  the  air  of  May, 

And  happy  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 
Made  all  the  landscape  gay. 

I  saw  the  streamlet  from  the  hills 

Run  laughing  through  the  valleys  green. 

And,  as  I  watched  it  run,  I  said, 
"  This  his  dear  eyes  have  seen !" 

Far  clift's  of  ice  his  feet  had  climbed 
That  day  outspoke  of  him  to  me ; 

The  avalanches  seemed  to  sound 
The  name  of  Agassiz ! 

And  standing  on  the  mountain  crag. 
Where  loosened  waters  ru.sh  and  foam, 

I  felt  that,  though  on  Cambridge  side, 
He  made  that  spot  my  home. 

And  looking  round  mc  as  I  mused, 
I  knew  no  pang  of  fear  or  care, 

Or  homesick  Aveariness,  because 
Once  Agassiz  stood  there  ! 

I  walked  beneath  no  alien  skies. 
No  foreign  heights  I  came  to  tread, 

For  everywhere  I  looked,  I  saw 
His  grand,  bclovdd  head. 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS.— DENIS  F.  MCCARTHY.— MBS.  ELIZABETH  FRIES  ELLET. 


749 


His  smile  was  stamped  on  every  tree, 
The  glacier  sboiie  to  gild  bis  name, 

And  every  image  in  the  lake 
Kcflected  back  bis  fame. 

Great  keeper  of  the  magic  keys 
That  could  unlock  the  magic  gates 

"Where  Science  like  a  monarch  stands, 
And  sacred  Knowledge  waits, — 

Thine  ashes  rest  on  Auburn's  banks, 
Thy  memory  all  the  world  contains, 

For  thou  couldst  bind  in  human  love 
All  hearts  in  golden  chains  I 

Thine  was  the  heaven-born  spell  that  sets 
Our  warm  and  deep  aifections  free, — 

"Who  knew  thee  best  must  love  thee  best. 
And  loncest  mourn  for  thee! 


Penis  i'lorcncc  fllc(JIartl)ij. 

Born  in  Ireland  in  1817,  McCarthy  published  in  1853 
an  excellent  translation  of  some  of  the  Spanish  dramas 
of  Calderon.  He  is  also  the  author  of  "Ballads,  Poems, 
and  other  Lyrics"  (1850),  "Under  Glimpses,  and  other 
Poems"  (1857),  "Bell-Founder,  and  other  Poems"  (1857), 
"Shelley's  Early  Life"  (1872). 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Las  mauauas  floridas 

De  Abril  y  Mayo.— Caldeeon. 

Ah  !   my  heart  is  weary  waiting. 
Waiting  for  the  May — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles. 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah  !   my  heart  is  weary  waiting. 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah !   my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May  — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study. 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy. 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer  day. 
Ah  !   my  heart  is  sick  with  longing. 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah !   my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May — 


Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers,  that,  dead  or  dying, 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah  !   my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah !   my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May — 
Throbbing  for  the  sea-side  billows, 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows; 

Where  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing, 

Glide  the  streams  away. 
Ah  !   my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May. 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sun-bright  mornings — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary. 

Life  still  ebbs  away — 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  Mav ! 


illvG.  Ora^abctl)  irics  Orllct. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Ellet,  whose  maiden  name  was  Lummis,  was  a 
native  of  Sodus,  N.  Y.,and  born  in  1818.  She  married 
early  in  life  Professor  W.  H.  Ellet.  She  has  published 
"  Poems,  Original  and  Selected,"  and  numerous  prose 
works,  of  which  her  "  Women  of  the  American  Kevolu- 
tion  "  has  passed  through  many  editions. 


SONNET. 

O  weary  heart,  there  is  a  rest  for  thee ! 
O  truant  heart,  there  is  a  bless6d  home. 
An  isle  of  gladness  on  life's  wayward  sea, 
Where  storms  that  vex  the  waters  never  come ! 
There  trees  perennial  yield  their  balmy  shade ; 
There  flower-wreathed  hills  in  sunlit  beauty  sleep  ; 
There  meek  streams  murmur  through  the  verdant 

glade ; 
There  heaven  bends  smiling  o'er  the  placid  deep, 
Winnowed  by  wings  immortal  that  fair  isle ! 
Vocal  its  air  with  music  from  above ! 
There  meets  the  exile  eye  a  welcoming  smile ; 
There  ever  speaks  a  summoning  voice  of  love 
Unto  the  heavy-laden  and  distressed, — 
"  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest !" 


750 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


^rtljur  (L'lcDclauii  €oxz. 

AMERICAN. 
The  son  of  a  well-known  Presbyterian  elcriiynian, 
Coxc  was  born  in  New  York  in  1818.  lie  ji:racluated  at 
tbe  University  of  that  city  in  18:38;  studied  divinity,  and 
became  Bishop  of  Western  New  York.  He  began  to 
write  poetry  while  quite  young.  His  "Christian  Bal- 
lads" liavc  bad  a  large  sale  both  in  England  and  the 
United  States.  Among  his  other  works  are :  "Advent,  a 
Mystery:  a  Dramatie  Poem;"  "Athwold:  aRomaunt;" 
"Halloween;"  "  Athanasion  ;"  "Sermons  on  Doctrine 
and  Duty;"  "Impressions  of  England,"  etc. 


WATCHWORDS. 

We  are  living, — wo  are  dwelling 

In  a  grand  and  awful  time  ; 
lu  an  age,  on  ages  telling, 

To  be  living — is  sublime. 

Hark!  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

Gog  and  Magog  to  the  fray ; 
Hark  :   what  soundcth,  is  Creation's 

Groaning  for  its  latter  day. 

Will  ye  play,  then!   will  ye  dally, 
AVith  your  unisic,  with  your  wine? 

Up  !   it  is  Jehovah's  rally  I 

God's  own  arm  hath  need  of  thine. 

Hark  !   the  onset !   will  ye  fold  your 

Faith-clad  arms  in  lazy  lock  I 
Up,  oh  w\),  thou  drowsy  soldier ! 

Worlds  are  charging  to  the  shock. 

Worlds  are  charging — heaven  beholding'. 

Thou  liast  but  an  hour  to  fight ; 
Now,  the  blazoned  cro.ss  nnfoldiug, 

On — right  onward,  for  the  right ! 

What!   still  hug  thy  dreamy  slumbers? 

'Tis  no  time  for  idling  play, 
Wreaths,  and  dance,  and  poct-numbcrs, 

Flout  them  !   wo  must  work  to-day ! 

Fear  not!    spurn  the  worldling's  laughter; 

Thine  ambition — trample  thou! 
Thou  shalt  iind  a  long  Hereafter, 

To  be  more  than  tempts  thee  now. 

On  !   let  all  the  soul  w  ithin  you 
For  the  truth's  sake  go  abroad ! 

Strike !  let  every  nerve  and  sinew 
Tell  on  ages — tell  for  God ! 


MATIN  BELLS. 

The  Sun  is  np  betimes, 

And  the  dappled  East  is  blushing, 
And  the  merry  matia  chimes, 

They  are  gushing — Christian — gushing! 
They  are  tolling  in  the  tower. 

For  another  day  begun  ; 
And  to  hail  the  rising  hour 

Of  a  brighter,  brighter  Sun  ! 
Kise — Christian — rise ! 

For  a  sunshine  brighter  far 
I.S  breaking  o'er  thine  eyes. 

Than  the  bonnie  morning  star! 

The  lark  is  in  the  sky, 

And  his  morning-note  is  pouring ; 
He  hath  a  wing  to  fly, 

So  he's  soaring — Christian — soaring! 
His  nest  is  on  the  ground. 

But  only  \a  the  night ; 
For  he  loves  the  matin  sound, 

And  the  highest  heaven's  height. 
Hark — Christian — hark  ! 

At  heaven-door  he  sings ! 
And  be  thou  like  the  lark. 

With  tliy  soaring  spirit-wings! 

Tlie  merry  matin  bells. 

In  their  watch-tower  they  are  swinging; 
For  the  day  is  o'er  the  dells. 

And  they're  singing — Christian — singing! 
They  have  caught  the  morning  beam 

Through  their  ivied  turret's  wreath, 
And  the  chancel-window's  gleam 

Is  glorious  beneath  : 
Go — Christian — go, 

For  the  altar  flamcth  there. 
And  the  snowy  vestments  glow 

Of  the  presbyter  at  prayer ! 

There  is  morning  incense  flung 

From  the  child-like  lily-flowers ; 
And  their  fragrant  censer  swung, 

Make  it  ours — Christian — ours  ! 
And  hark,  the  morning  hynui. 

And  the  organ-peals  wo  love  ! 
They  sound  like  cherubim 

At  their  orisons  above! 
Pray — Christian — pray. 

At  the  bonnie  peep  of  dawn. 
Ere  the  dew-drop  and  the  spray 

That  christen  it  are  gone ! 


THOMAS  II ILL. 


uHjoma?  Cjill. 


AMERICAN. 

Tlie  Rev.  Thomas  Hill,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  was  born  in  New 
Brunswick,  N.  J.,  in  1818.  His  parents  were  both  of 
English  birth,  and  died  while  he  was  yet  a  child.  When 
twelve  years  old,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer,  with 
whom  he  remained  three  years.  But  he  studied  Latin 
and  Greek,  entered  Harvard  College,  graduated  in  1843, 
and  passed  two  years  at  the  Divinity  School.  He  pre- 
sided over  the  Unitarian  Church  in  Waltham,  Mass.,  for 
fourteen  years  ;  in  1859  succeeded  Horace  Mann  as  Pres- 
ident-of  Antioch  College,  Ohio;  was  thence  called  to  the 
Presidency  of  Harvard — an  office  he  held  six  years,  when 
failing  health  caused  him  to  resign.  He  accompanied 
Agassiz  in  the  voyage  of  the  Hassler  through  the  Straits 
of  Magellan.  On  his  return  (1873)  he  was  installed  over 
a  church  in  Portland,  Maine.  Dr.  Hill  was  the  first  to 
propose  (1847)  daily  predictions  of  the  weather,  founded 
on  telegraphic  reports.  He  is  gifted  as  a  raatliematician, 
and  published  (1849)  a  valuable  little  work,  entitled  "  Ge- 
ometry and  Faith."  He  is  one  of  the  most  American  of 
our  poets,  and  his  productions  evince  an  irrepressible 
love  of  Nature.  He  is  the  author  of  some  excellent 
hymns.  As  versatile  in  his  accomplishments  as  in  his 
pursuits,  a  poet  and  a  pliilosophei-,  a  man  of  executive 
ability  and  an  eloquent  preacher,  he  has  shown  eminent 
talents  in  all  his  undertakings.  Four  years  of  his  youth 
in  an  apothecary's  shop  made  him  a  skilful  pharmacist. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Bobolink!   that  in  the  meadow, 
Or  beneath  the  orchard's  shadow, 
Keeiiest  up  a  constant  rattle, 
Joyous  as  my  children's  prattle, — 
Welcome  to  the  North  again  ! 
AVelcome  to  mine  ear  thy  strain, 
Welcome  to  mine  eye  the  sight 
Of  thy  buff,  thy  black  and  white. 
Brighter  plumes  may  greet  the  sun 
By  the  banks  of  Amazon ; 
Sweeter  tones  may  weave  the  sjiell 
Of  enchanting  Philomel ; 
But  the  tropic  bird  would  fail, 
And  the  English  nightingale. 
If  we  should  compare  their  worth 
With  thine  endless,  gushing  mirth. 

When  the  ides  of  May  are  past, 
June  and  Summer  uearing  fast, 
While  from  depths  of  blue  above 
Comes  the  mighty  breath  of  love. 
Calling  out  each  bud  and  flower 
W'ith  resistless,  secret  power, — 
Waking  hope  and  fond  desire, 
Kindling  the  erotic  fire, — 


Filling  youths'  and  maidens'  dreams 
With  mysterious,  pleasing  themes  ; 
Then,  amid  the   sunlight  clear 
Floating  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Thou  dost  fill  each  heart  with  pleasure 
By  thy  glad,  ecstatic  measure. 

A  single  note  so  sweet  and  low, 
Like  a  full  heart's  overflow, 
Forms  the  prelude;   but  the  strain 
Gives  us  no  such  tone  again. 
For  the  wild  and  saucy  song 
Leaps  and  skips  the  notes  among, 
W^ith  such  quick  and  sportive  ploy. 
Ne'er  was  madder,  merrier  lay. 

Gayest  songster  of  the  spring! 
Thy  melodies  before  me  bi-ing 
Visions  of  some  dream-built  land, 
W^herc,  by  constant  zephyrs  fanned, 
I  might  walk  the  livelong  day 
Embosomed  in  perpetual  May. 
Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows ; 
For  thee  a  tempest  never  blows ; 
But  when  our  Northern  summer's  o'er, 
By  Delaware's  or  Schuylkill's  shore 
The  wild  rice  lifts  its  airy  head, 
And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  spread. 
And  when  the  winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear. 
But  bear  thee  to  more  Southern  coasts, 
Far  beyond  the  reach  of  frosts. 

Bobolink !   still  may  thj^  gladness 
Take  from  me  all  taint  of  sadness; 
Fill  \nj  soul  with  trust  unshaken 
In  that  Being  who  has  taken 
Care  for  every  living  thing. 
In  summer,  winter,  fall,  and  spring. 


ANTIOFA.* 

At  dead  of  night  a  south-west  breeze 

Came  silently  stealing  along  ; 
The  bluebird  followed  at  break  of  day. 

Singing  his  low,  sweet  song. 

The  breeze  crept  through  the  old  stone  wall, 
And  wakened  the  butterfly  there, 

>  Written  iu  the  Straits  of  Magellan  in  the  spring  of  1872.  The 
butterfly  which  comes  out  of  stoue  walls  iu  April  is  Vanexsa 
antiopa. 


752 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  she  camo  out,  as  morning  l)rokc, 
To  lloat  thiougli  the  sunlit  air. 

Witliiii  this  stony,  rifted  heart 
The  softening  influence  stole, 

Filling  with  melodies  diviuo 
The  chamhers  of  my  soul, 

With  gentle  words  of  hope  and  faith, 
By  lips  now  sainted  spoken  ; 

With  vows  of  tenderest  love  toward  me, 
Which  never  once  were  hi'okeu. 

At  morn   my  soul  awoke  to  life, 
Aud  glowed  with  faith  anew  ; 

The  buds  that  perish  swelled  without, 
Withiu  the  immortal  "rew. 


THE  W^INTER  IS  PAST.' 

Soft  on  this  April  morning, 
Breathe,  from  the  South,  delicate  odors. 
Vaguely  defined,  giving  the  breezes 

Sitriug-like,  delicious  zest ; — 

Breezes  from  Southern  forests, 
Bringing  us  glad  tidings  of  summer's 
Promised  return  ;   waking  from  slumber 

Each  of  the  earliest  plants. 

Lo !  in  the  night  the  elm-tree 
Opened  its  buds ;  catkins  of  hazel 
Tasselled  the  hedge ;    maple  and  alder 

Welcomed  with  bloom  the  spring. 

Faintly  the  warbling  bluebird 
Utters  his  note ;   song-sparrows  boldly 
Fling  to  the  wind  joyous  assurance, 

"  Summer  is  coming  North  !" 

None  can  express  the  longing, 
Mingled  with  joy,  mingled  with  sadness, 
Swelling  my  heart  ever,  when  April 

Brings  us  the  bird  aud  flower. 

Tender  and  sweet  remembrance, 
Filling  my  soul,  gives  me  assurauco, 
"  Death  is  but  frost;   lo!   the  eternal 

Spring-time  of  heaven  shall  come." 

'  The  measnre  is  au  imitation  of  tbe  Choriambic 


lUilliam  lllctmorc  Stoni. 


Born  in  Salcni,  Mass.,  in  1819,  Story  graduated  at  Har- 
vard in  1838.  His  father,  a  judge  of  tlie  U.  S.  Supreme 
Court,  was  also  a  poet  in  liis  youth.  Having  a  strong 
artistic  taste,  William  turned  his  back  on  the  law,  and 
in  1848  went  to  Rome  and  became  distir.guished  as  a 
sculptor.  He  is  tlie  autlior  of  "Roba  di  Rcmia,"  au  ex- 
cellent descriptive  account  of  modern  Rome. 


THE   UNEXPRESSED. 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole !  the  Poet  in  his  Art 
Must  intimate  the  whole,  aud  say  the  smallest  part. 

The  young  moon's  silver  arc  her  perfect  circle  tells. 
The  limitless  within  Art's  bounded  outline  dwells. 

Of  evei'y  noble  work  the  silent  part  is  best. 

Of  all  expression,  that  which  cannot  be  expressed. 

Each  act  contains  the  life,  each  work  of  Art  the  world, 
And  all  the  planet  laws  are  in  each  dew-drop  pearled. 


WETMORE  COTTAGE,  NAHANT. 

The  hours  on  the  old  piazza 

That  overhangs  the  sea, 
With  a  tender  and  pensive  sweetness 

At  times  steal  over  me  ; 
Aud  again  o'er  the  baleouj"  leaning. 

We  list  to  the  surf  on  the  beach. 
That  fills  with  its  solemn  warning 

The  intervals  of  speech. 

Wo  three  sit  at  night  in  the  moonlight, 

As  we  sat  in  the  summer  gone. 
And  we  talk  of  art  and  nature, 

Aud  sing  as  we  sit  alone ; 
We  sing  the  old  songs  of  Sorrento, 

Where  oranges  hang  o'er  the  sea. 
And  our  hearts  are  tender  with  dreaming 

Of  days  that  no  more  shall  be. 

How  gayly  the  hours  Avent  with  us 

In  those  old  days  that  are  gone! 
All !   would  wo  Avero  all  together. 

Where  now  I  am  standing  aloue. 
Could  life  be  again  so  perfect  ? 

Ah,  never!   these  years  so  drain 
The  heart  of  its  freshness  of  feeling, — 

But  I  long,  though  the  longing  bo  vain. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 


753 


3rtl)ur  C)ugl)  Cloucjl). 

Clough,  born  at  Liverpool,  1819,  died  of  malariul  fever 
at  Florence,  1861.  He  was  educated  at  Rugby  under  Dr. 
Arnold,  and  was  on  affectionate  terms  witli  tliut  noble 
teacher.  "Over  the  career  of  none  of  his  pupils,"  says 
F.  T.  Palgrave,  "did  Arnold  watch  with  a  livelier  inter- 
est or  a  more  sanguine  hope."  Having  won  the  Baliol 
scholarship  in  1836,  Clough  went  to  Oxford,  and  in  1843 
was  appointed  tutor  as  well  as  fellow  of  Oriel  College. 
His  principal  poem,  "The  Bothie  of  Tober-Na-Vuolich," 
which  he  terms  "a  long  vacation  pastoral,"  appeared  in 
1848.  It  is  written  in  hexameter  verse,  and  is  rich  in 
evidence  of  his  own  yearning  for  the  higher  truths  of  life. 

His  "Amours  de  Voyage,"  the  result  of  a  holiday  of 
travel  in  Ital}-,  is  in  the  same  measure.  It  appeared  orig- 
inally in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  while  Clough  was  residing 
(1852)  at  Cambridge,  near  Boston,  Mass.  It  is  an  unsuc- 
cessful attempt  to  give  the  poetical  form  to  what  might 
have  been  more  aptly  and  effectively  said  in  prose. 
"Dipsychus,"  his  third  long  poem,  was  written  in  Ven- 
ice in  1850.  In  1848,  from  conscientious  motives,  Clough 
had  given  up  both  his  tutorship  and  his  fellowship  at 
Oxford.  His  Ufa,  though  uneventful,  was  full  of  work, 
and  the  great  problems  of  humanity  exercised  his  sin- 
cere and  searching  intellect  to  the  last.  As  a  poet  he  is 
very  unequal;  at  times  showing  himself  in  his  flights  the 
peer  of  Tennyson,  and  then  lapsing  into  the  common- 
place or  obscure.  In  his  forty-two  years  he  did  mucli 
good  work,  but  his  life  was  even  richer  in  promise  than 
in  performance.  A  selection  from  his  papers,  with  letters 
and  a  memoir,  edited  by  his  widow,  was  published  in  two 
volumes  in  1869. 


I  WILL  NOT  ASK  TO   FEEL  THOU  ART. 

O  Thou  Avbose  image  in  the  sbriue 
Of  human  spirits  dwells  divine, 
Which  from  that  iirecinct  once  conveyed, 
To  be  to  outer  day  displayed, 
Doth  vanish,  part,  aud  leave  behind 
Mere  blank,  and  void  of  empty  mind. 
Which  wilful  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
With  casual  shapes  to  fill  again, — 

0  Thou  that  in  our  bosom's  shrine 
Doth  dwell,  unknown  because  divine ! 

1  thought  to  speak,  I  thought  to  say, 

"  The  light  is  here,"  "  behold  the  way," 
"The  voice  was  thus,"  and  "thus  the  word," 
Aud  "  thus  I  saw,"  aud  "  that  I  heard," — 
But  from  the  lips  that  half  essayed 
The  imperfect  utterance  fell  unmade. 

0  Thou  in  that  mysterious  shrine 
Enthroned,  as  I  must  say,  divine ! 

1  will  not  frame  one  thought  of  what 
Thou  majest  either  be  or  not. 

48 


I  will  not  prate  of  "  thus  "  or  "  so," 
xVnd  be  profane  with  "yes  "  and  "  no  ;" 
Enough  that  in  our  soul  and  heart 
Thou,  whatsoe'er  Thou  may'st  be,  art! 

Unseen,  secure  in  that  high  sliriiie, 
Acknowledged  present  and  divine, 
I  will  not  ask  some  upper  air. 
Some  future  day,  to  place  Thee  there  ; 
Nor  say,  nor  yet  deny,  such  men 
And  women  saw  Thee  thus  or  then  : 
Thy  name  was  such,  and  there  or  here 
To  him  or  her  Thou  didst  appear. 

Do  only  Thou  in  that  dim  shrine, 
L'nkuown  or  known,  remain,  divine  ; 
There,  or  if  not,  at  least  in  eyes 
That  scan  the  fact  that  round  them  lies. 
The  hand  to  sway,  the  judgment  guide. 
In  sight  aud  sense  Thyself  divide : 
Be  Thou  but  there, — in  soul  and  heart, 
I  will  not  ask  to  feel  Thou  art. 


CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN. 

"  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true :" 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new  ! 
Ah!  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain. 
And  yet  consider  it  again ! 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
Aud  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain, — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

We !   what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  spaco 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face  ; 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again! 

Alas!   the  great  world  goes  ifs  way, 
And  takes  its  truth  from  each  new  day  ; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain. 
Far  less  consider  it  again. 


QUI  LABORAT,  ORAT. 

O  only  Source  of  all  our  light  and  life, 

Whom  as  our  truth,  our  strength,  we  see  and  feel, 

But  wliom  the  hours  of  mortal  moral  strife 
Alone  aright  reveal ! 


754 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Mine  inmost  soul,  before  Thee  inly  biouglit, 
Thy  presence  owns  inefliible,  divine  ; 

Chastised  each  rebel  self-eucentred  thought, 
My  will  adoreth  Thine. 

With  eye  down-dropped,  if  then  this  earthly  mind 
Speechless  remain,  or  speechless  e'en  depart, — 

Nor  seek  to  see — for  what  of  earthly  kind 
Can  see  Thee  as  Thou  art  ? — 

If  well-assured  'tis  but  profanely  bold 

In  thought's  abstractest  forms  to  seem  to  see, 

It  dare  not  dare  the  dread  comniuuiou  hold 
In  Avays  unwortliy  Tliee, — 

Oh  not  uuowued,  Thou  shalt  unnamed  forgive, 
lu  worldly  walks  the  prayerless  heart  prepare ; 

And  if  in  work  its  life  it  seem  to  live, 
Shalt  make  that  work  be  prayer. 

Nor  times  shall  lack,  when  while  the  work  it  plies, 
Unsnmmoned  powers  the  blinding  film  shall  part, 

And  scarce  by  happy  tears  made  dim,  the  eyes 
In  recognition — start. 

But  as  Thou  wiliest,  give  or  e'en  forbear 

The  beatific  supersonsual  sight, 
So,  with  Thy  blessing  blessed,  that  humbler  prayer 

Approach  Thee  morn  and  night. 


DULCE  ET  DECORUM  EST  PRO  PATRIA  MORI.' 

The  following  from  the  "  Amours  de  Voynge  "  is  a  specimen 
of  the  measure  and  style  of  that  work,  as  well  as  of  "  The 
Bothie  of  Tober-Na-Vuolich." 

Dulcc  it  is,  and  decorum,  no  doubt,  for  the  country 
to  fall,— to 

Offer  one's  ])lood  an  oblation  to  Freedom,  and  die 
for  the  Cause  ;    yet 

Still,  individual  culture  is  also  something,  and  no  man 

Finds  quite  distinct  the  assurance  that  he  of  all  oth- 
ers is  called  on. 

Or  would  be  justified,  even,  in  taking  away  from 
the  world  that 

Precious  creature,  himself.  Nature  sent  him  here 
to  abide  here ; 

Else  why  send  him  at  all  ?  Nature  wants  him  still, 
it  is  likely. 

On  the  whole,  we  are  meant  to  look  out  for  our- 
selves;   it  is  certain 

>  Sweet  and  becoming  it  is  to  die  for  one's  country. 


Each  has  to  eat  for  himself,  dig<'st  for  himself,  and, 
in  general. 

Care    for   his   own   dear   life,  and   see    to   his   own 
preservation  ; 

Nature's  intentions,  in  most  things  uncertain,  in  this 
are  decisive  ; 

Wiiich,  on  the  whole,  I  conjecture  the  Romans  will 
follow,  aiul  I  shall. 
So  we  cling  to  our  rocks   like   liui))ets;   Ocean 
may  bluster, 

Over  and  uiuler  and  round  us  ;  we  open  our  shells 
to  imbilxi  our 

Nourishment,  close  them  again,  and  are  safe,  fiillill- 
iug  the  purpose 

Nature  intended, — a  wise  one,  of  course,  and  a  no- 
ble, we  doubt  not. 

Sweet  it  may  be  and  decorous,  perhaps,  for  the  coun- 
try to  die  ;   but, 

On  the  whole,  we  conclude,  the  Romans  won't  do 
it,  and  I  sha'n't. 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS.' 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  i)lied  ; 

Nor  dreamed  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
liy  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side. 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whcmi,  year  by  Jear  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged. 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered ; 

Ah!   neither  blamed,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  straiu, 
Biiivo  barks!     In  light,  in  darkness  too! 

'  A  fragment  of  a  verse  in  Virgil: 

"Teiidunt  vela  Noti ;  fngimns  spnniantibns  inidis, 
(fiia  rtiraum  ventua-que  guberuatorque  vocabant." 

It  may  be  thus  translated:— 

'We  scud  the  foaming  waters,  the  south  winds  swell  our  sails. 
And  our  way  lies  where  it  listeth  the  pilot  and  the  gales.' 


ARTHUR  HUGU  CLOUGU.  —  WALT    WHITMAN. 


755 


Tliroiigh  winds  aud  tides  oue  compass  guidcs- 
To  that  and  your  owu  selves  be  true. 

But  O,  blitlio  breeze!  and  O,  great  seas! 

Though  ne'er  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plaiu  they  join  again, 

Together  lead  tbem  borne  at  last. 

One  port,  mothought,  alike  they  sought — 
One  purpose  bold  where'er  they  fare  ; 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there! 


IN   A   GONDOLA. 

ON  THE  GRAND  CANAL,  VENICE. 

Afloat ;   we  move — delicious  !     Ah, 
What  else  is  like  the  gondola  ? 
This  level  floor  of  liquid  glass 
Begins  beneath  us  swift  to  pass. 
It  goes  as  thougb  it  went  alone 
By  some  impulsion  of  its  owu. 
(How  light  it  moves,  bow  softly! 
Were  all  things  like  the  gondola!) 


Ah, 


How  light  it  moves,  bow  softly !     Ah, 
Conld  life  as  does  our  gondola, 
Unvexed  witb  quarrels,  aims,  and  cares, 
And  moral  duties  aud  affairs, 
Unswaying,  noiseless,  swift,  and  strong, 
Forever  thus — thus  glide  along! 
(How  light  we  move,  bow  softly!     Ah, 
AVere  life  but  as  the  gondola !) 

With  no  more  motion  than  should  bear 
A  freshness  to  the  languid  air ; 
Witb  no  more  effort  than  expressed 
The  need  and  naturalness  of  rest, 
Which  we  beneath  a  grateful  shade 
Should  take  on  peaceful  pillows  laid ! 
(How  light  we  move,  bow  softly!     Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  gondola  I) 

In  oue  unbroken  passage  borne 
To  closing  night  from  opening  morn, 
Uplift  at  whiles  slow  eyes  to  mark 
Some  palace  front,  some  passing  bark ; 
Through  windows  catch  the  varying  shore, 
And  bear  the  soft  turns  of  the  oar ! 
(How  light  we  move,  bow  softly  I     Ah, 
Were  life  but  as  the  goudola!) 


lUalt  lUljitman. 


AMERICAN. 

Whitman  was  born  hi  1819  at  West  Hills,  L.  I.,  but 
moved  with  his  family  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  while  he  was 
yet  a  child.  At  thirteen  he  learned  to  set  type,  and  a 
few  years  later  was  employed  as  a  teacher  in  a  country 
school.  In  1849  he  travelled  in  the  Western  States.  He 
drifted  to  New  Orleans,  aud  there,  for  a  year,  edited  a 
paper.  Returning  home,  he  went  into  business  as  a 
builder — his  father's  occupation.  In  1856  he  published 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  which  attracted  attention  for  the 
rough,  untrammelled  power  it  displayed.  It  was  marred, 
however,  by  much  that  was  offensive  to  ears  gentle  and 
polite.  During  the  Civil  War  he  was  employed  in  hos- 
pitals and  camps.  He  gave  the  result  of  his  experiences 
in  a  thin  volume,  entitled  "Drum  Taps."  He  was  on 
one  occasion  removed  from  his  post  as  a  Department 
Clerk,  because  of  the  literary  shis  in  his  "Leaves  of 
Grass."  He  has  been  praised  by  Emerson,  Tennyson, 
and  Ruskin — high  authorities  in  literature.  His  impulse 
seems  to  have  been  to  be  true  to  the  thoughts  of  the 
moment  at  all  hazards,  and  to  say  what  came  uppermost 
without  regard  to  consequences.  Ruskin,  in  a  letter 
(1879)  ordering  copies  of  Whitmau's  works,  remarked  that 
the  reason  they  excite  such  furious  criticism  is,  "  They 
are  deadly  true— in  the  sense  of  rifles  —  against  all  our 
deadliest  sins:"  an  assertion  which  will  be  contested 
by  many  as  eccentric  if  not  extravagant. 


FROM  'THE   MYSTIC   TRUMPETER." 

Now,  trumpeter !   for  fby  close. 

Vouchsafe  a  higher  strain  than  any  yet; 

Sing  to  my  soul — renew  its  languishing  faith  and 
hope ; 

Rouse  up  my  slow  belief— give  mo  some'vision  of 
the  future  ; 

Give  me,  for  once,  its  prophecy  and  joy. 
O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  .song! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes! 

Marches  of  victory — man   disenthralled — the  con- 
queror at  last ! 

Hymns  to  the  universal  God,  from  universal  Man — 
all  joy ! 

A  re-born  race  appears — a  perfect  world— all  joy  ! 

Women  and  men  in  wi.sdom,  innocence,  and  health- 
all  joy  ! 

Riotous,  laughing  bacchanals,  filled  with  joy  ! 

War,  sorrow,  suffering  gone— the  rank  earth  purged 
— nothing  but  joy  left ! 

The  ocean  filled  Avith  joy— the  atmosphere  all  joy  ! 

Joy  !  joy  !   in  freedom,  wor.ship,  love  !     Joy  in   the 
ecstasy  of  life  ! 

Enough  to  merely  be  !     Enough  to  breathe ! 

Joy  !  joy  !   all  over  joy  ! 


756 


CYCLOr^DJA    OF  BR1T1:SII  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


PASSAGES  FROM  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS." 

0  truth  of  tlio  earth!     ()  truth   of  things!     I  am 

determined  to  press  my  \vay  toward  you, 
Souud  your  voice!    I  scale  mountains,  or  dive  into 
the  sea  after  you. 

Great  is  Life,  real  and  mystical,  wherever  and  wlio- 
ever, — 

Great  is  Death  : — sure  as  Life  holds  all  parts  to- 
gether, Death  holds  all  parts  together ; 

Death  has  Just  as  much  puri)ort  as  Life  has: 

Do  you  enjoy  what  Life  confers  ? 

You  shall  enjoy  what  Death  confers  : 

1  do  uot  luulerstand  the  realities  of  Death,  hut  I 

know  they  are  great : 
I  do  not  understand  the  least  reality  of  Life — how 
theu  can  I  understand  the  realities  of  Death? 

To  me  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark  is  a  miracle, 

Every  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 

Every  square  yard  of  the  surface  of  the  earth  is 

spread  with  the  same. 
Every  cubic  foot  of  the  interior  swarms  with  the 

same  ; 
Every  spear  of  grass — the  frames,  limbs,  organs,  of 

men  and  women,  and  all  that  concerns  them. 
All  these  to  me  are  unspeakably  perfect  miracles. 
To  me  the  sea  is  a  continual  miracle. 
The  fishes  that  swim — the   rocks — the  motion   of 

the  waves — the  ships  with  men  in  them. 
What  stranger  miracles  are  there  ? 

You  felons  on  trials  in  courts. 

You  convicts  in  prison  cells— you  sentenced  assas- 
sins, cliaiuf^d  and  handculfcd  with  iron, 

Who  am  I  that  I  am  not  on  trial  or  in  prison? 

Me, ruthless  and  devilish  as  any,  tiiat  my  wrists  arc 
not  chained  with  iron,  or  my  anl<i('s  with  iron  ? 

I  was  tliiuking  the  day  most  splendid,  till  I  saw 
wjiat  the  not-day  exhibited; 

I  was  thinking  this  globe  enough,  till  there  tum- 
bled upon  me  myriads  of  other  globes : 

Oh,  how  plainly  I  see  now  tliat  this  life  cannot 
exhil.'it  all  to  me — as  the  day  cannot; 

Oh,  I  see  that  I  am  to  wait  for  what  will  bo  ex- 
hibited by  death. 
#  #      .        #  #  #  » 

O  Deaths 

Oh,  the  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  be- 
uumbing  a  few  momeuts,  for  reasons; 


Oh,  that  of  myself,  discharging  my  excremeutitious 

body,  to  Ije  burneil,  or  rendered  to   powder, 

or  buried. 
My  real  body  doul)tless  left  to  me  for  other  spheres, 
My  voided  body,  nothing  more  to  me,  returning  to 

the  purifications,  further  offices,  eternal  uses 

of  the  earth  ! 

Whoever  you  are !   you  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the 

•  arth  is  solid  and  liquid, 
You   are   he  or  siio  for  whom  the   suu   and  moon 

hang  in  the  skj'. 
For  none  more  than  you  are  the  present  ami  the  past. 
For  none  more  than  you  is  immortality! 
Facii  man  to  himself,  and  eacli  woman  to  herself, 

is  the  word  of  the  past  aud  present,  and  the 

word  of  immortalitj' : 
No  one  «an  acquire  for  another — not  one ! 
Not  one  can  grow  for  another — uot  one ! 

The  earth  never  tires, 

The  eartli  is  rude,  silent,  incomprehensible  at  first — 
Nature  is  rude  and  incomprehensible  at  first ; 

Be  not  discouraged — keep  on — there  are  divine 
things,  well  enveloped, 

I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more  beau- 
tiful than  words  can  tell. 


Cijarlcs  ^nbcrson  Dana.  ' 

AMERICAN. 

Born  in  Ilinsdule,  N.  IT.,  August  Slli,  1811),  Dana  passed 
two  years  at  Harvard,  but  left  before  graduating,  on  ac- 
count of  an  affection  of  tlic  eyes.  He  joined  George 
Ripley  (1802-1880)  and  others  in  the  Brook  Farm  Asso- 
ciation. Removing  to  New  York,  he  became  a  promi- 
ncTit  journalist,  and  was  connected  with  the  Tribune.  In 
18Go-'(J4  lie  was  Assistant  Secretary  of  War.  On  leaving 
that  post,  he  bought,  with  the  aid  of  some  associates,  the 
New  York  /Sun,  which  was  in  a  declining  condition,  and 
made  it  a  great  financial  success.  He  was  associated 
witli  Ripley  in  editing  .Ip^j^c^ow'.s  Ctjdopcedia  ;  and  in  18.58 
he  edited  "The  Household  Book  of  Poetry."  His  poetry 
was  nearly  all  written  before  his  twenty-tiftli  year.  One 
of  Ills  early  achievements  was  a  tour  of  Europe  on  foot. 
He  is  a  great  linguist,  and  can  converse  with  his  foreign 
guests  in  their  own  languages. 


MANHOOD. 

Dear,  noble  soul,  wisely  thy  lot  thon  bearcst ; 
For,  like  a  god  toiling  in  earthly  slavery, 
Fronting  thy  sad  fate  with  a  joyous  bravery. 
Each  darker  day  a  suuuier  mien  thou  wearest. 


CHARLES  AXDEESON  DANA.— MRS.  HARRIET  TVINSLOJV  SEW  ALL. 


Vol 


No  giief  cau  touch  tby  sweet  ami  spiiitn.al  smile; 
No  paiu  is  keeu  enough  that  it  has  power 
Over  thy  chililliko'  love,  that  all  the  while 
Upou  the  cohl  earth  hnihls  its  heavenly  bower ; — 
And  thus  with  thee  bright  angels  make  their  dwell- 

Ihingiug    thee    stores   of  strength   when  no    man 

knoweth ; 
The  ocean-stream  from  God's  heart  ever  swelling, 
That  forth  through  each  least  thing  in  Nature  goeth. 
In  thee,  oli,  truest  hero,  deeper  lloweth  ; — 
With  joy  I  bathe,  and  many  souls  beside 
Feel  a  new  life  in  the  celestial  tide. 


VIA   SACRA. 

Slowly  along  the  crowded  street  I  go, 
Marking  with  reverent  look  each  passer's  face, 
Seeking,  and  not  iu  vain,  in  each  to  trace 
That  primal  soul  whereof  he  is  the  show. 
For  here  still  move,  by  many  eyes  unseen, 
Tlie  blessed  gods  that  erst  Olympus  kept ; 
Through  every  guise  these  lofty  forms  serene 
Declare  the  all-holding  Life  hath  never  slept ; 
But  kuovru  each  thrill  that  in  man's  heart  hath  been, 
And  every  tear  that  his  sad  eyes  have  wept : 
Alas  for  us!   the  heavenly  visitants, — 
We  greet  them  still  as  most  unwelcome  guests, 
Answering  their  smile  with  hateful  looks  askance. 
Their  sacred  speech  with  foolish,  bitter  jests  ; 
But  oh  !   what  is  it  to  imperial  Jove 
That  this  poor  world  refuses  all  his  love ! 


TO   K.  B. 

Beloved  friend !    they  say  that  thou  art  dead, 
Nor  shall  our  asking  eyes  behold  thee  more. 
Save  iu  the  company  of  the  fair  and  dread. 
Along  that  radiant  and  immortal  shore. 
Whither  thy  face  was  turned  for  evermore. 
Thou  wert  a  j)ilgrim  toward  the  True  and  Real, 
Never  forgetful  of  that  infinite  goal ; 
Salient,  electrical,  thy  weariless  soul, 
To  every  faintest  vision  always  leal, 
Eveu  'mid  these  phantoms  made  its  world  ideal. 
And  so  thou  hast  a  most  perennial  fame. 
Though  from  the  earth  thy  name  should  perish  quite  : 
When  the  dear  sun  sinks  golden  whence  he  came. 
The  gloom,  else  cheerless,  hath  not  lost  his  light ; 
So  in  our  lives  impulses  born  of  thine, 
Like  fireside  stars  across  the  night  shall  shine. 


illrs.  Cjarrict  lUinslou)   Sciuall. 


Miss  Wiiislow  was  born  in  rorlhuid,  Mc,  Juno  30lli, 
1819.  She  is  of  Quaker  extraction.  She  was  married  in 
18-18  to  Charles  List,  of  Philadelphia;  and  some  years  af- 
ter his  death  to  Samuel  E.  Sewall,  of  Boston.  Her  sum- 
mer residence  is  at  Melrose,  Mass.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend 
(1880)  she  says:  "I  have  written  little,  and  published 
almost  nothing;  and  most  of  my  verses  are  of  a  local 
or  personal  nature  that  would  uot  interest  the  public." 
But  will  the  public  agree  to  that  after  reading  her"  Why 
thus  Longin":  ■"' 


WHY  THUS  LONGING? 

Whj"^  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 
For  the  far-oft',  unattained,  and  dim, 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Otfers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still. 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  jireaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw, 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe  ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  cau  brighten. 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own, 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  applauses. 
Not  by  works  that  win  thee  world  renown. 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  ci-osses. 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give; 

Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving  only. 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 

When  all  nature  hails  the  Lord  of  light, 

And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorning, 
Gladdens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and  height? 

Other  bauds  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  iu  pomp  may  shine. 

But  with  fervent  love  if  tliou  adorest. 

Thou  art  wealthier, — all  the  world  is  thine. 


758 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Yit  if  tliioti^li  eartb's  wiilo  doniaiiis  thou  rovest, 
Sighing  tliat  they  are  not  tliiiie  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fiehls,  hnt  thyself  thou  lovest, 
And  their  heauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 


SPECIAL  PROVIDENCES. 

When  gathering  clouds  are  darkly  round  us  lowering, 
O'erhanging  heavy  with  iini)euding  woe, 

And  Heaven,  to  which  we  turn  for  help  imploring. 
Seemingly,  by  its  silence,  answers,  "  No  ;'' — 

"We  are  not  Avorth  its  heed," — we  say,  despairing; 

"  We  are  but  puppets  of  relentless  law ;'' 
Before  a  Power,  crushing  and  uncaring. 

We  bow  with  reverent,  unloving  awe. 

Ungrateful  and  presumptuous  we,  deriding 

The  Power  that  knows  our  needs  before  we  call. 

And  in  advance  of  them,  has  been  providing 
The  helping  hands  to  aid  us  when  we  fall! 

Heforo  we  see  the  light  this  kind  provision 
Awaits  us  in  maternal  care  and  love ; 

Its  wondrous  divination,  intuition. 
Are,  all  recorded  miracles,  above  : 

And  farther  ou  a  band  of  sisters,  brothers, 

Holding  us  with  the  strongest,  tenderest  thrall  ; 

And  finally  the  Friend  above  all  others, 
The  most  especial  Providence  of  all ! 


Sulia  lllarb  (joiDc. 


AMERICAN. 
Mr.';.  IIowc,  a  drtuiililer  of  Samuel  Ward,  a  well  known 
banker,  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York  in  1819.  She 
had  the  advantage  of  a  thorough  education,  and  in  1843 
Avas  married  to  Samuel  G.  Howe,  the  well-known  ])hi- 
lanthropist  of  Boston.  In  18.54  she  published  "Passion 
Flowers,"  a  volume  of  poems ;  and  in  18.56  "Words  for 
the  Hour."  In  1860  appeared  licr  "Later  Lyrics,"  con- 
taining her  most  notable  poem,  "The  Battle  Hymn." 
This  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  one  of  those  im- 
provised cfTiisions,  got  up,  by  nobody  knows  wliom,  on 
stirring  occasions,  and  in  this  case  by  some  one  in  a  com- 
pany of  Boston  militia,  early  in  the  Civil  War.  It  began : 
"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave," 
wliich,  being  repeated  three  times,  was  followed  by  "  His 
soul  is  marching  on."  Then  came  the  refrain,  "Glory, 
gloty,  hallelujah  I"  This  being  sung  to  a  spirited  melo- 
dy, the  origin  of  which  is  also  unknown,  produced  a  mem- 
orable efTcet.  Mrs.  Howe's  poem  is  a  refinement  on  this 
rough  production.  She  lias  put)lished  several  volumes 
of  travels ;  and  is  active  in  all  movements  for  the  im- 
provement of  the  condition  of  women. 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coining  of  the 

Lord  : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  liglitning  of  his  terrible 

swift  sword  ; 

His  truth  is  marching  ou. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  cir- 
cling camps ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps  ; 

I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 
flaring  lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal ;" 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  cru.sh  the  serpent  with 

his  lieel. 

Since  God  is  marching  ou. 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh,  bo  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him!  be  jubilant, 
my  feet  I 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me  ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 

men  free, 

While  God  is  marchinjr  on. 


SPEAK,  FOR   THY    SERVANT  HEARETH. 

Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth  ; 

Alone  in  my  lowly  bed, 
Before  I  laid  me  down  to  rest, 

My  nightly  prayer  was  said  ; 
And  naught  my  spirit  feareth, 

In  darkness  or  by  day  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 


JULIA    WAIW  HOWE.— THOMAS   WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


759 


I've  stood  before  thine  altar, 

A  child  before  thy  might ; 
No  breath  within  thy  tenii>lo  stirred 

The  dim  and  cloudy  light ; 
And  still  I  knew  that  thou  "wast  there, 

Teaching  my  heart  to  say — 
"  Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth. 

And  heareth  to  obey." 

0  God,  my  flesh  may  tremble 
When  thou  spcakest  to  my  soul ; 

But  it  cannot  shun  thy  presence  blessed, 
Nor  shrink  from  thy  control. 

A  joy  ray  spirit  cheereth 
That  cannot  pass  awaj^ : 

Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 
And  heareth  to  obej'. 

Thou  biddest  me  to  utter 

Words  that  I  scarce  may  speak, 
And  mighty  things  are  laid  on  me, 

A  helpless  one,  and  weak : 
Darkly  thj'  trnth  declareth 

Its  purpose  and  its  way  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obcj'. 

And  shouldst  Thou  be  a  stranger 

To  that  which  Thou  hast  made  ? 
Oh!   ever  be  about  my  path. 

And  hover  near  my  bed. 
Lead  me  in  every  step  I  take. 

Teach  me  each  word  I  say  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth. 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

How  hath  thy  glory  lighted 

My  lonely  place  of  rest ; 
How  sacred  now  shall  be  to  me 

The  spot  which  Thou  hast  blessed  ! 
If  aught  of  evil  should  draw  uigli 

To  bring  me  shame  and  fear. 
My  steadfast  soul  shall  make  reply, 

"Depart,  for  God  is  near!" 

1  bless  theo  that  thou  speakest 
Thus  to  an  humble  child  ; 

The  God  of  Jacob  calls  to  me 

In  gentle  tones  and  mild  ; 
Thine  enemies  before  thy  face 

Are  scattered  in  dismay  : 
Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  heareth. 

And  heareth  to  obev. 


I've  stood  before  theo  all  my  days- 
Have  ministered  to  thee ; 

But  in  the  hour  of  darkness  first 
Thou  speakest  unto  me. 

And  now  the  night  appeareth 
More  beautiful  than  day  : 

Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  heareth. 
And  heareth  to  obey. 


(illjomas  llHlliam  parsons. 


Parsons  (1819-18..)  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  and 
educated  at  the  Latin  School.  He  visited  Italy  with  his 
father  in  I806,  and  accomplished  himself  in  the  Italian 
language.  He  published  in  Boston,  in  1865,  a  translation 
of  seventeen  cantos  of  the  "Inferno"  of  Dante;  and  to 
these  he  has  since  made  additions.  In  185-1  he  published 
a  collection  of  his  poems.  His  translations  are  masterly, 
and  many  of  his  original  lyrics  show  that  his  poetical 
vein  is  of  a  quality  rich  and  rare. 


SAINT  PERAY. 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 
Ever  did  me  any  good  : 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic,  faint  and  sick. 
Once  I  prayed  Saint  Dominick  ; 
He  was  holy,  sure,  and  Avise  ; — 
Was't  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto-da-f6's  and  rosaries  ? — 
But  for  one  in  mj'  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next,  in  pleasant  Normandie, 
I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 
In  the  great  cathedral,  where 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose  ; 
But  how  I  was  swindled  there, 

At  the  "  Golden  Fleece," — he  knows  ! 

lu  my  wanderings,  vague  and  various. 
Reaching  Naples, — as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 

I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 

But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him  ; 

Naught  I  said  could  liquefy  him ; 

And  I  swear  he  did  me  wrong. 

Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 


760 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  A^D  AMEUWAN  rOETllY. 


In  that  post-lionso  with  obscene 

Jews  aiul  Greeks  and  things  unclean  :- 

Wliat  iieeil  liad  1  of  (luarautine  ? 

lu  Sicily  at  least  a  score, — 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more, — 
And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, — 
Did  I  praj'  to — sans  reply  ; 
Devil  take  the   tribe!— said  I. 

Worn  Avith  travel,  tired  and  lame, 

To  Assisi's  walls  I  came  : 

Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 

I  addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis ; 

But  the  beggar  never  did 

Auythiug  as  he  was  bid, 

Never  gave  me  aught — but  fleas, — 

Plenty  had  I  at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 

Hard  by  the  Ehone  I  found  a  saint 
Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice, 

Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 
"Twas  at  Avignon  that  first — 
In  the  Avitching  time  of  thirst — 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  this  blessdd  Catholic's  name  ; 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  passed  my  lips, 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 

With  such  magic  into  mine, 
That  methought  such  bliss  as  I  did 

Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Kest  ho  gave  me,  and  refection, — 

Chastened  hopes,  calm  retrospection, — 

Softened  images  of  sorrow. 

Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow, — 

Charity  for  what  is  past, — 

Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now  why  should  any  almanac 
Tiie  name  of  this  good  creature  lack? 
Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 
Omit  a  saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 
The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a  day 
Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 


But  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed. 

On  purpose,  by  the  Lord's  Anointed, 

Let  us  not  wait — we'll  do  him  right; 

Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal!  and  set  your  night. 


IN  ST.  JAMES'S   PARK. 

I  watched  the  swans  in  that  proud  park. 

Which  England's  Queen  looks  out  ujjon  ; 
I  sat  there  till  the  dewy  dark. 

And  every  other  soul  was  gone ; 
And  sitting  silent,  all  alone, 

I  seemed  to  hear  a  spirit  say. 
Bo  calm  ;   the  night  is  :   never  moan 

For  friendships  that  have  passed  away. 

The  swans  that  vanished  from  thy  sight 

AVill  come  to-morrow  at  their  hour ; 
But  when  thy  joys  have  taken  flight, 

To  bring  them  back  no  prayer  hath  power. 
Tis  the  world's  law  ;    and  why  deplore 

A  doom  that  from  thy  birth  was  fate  ? 
True,  'tis  a  bitter  word,  "  No  more !" 

But  lo(di  beyond  this  mortal  state. 

Believ'st  thou  in  eternal  things? 

Thou  knowest,  in  thy  inmost  heart. 
Thou  art  not  clay ;  thy  soul  hath  wings, 

And  what  thou  seest  is  but  part. 
Make  this  thy  med'eine  for  the  smart 

Of  every  day's  distress :   Be  dumb, 
In  each  new  loss  thou  truly  art 

Tasting  the  power  of  things  to  come. 


J^rckvic  Pan  f)Uutinc\ton. 


Ilunlingtun  was  born  in  Iladlcy,  Mass.,  in  1819.  Grad- 
uating at  Amherst  College,  he  studied  divinity  in  the 
Cambiiili^c  Theological  Scliool,  and,  while  quite  young, 
was  settled  as  pastor  over  the  South  Congrcgutioual 
Church  in  Boston.  He  was  appointed  Phunnier  pro- 
lessor  at  Harvard  College,  which  post  he  resigned,  toolw 
orders  in  the  Episcopal  Cliurch,  and  became  Rector  of 
Emanuel  Churcli  in  Boston.  Being  appointed  Bisliop 
of  Central  New  York,  he  took  uj)  his  residence  in  Syra- 
cuse, N.  Y. 


A  SUPPLICATION. 

O  Love  Divine!   lay  on  me  burdens  if  Thou  wilt. 
To    break    thy    faithless    one -hour    watchman's 
shameful  sleep  ! 


FREDERIC  BAN  HUNTINGTON.— THOMAS  WHYTEHEAD. 


761 


Turn  comforts  into  awful  prophets  to  nay  guilt ! 
Close  to  thy  garden-travail  let  mo  wake  and  weep  ! 

For  while  the  Ecsnrrectiou  waved  its  signs  august, 
Like  morning's  dew-bright  banners  on   a  cloud- 
less sky, 
My  weak  feet  clung  enamored  to  the  parching  dust. 
And  the  vain  sand's  poor  pebbles  Inred  my  rov- 
ing eye. 

By  loneliness  or  hunger  turn  and  re-create  me! 

Ordain  Avhatever  masters  iu  thy  saving  school. 
Let  the  whole   prosperous   host  of  Fashion's   flat- 
terers hate  me, 
So  Thou  Avilt  henceforth  bless  me  with  thy  gra- 
cious rule. 

I  praj'  not  to  be  saved,  Ascended  Lord,  from  sorrow  : 
Redeem  me  only  from  my  fond  and  mean  self-love. 

Let  each  long  night  of  wrestling  bring  a  mourning 

morrow,  [above ! 

If  thus  my   heart  ascend  and  dwell  with  Thee 

Vales  of  Repentance  mount  to  hills  of  high  Desire : 
Seven  times  seven  suffering  years  gain  the  Sab- 
batic Rest ; 

Earth's  fickle,  cruel  lap,  alternate  frost  and  fire. 
Tempers  beloved  disciples  for  the  Master's  breast. 

Our  work  lies  wide  ;  men  ache  and  donbt  and  die  ; 

Thy  Ark 

Shakes  in  our  hands ;  Reason  and  Faith,  God's  son 

And  daughter,  figlit  their  futile  battle  iu  the  dark. 

Our  sluggish  eyelids  slumber  with  our  task  half 

done. 

Oh,  bleeding  Priest  of  silent,  sad  Gethseman^, — 
That  second  Eden  where  npspriugs  the  Healing 
Vine, 
Press  from  our  careless  foreheads  drops  of  sweat 
for  Thee ! 
Fill  us  with  sacrificial  love  for  sonls,  like  Thine. 

Thou  who  didst  promise  cheer  along  with  tribulation. 
Hold  up  our  trust  and  keep  it  firm  by  much  en- 
during ; 
Feed  fainting  hearts  with  i^atieut  hopes  of  tliy  sal- 
vation :  [alluring. 
Make  glorious  service,  more  than  luxury's  bed. 

Hallow  our  wit  with   j)rayer ;    our  mastery  steep 
in  meekness  ; 
Pour  on  our  stumbling  studies  Inspiration's  light : 


Hew  out  for   thy  dear  Church  a  Future  without 
weakness. 
Quarried  from  thine  eternal  Order,  Heauty,  Might ! 

Met    there    mankind's    great   Brotherhood    of  souls 
and  powers. 
Raise  Thou  full  praises  from  its  farthest  corners 
dim  ; 
Pour  down,  oh  steadfast  Sun,  thy  beams  on  all  its 
towers ! 
Roll  through  its  world-wide  space  Faith's  Euclia- 
ristic  Hymn  ! 

O  Way  for  all  that  live,  win  ns  by  pain  and  loss ! 

Fill  all  our  years  with  toil, — and  comfort  with 
Thy  rod! 
Through  thy  ascension  cloud,  beyond  the  Cross, 

Looms  on  our  sight,  in  peace,  the  City  of  our  God ! 


(iiljomas  llUjijtcIjeai). 


Whytehead  was  a  fuUow  of  St.  John's  College,  Eng- 
land, and  was  second-class  medallist  in  1837.  He  died 
early  in  Australia,  whither  he  had  gone  as  a  missiona- 
ry. He  twice  obtained  the  University  prize  for  Englisli 
verse ;  and  was  the  author  of  several  short  poems,  print- 
ed for  private  circulation  only.  He  was  born  about  the 
year  1819.  Of  the  following  remarkable  poem  from  his 
pen  there  have  been  several  differing  versions. 


THE   SECOND   DAY   OF   CREATION. 

This  world  I  deem 

But  a  beautiful  dream 
Of  shadows  that  are  not  what  they  seem  ; 

When  visions  rise. 

Giving  dim  surmise 
Of  the  things  that  shall  meet  our  waking  eyes. 

Arm  of  the  Lord ! 

Creating  Word  ! 
Whose  glory  the  silent  skies  record, 

Where  stands  Thy  name 

In  scrolls  of  flame 
On  the  firmament's  high-shadowing  frame, — 

I  gaze  o'erhead 

Where  Thy  hand  hath  spread 
For  the  waters  of  Heaven  that  crystal  bed, 

And  stored  the  dew 

In  its  deeps  of  blue 
Which  the  fires  of  the  sun  come  tempered  through. 


762 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Softly  tlu'y  shine 

Throiigli  that  pure  KhriiiP, 
As  beneath  the  veil  of  Thy  flesh  divine 

Beams  forth  the  light, 

That  Avere  else  too  bright 
For  the  foebleueys  of  a  sinner's  sight. 

I  gaze  aloof 

On  the  tissiieil  roof, 
Where  time  and  space  are  the  warp  and  \voof ; 

Which  the  King  of  kings 

As  a  cnrtain  flings 
O'er  the  (Ircadriilncss  of  eternal  things, — 

A  tapestried  tent, 

To  shade  us  meant. 
From  the  bare  everlasting  lirnianient ; 

When  the  blaze  of  the  skies 

Comes  soft  to  our  eyes 
Through  a  veil  of  mystical  imageries. 

I5nt  could  I  see, 

As  in  truth  they  be, 
The  glories  of  Heaven  that  encompass  me, 

I  should  lightly  hold 

The  tissued  fold 
Of  that  marvellous  curtain  of  blue  and  gold. 

Soon  the  whole, 

Like  a  i)archdd  scroll, 
.Shall  before  my  amaz<5d  sight  uproll ; 

And  without  a  screen,    ^ 

At  one  burst  be  seen 
The  Presence  wherein  I  have  ever  been. 

Oh  !    who  shall  bear 

The  blinding  glare 
Of  the  majesty  that  shall  meet  us  there  ? 

What  eye  may  gaze 

On  the  unveiled  blaze 
Of  the  light-girdled  throne  of  the  Ancient  of  Days? 

Christ  us  aid ! 

Himself  be  our  shade. 
That  iu  that  dread  day  we  be  not  dismayed. 


iJamcs  Uusscll  Cowcll. 

AMERICAN. 
Born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1819,  the  son  of  a  Uni- 
tarian clergyman,  Lowell  commenced  autliorsliip  early. 
His  first  volume  of  poems, "  A  Year's  Life,"  appeared  in 
1841.  lie  {.n-acluated  at  Harvard  in  the  class  of  1838,  and 
commenced  the  study  of  law,  but  soon  left  it  for  litera- 


ture. In  1844  he  produced  a  second  scries  of  poems ;  in 
184.5,  "  Conversations  on  some  of  the  Old  Poets  ;"  in 
1848,  a  witty  review,  in  verse,  of  some  of  the  conspicuous 
American  men  of  letters,  entitled  "A  Fable  for  Critics;" 
also  a  third  series  of  poems,  and  "  The  Bigelow  Papers," 
containing  some  dainty  bits  of  Yankee  humor,  and  indi- 
cating tiic  writer's  place  in  tiie  front  rank  of  American 
political  refDrniers.  In  1809  appeared  "under  the  Wil- 
lows, and  other  Poems,"  and  soon  afterward  "The  Ca- 
tliedral,"  perhaps  the  most  mature  and  vigorous  of  all 
his  poems.  In  1804  appeared  "  Fireside  Travels  ;"  in 
1870,  a  volume  of  prose  essays,  entitled  "Among  my 
Books;"  and  in  1871,  "My  Study  Windows,"  a  second 
collection  of  essays,  cliielly  critical. 

In  1855  he  succeeded  Longfellow  as  Professor  of  Mod- 
ern Languages,  etc.,  in  Harvard  University.  Having 
taken  a  somewhat  active  part  iu  the  Presidential  can- 
vass of  1870,  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain  in  1877, 
and  Minister  to  England  in  1880.  His  lirst  wife,  Maria 
White  (18:^1-18.53),  has  shown,  in  some  finished  verses, 
that  she  shared  with  him  the  poetic  gift.  His  rank  is 
high  among  the  most  original  and  vigorous  of  the  poets 
of  the  age.  He  was  editor  of  the  Atlmdic  Monthly  in 
1857,  and  was  also  editor  for  a  time  of  the  Xorth  Ameri- 
ccm  Hcvicw. 

AUF  WIEDERSEHEX! 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last. 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  aiul,  as  she  passed, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 

And  said, — "Aiif  uiedcrschcn  T' 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright. 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said, — "Aiif  wkdersehcn  P' 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  "whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  .scarcely  dare, 
Thinks  she, — ■'' Auf  wicdcrsehcii .'" 

'Tis  thirteen  years  ;   once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 
I  hoar  '' Aiif  wiedersehen !" 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  bad  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart. 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  "  Auf  wiedersehen  .'" 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


763 


A  DAY   IN  JUNE. 

From  "  Sir  Lavsfal,"  a  Poem. 

Aiul  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  iu  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
The  heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  bo  iu  tnuc, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays ; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might. 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  tlowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  meau 

To  be  some  hapi)y  creature's  i»alace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 
Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illuminated  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 

And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and 
sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high  tide  of  the  year. 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer. 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay  ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it ; 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  so  wills  it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green  ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade,  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell  ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing  ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing. 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky. 
That  the  robin  is  iilastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back. 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ! 

We  could  guess  it  by  yon  heifer's  lowing — 
And  hark !   how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 


Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  wo  know  not  bow  ; 
Everything  is  happy  now. 

Everything  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  1)0  true 
As  the  grass  to  bo  green,  or  the  skies  to  be  blue- 

'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living. 


TO   H.  W.  L.' 

ox   HIS   BIRTHDAY,  FEBRUARY   27,  1807. 

I  need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song. 
Where  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse  succeeds 
Smooth  as  our  Charles,  when,  fearing  lest  he  wrong 
The  new-moon's  mirrored  skifi^,  he  slides  along, 
Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in  his  reeds. 

With  loving  breath  of  all  the  winds  his  name 
Is  blown  about  the  world,  but  to  his  friends 
A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud  acclaim 
To  murmur  a  God  bless  you  !   and  there  ends. 

As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered  years 
Wherein  so  much  was  given,  so  much  was  lost, 
Blessings  in  both  kinds,  such  as  cheapen  tears — 
But  hush !   this  is  not  for  profaner  ears ; 
Let  them  drink  molten  pearls,  nor  dream  the  cost. 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's  core, 
As  naught  but  nightshade  grew  upon  earth's  ground ; 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart's-ease,  and  the  more 
Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  found  a  door 
Leading  to  sweeter  manhood  and  more  sound. 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fouutain's  swaying  shade 
Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith  shot  with  sun. 
So  through  his  trial  faith  translucent  rayed 
Till  darkness,  half  disnatured  so,  betrayed 
A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain  o'errun. 

Surely,  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may  stay. 
And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the  charmed  abyss. 
If  our  poor  life  be  lengthened  by  a  lay. 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence  may ; 
And  the  next  ago  in  praise  shall  double  this. 

Long  days  be  his,  and  each  as  lusty-sweet 
As  gracious  natures  find  his  song  to  be  ; 
May  Age  steal  on  with  softly  cadenced  feet 
Falling  in  music,  as  for  him  were  meet 
Whoso  choicest  verse  is  not  so  rare  as  he! 
1  Henry  Wadsworth  LoDgfellow. 


764 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BEITISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


LONGING. 

Of  all  tlio  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  woiil  come  throiij^iug, 
Which  oue  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 

So  beautifnl  as  loii<;inji;  ? 
The  thing  avc  long  f(H',  that  we  are, 

For  one  transcendent  moment, 
Before  the  present,  poor  and  bare. 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still,  tlirougli  oni-  jialtry  stir  and  strife. 

Glows  down  the  wished  ideal. 
And  longing  moulds  in  clay  what  life 

Carves  in  the  marble  real ; 
To  let  the  uew  life  in,  we  know 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal ; 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  inmiortal. 

Longing  is  God's  fresh,  heavenward  will 

With  our  poor  earthward  striving; 
"We  quench  it,  that  we  may  be  still 

Content  with  merely  living; 
But  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full  scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hojie  to  hope, 

And  realize  our  longing. 

Ah,  let  us  hope  that  to  our  praise 

Good  God  not  only  reckons 
The  moments  when  we  tread  his  ways, 

]}ut  when  the  spirit  beckons! 
That  some  slight  good  is  also  wrought, 

J}eyond  self-satisfaction, 
When  we  are  simply  good  in  thought, 

Ilowc'er  we  fail  in  action. 


"IN  WHOM  WE  LIVE  AND  MOVE." 

FnoM  "  The  Cathedral." 

()  Power,  more  near  my  life  than  life  itself 

(Or  what  seems  life  to  us  in  sense  immured), 

Even  as  the  roots,  shut  in  the  darksome  earth. 

Share  in  the  tree-top's  joyance,  and  conceive 

Of  sunshine  and  wide  air  and  wing6d  things 

By  sym|)athy  of  nature,  so  do  I 

Have  evidence  of  Thee  so  far  above, 

Yet  in  and  of  nie !     Rather  Thou  the  root 

Invisibly  sustaining,  hid  in  light. 

Not  darkness,  or  in  darkness  made  by  us. 

If  sometimes  I  must  hear  good  men  debate 


Of  other  witness  of  Thyself  than  Thou, 
As  if  there  needed  any  help  of  ours 
To  nurse  Thy  dickering  life,  that  else  must  cease, 
lllowu  out,  as  'twere  a  candle,  by  men's  breath, 
My  soul  shall  not  be  taken  in  their  snare. 
To  change  her  inward  surety  for  their  doubt 
Muffled  from  sight  in  formal  robes  of  proof: 
While  she  can  only  feel  herself  through  Thee, 
I  fear  not  thy  withdrawal;   more  I  fear. 
Seeing,  to  know  Thee  not,  hoodwinked  with  thought 
Of  signs  and  wonders,  while,  unnoticed,  Thou, 
Walkiug  thy  garden  still,  coramun'st  with  men, 
^Missed  in  the  commonplace  of  miracle. 


SHE   CAME  AND   WENT. 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred ; 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  uuriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content. 

So  my  soul  held  that  luoment's  heaven ; 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchard's  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  Slay  my  wintry  sleeps ; 
I  onlj-  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze. 

Through  the  low  door-way  of  my  tent 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ; 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oil,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent. 

One  gnsh  of  light  these  eyes  will  brini) 
Onlv  to  think  she  came  aud  went. 


Cljavlcs  Ixincislcji. 

Novelist,  poet,  aud  theologian,  Kiiigsley  (1819-1875) 
W.1S  one  of  nature's  foremost  noblemen  in  act  and 
thouiiiit.  A  native  of  Devonshire,  he  studied  at  King's 
College,  London,  and  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  graduated  in  1842.  He  entered  the  Churcli, 
aud  became  Rector  of  P^verslcy.  From  1859  to  1809  he 
was  Kcgius  Professor  of  Modern  History  at  Cambridge. 
In  1873  lie  was  transferred  to  a  Canonry  in  Westminster. 
Two  years  before  his  death  he  travelled  and  lectured  in 
the  United  States.     A  volume  of  his  poems  was  publish- 


CHABLES  KINGSLEY. 


TG-j 


ed  in  1858.  An  interesting  Memoir  of  him  b}'  liis  wife 
appeared  in  1878.  His  mortal  remains  were  interred  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 


THE   THREE   FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  vrcnt  sailing  awny  to  the  West, 
Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  Aveut  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  h)ved  him  the  best, 
And  the  children   stood   watching  them  out  of 

the  town  ; 
For-  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep. 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower. 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the 
shower,  [brown. 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Thougli  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their 
hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  liome  to  the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep  ; 

x\.nd  good-bve  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


THE   WORLD'S   AGE. 

Who  will  say  the  Avorld  is  dying  ? 

Who  will  say  our  prime  is  past? 
Sparks  from  Heaven,  within  ns  lying, 

Flash,  and  will  flash  till  the  last. 
Fools !   who  fancy  Christ  mistaken  ; 

Man  a  tool  to  buy  and  sell ; 
Earth  a  failure,  God-forsaken, 

Anteroom  of  Hell. 

Still  the  race  of  Hero-spirits 

Pass  the  lamp  from  hand  to  hand ; 
Age  from  age  the  words  inherits — • 

"Wife,  and  Child,  and  Father-land." 
Still  the  youthful  linnter  gathers 

Fiery  joy  from  wold  and  wood ; 
He  will  dare  as  dared  his  fathers, 

Give  him  cause  as  good. 


While  a  slave  bewails  bis  fetters; 

Wliile  an  orphan  pleads  in  vain : 
While  an  infant  lisps  his  letters. 

Heir  of  all  the  age's  gain  ; 
While  a  lip  grows  ripe  for  kissing ; 

While  a  moan  from  man  is  wrung ; 
Know,  by  every  want  and  blessing. 

That  the  world  is  young. 


THE   SANDS   OF   DEE. 

"Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee." 
The  western  Avind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  tlie  land  : 
And  never  borne  came  she. 

"Oh!   is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  bair, 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  bair. 
Above  the  nets  at  sea !" 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  bungry  foam. 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea. 
But   still   the   boatmen   bear   her    call    the    cattle 
home. 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


A  FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you; 

No  lai'k  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray : 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 

For  every  day  : — 

Be  good,  my  dear,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  the  vast  forever 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 


766 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AAD  AMERICAN  POETRY, 


3osial)  (JMlbcrt  Cjollani). 

AMERICAN. 
Ilolhuul  was  bom  in  Bclcliertown,  Mass.,  1810.  lie 
studied  and  imietised  medicine  for  a  time,  and  was  for  a 
year  superintendent  of  scliools  in  Vielcsburu;,  Miss.  From 
1849  to  18(56  he  was  associate- editor  of  the  Springlield 
(Mass.)  ReimUkan.  He  travelled  in  Europe  in  1870,  and 
on  liis  return  became  editor  oi  Scribncr^s  MonUiJy.  He  is 
the  author  of  two  popular  poems—"  Bitter  Sweet"  and 
"Katrina."  As  a  prose  essayist  and  a  novelist  he  has 
also  been  successful  in  wiimingthe  public  attention.  His 
"  Marble  Prophecy,  and  other  Poems,''  appeared  in  1872. 


GEADATIM. 

Heaven  i.s  not  roaclicd  at  a  single  bound, 
But  wc  bnild  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  llie  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true: 

That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God — 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view\ 

"We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  our  feet; 

By  what  wo  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain ; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
Aud  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  wo  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 

When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light. 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordi<l  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  wo  pray. 

And  wo  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things. 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angel,  but  feet  for  uumi  ! 

Wo  may  borrow  the  Aviiigs  to  find  the  way — 
We  may  hojte,  aud  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray  ; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls; 

But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls. 
And  the  sleeper  Avakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies. 

And  wc  mount  to  its  summit,  round  by  round. 


WANTED. 

God,  give  us  men!     A  time  like  this  demands 
Strong    minds,  great   hearts,  true  faith,  and  ready 

hands. 
Men  whom  the  lust  of  oflice  does  not  kill; 
Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy ; 
Men  who  possess  opinions  and  a  will  ; 
Men  who  have  honor;    men  who  will  not  lie; 
Men  who  can  stand  before  a  demagogue. 
And  damn  his  treacherous  llalteries  without  wink- 
ing! 
Tall  men,  sun-crowned,  who  live  above  the  fog 
In  public  duty,  aud  in  private  thiuking : 
For  while  the  rabble,  with  their  thumb-worn  creeds, 
Their  large  professions  and  their  little  deeds, — 
Mingle  in  selfish  strife,  lo !   Freedom  weeps. 
Wrong  rules  the  laud,  and  waiting  Justice  sleeps! 


Samuel  £onoifclloiii. 


AMERICAN. 

Longfellow,  biolhcr  of  the  eminent  poet,  Henry  W., 
was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  in  181!).  He  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  18o9,  and  from  the  Divinity  ISchoi<l 
in  1846.  He  has  preached  in  various  pulpits,  has  made 
several  voyages  to  Europe,  and  has  his  home  in  Cam- 
bridge. In  his  hymns  and  other  poetical  productions, 
he  has  given  ample  proof  of  superior  talent. 


APRIL. 


Again  has  come  the  Spring-time, 

With  the  crocus's  golden  bloom, 
\\\{\\  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned  earth-mould. 

And  the  violet's  perfume. 

O  gardener!  tell  me  the  secret 

Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  aud  sweet ! — 

— "  I  have  only  enriched  my  garden 
With  the  black  mire  from  the  street." 


NOVEMBER. 

The  dead  leaves  their  rich  mosaics, 

Of  olive  and  gold  and  brown. 
Had  laid  on  the  rain-wet  pavements. 

Through  all  the  embowered  town. 

They  were  wa.shed  by  the  autumn  tempest. 
They  were  trod  by  hurrying  feet, 


SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW.— RICRARJ)  D ALTON  WILUAMS. 


767 


And  the  uiaids  camo  out  with  their  besoms 
And  swept  them  into  the  street, 

To  be  crushed  and  h)st  forever 

'Neath  the  wheels,  in  the  bhick  mire  h)st,- 
The  Summer's  precious  darlings, 

She  nurtured  at  such  cost! 

O  words  that  have  fallen  from  me! 

O  gohleu  thoughts  and  true ! 
Must  I  see  iu  the  leaves  a  symbol 

Of  the  fate  which  awaiteth  you  ? 


Uicljari)  Palton  lllilliams. 

Williams,  a  native  of  Tipperary  County,  Ireland,  was 
born  about  the  year  1819,  and  educated  in  the  Catholic 
College  of  Carlow.  His  poetical  vein  is  peculiar,  com- 
bining tenderness  with  vehemence.  For  a  time  he  was 
a  medical  student  at  Dublin  ;  but  in  1850  he  emigrated  to 
America,  and  became  Professor  of  Belles-lettres  in  the 
Catholic  College  of  Mobile,  Ala. 


FROM  THE 


LAMENT  FOE  CLARENCE 
MANGAN." 


Yes,  happy  friend,  the  cross  was  thine ; 

'Tis  o'er  a  sea  of  tears 
Predestined  souls  must  ever  sail, 

To  reach  their  native  spheres: 
May  Christ,  the  crowned  of  Calvary, 

"Who  died  upon  a  tree. 
Bequeath  his  tearful  chalice 

And  the  bitter  cross  to  me ! 

The  darkened  laud  is  desolate, — 

A  wilderuess  of  graves  ; 
Our  purest  hearts  are  prison-bound, 

Our  exiles  on  the  waves : 
Gaunt  Famine  stalks  the  blasted  plains — 

The  pestilential  air 
O'erhangs  the  gasp  of  breaking  hearts. 

Or  the  stillness  of  despair. 

No  chains  are  on  thij  folded  hands, 

No  tears  bedim  thine  eyes. 
But  round  thee  bloom  celestial  flowers 

In  ever  tranquil  skies; 
While  o'er  our  dreams  thy  mystic  songs, 

Faint,  sad,  and  solemn  flow, 
Like  light  that  left  the  distant  stars 

Ten  thousand  years  ago. 


Thou  wcrt  a  voice  of  God  on  earth — 

Of  those  proi)hetic  souls, 
Who  hear  the  fearful  thuuder 

In  the  Future's  womb  that  rolls  : 
And  the  warnings  of  the  angels. 

As  the  midnight  hurried  past, 
Rushed  in  upon  thy  spirit, 

Like  a  ghost-o'erladen  blast. 

If  any  shade  of  earthliness 

Bedimmed  thy  spirit's  wings. 
Well  cleansed  thou  art  in  Sorrow's 

Ever  salutary  springs  : 
And  even  bitter  suftering. 

And  still  more   bitter  sin. 
Shall  only  make  a  soul  like  thiue 

More  beautiful  Avithin, 

Tears  deck  the  soul  with  virtues. 

As  soft  rains  the  iiowery  sod. 
And  the  inward  eyes  are  purified 

For  clearer  dreams  of  God. 
'Tis  Sorrow's  hand  the  temple-gates 

Of  holiness  unbars — 
By  day  we  only  see  the  eartli, 

'Tis  uight  reveals  the  stars. 

Alas!    alas! — the  Minstrel's  fate! — 

His  life  is  short  and  drear, 
And  if  he  win  a  wreath  at  last, 

'Tis  but  to  shade  a  bier; 
His  harp  is  fed  with  wasted  life, — 

To  tears  its  numbers  flow — 
And  strung  with  chords  of  broken  hearts 

Is  Dream-land's  splendid  woe  ! 

But  now — a  cloud  transfigured, 

All  luminous,  auroral — 
Thou  joinest  the  Trisagion 

Of  choired  immortals  choral ; 
While  all  the  little  discords  here 

But  render  more  sublime 
The  joy-bells  of  the  universe 

From  starry  chime  to  chime! 

O  Father  of  the  harmonies 

Eternally  that  roll 
Life,  light,  and  love  to  trill ioued  suns, 

Receive  the  Poet's  soul! 
And  bear  liira  in  thy  bosom 

From  this  vale  of  tears  and  storms, 
To  swell  the  si»liere-hymns  thundered 

From  the  rushing,  starry  swarms! 


768 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BlilTISII  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


5olju  Cam|]bcll   5l]air}j. 

Born  in  Linlitlijiowshire,  Scothiml,  in  ISIO,  Sliuirp  was 
cducatctl  at  the  Edinbmxli  Academy,  Gla^^<;()w  Universi- 
ty, and  Baliol  Colleire,  Oxford.  In  1808  lie  was  appoint- 
ed Principal  of  tlie  University  of  St.  Andrews.  lie  has 
pnblislicd  "  Kihnalioc,  and  otlicr  Poems"  (18(>4) ;  "  Stnd- 
ies  in  Poetry  and  Pliilosopliy  "  (18()8) ;  "  Lectures  on  Cult- 
ure and  Religion "  (1870);  and"Tlie  Poetic  Interpreta- 
tion of  Nature"  (1877). 


SONNET:   RELIEF. 

Who  scekotli  finds:   ^Yhat  shall  bo  his  relief 

Who  hath  no  power  to  seek,  uo  heart  to  pray, 

No  seuso  of  God,  but  bears  as  best  lie  may, 

A  lonely,  inconimiuiicable  grief? 

What  shall  ho  do  ?     One  only  thing  ho  knows, 

That  his  lifo  flits  a  frail  uueasy  spark 

In  the  great  vast  of  universal  dark, 

And  that  the  grave  may  not  bo  all  repose. 

Bo  still,  sad  soul!   lift  thou  no  passionate  cry, 

But  spread  the  desert  of  thy  being  bare 

To  the  full  searching  of  the  All-seeing  eye : 

Wait — and  through  dark  misgiving,  blank  despair, 

God  will  come  down  in  pity,  and  fill  the  dry 

Dead  place  with  light  and  life  and  vernal  air. 


ulljomas  Punn  (fnglislj. 


Born  in  Philadelphia  in  1819,  English  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  medical  profession,  lie  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  to  periodical  literature,  and  published  in 
18.5.5  a  volume  of  poems,  and  in  1880  one  of  spirited 
American  ballads,  issued  by  the  Messrs.  Harper. 


THE   OLD  MILL. 

Here  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  I  look. 

Through  a  lattice  of  boughs  and  leaves, 
On  the  old  gray  mill  with  its  gambrel  roof, 

And  the  moss  on  its  rotting  caves. 
I  hear  the  clatter  that  jars  its  walls, 

And  the  rushing  water's  sound. 
And  I  see  the  black  floats  rise  and  fall 

As  the  wheel  goes  slowly  round. 

I  rode  there  often  when  I  was  young, 
With  my  grist  on  the  horse  before, 

And  talked  with  Nelly,  the  miller's  girl. 
As  I  waited  my  turn  at  the  door. 

And  while  she  tossed  her  ringlets  brown, 
Aud  flirted  and  chatted  so  free. 


The  wheel  might  stop,  or  tlio  wheel  might  go, 
It  was  all  the  same  to  me. 

'Tis  twenty  years  since  last  I  stood 

On  the  spot  where  I  stand  to-daj'. 
And  Nelly  is  wed,  aud  the  miller  is  dead. 

And  the  mill  and  I  are  gray. 
Ihit  both,  till  we  fall  into  ruin  and  wreck. 

To  our  fortune  of  toil  are  bound  ; 
And  the  man  goes  and  the  stream  flows. 

And  the  wheel  moves  .slowly  round. 


AMERICANS. 

The  sisters,  Alice  Cary  (1820-1871)  and  Phoebe  Cary 
(1824-1871),  were  born  on  a  farm,  eight  miles  nortli  of 
Cincinnati,  O.  Alice  began  writing  for  newspapers  and 
magazines  before  she  was  sixteen.  In  18.50  a  volume  of 
poems  by  her  and  Phccbe  appeared,  edited  by  Griswold. 
In  1851  the  sisters  moved  to  the  city  of  New  York,  and 
managed,  with  the  strictest  economy,  to  support  them- 
selves by  their  literary  efforts.  They  wrote  novels  and 
poems,  indicating  rare  poetic  sensibility.  Their  creed 
was  Universalism  ;  and  deep  religious  feeling  character- 
izes the  writings  of  both.  There  is  a  jubilant  tone  in 
Alice's  last  hymn. 


ALICE'S  LAST  HYMN. 

Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills. 

Recedes  and  fades  away : 
Lift  up  yonr  lieads,  ye  heavenly  hills ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  sliadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat. 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beueath  my  feet 

The  green,  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives — 

That  I  shall  live,  I  know. 

Tlie  palace  walls  I  almost  see 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King. 

O  grave !   where  is  thy  victory  ? 
O  death !   where  is  thy  sting  ? 


ALICE  AND  FHCEBE   CART. 


769 


THOU  THAT  DRAWEST  ASIDE  THE  CURTAIN. 

FuoM  "  The  Lover's  Diary." 
Alice  Cart. 

Thou  that  ilrawest  aside  the  curtain, 
Letting  in  the  moou's  broad  beams, 

Give  me  back  the  sweet,  th'  uncertain — 
Give,  oh  give  me  back  my  dreams. 

Take  the  larger  light  and  grander. 

Piercing  all  things  through  and  through  ; 

Give  me  back  the  mistj-  splendor. 
Give  me  back  the  darling  dew. 

Take  the  harvest's  ripe  profusions, 

Golden  as  the  evening  skies  ; 
Give  me  back  my  soft  delusions, 

Give  me  back  my  wondering  ej'es. 

Take  the  passionless  caresses 

All  to  waveless  calm  allied ; 
Give  me  back  my  heart's  sweet  guesses, 

And  my  hopes  unsatisfied. 

Thou  that  mak'st  the  real  too  real. 
Oh,  I  pray  thee,  get  thee  hence  ! 

Give  me  back  my  old  ideal, 
Give  me  back  my  ignorance. 


THOU  AND   I. 

PnCEBE  Cary. 

strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me. 

Sadly  afar ; 
Thou  safe  boj'ond,  above, 

I  'neath  the  star ; 
Thou  where  flowers  deathless  spring, 

I  where  they  fade ; 
Thou  in  God's  paradise, 

I  'mid  time's  shade. 

Thou  where  each  gale  breathes  balm, 

I  tempest-tossed ; 
Thou  where  true  joy  is  found, 

I  where  'tis  lost : 
Thou  counting  ages  thine, 

I  not  the  morrow  ; 
Thou  learning  more  of  bliss, 

I  more  of  sorrow. 

Thou  in  eternal  peace, 

I  'mid  earth's  strife  ; 
49 


Thou  where  care  hath  no  name, 

I  where  'tis  life : 
Thou  without  need  of  hope, 

I  where  'tis  vain  ; 
Thou  with  wings  dropping  light, 

I  with  time's  chain. 

Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me, 

Loved, loving  ever; 
Thou  by  Life's  deathless  fount, 

I  near  Death's  river; 
Thou  winning  Wisdom's  love, 

I  strength  to  trust ; 
Thou  'mid  the  seraphim, 

I  in  the  dust. 


NEARER  HOME. 

PUCEBE   CaEY. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 

Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 
I'm  nearer  my  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before ! 

Nearer  my  Father's  house. 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea ; 

Nearer  that  bound  of  life, 

AVhere  we  lay  our  burdens  down ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown  ! 

But  lying  dimly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  niglit. 
Lies  the  dark  and  uncertain  stream 

That  leads  us  at  length  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm  ; 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  cin-ism. 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ! 

Strengthen  my  feeble  faith ! 
Let  me  feel  as  I  shall  when  I  stand 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  of  death  :- 

Feel  as  I  would  were  my  feet 

Even  now  slipping  over  the  brink, — 

For  it  may  be  I'm  nearer  home. 
Nearer  now  than  I  think  I 


770 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISU  AMJ  AMERICAN  rOETEY. 


^niux  illoiuatt-Uitcljic. 

AMERICAN. 

Anna  Cora  OucIlmi  (1820-1870)  was  born  in  Bordeaux, 
France,  wliile  lier  father,  Samuel  G.  Ogdcn,  a  New  York 
merchant,  was  residing  tlicre.  In  1820  the  lamilj',  a  large 
one,  returned  to  New  Yorl< — two  of  tlic  eliildren  having 
been  swept  overboard  and  lost  on  the  voyage.  Anna 
married  James  Mowatt  in  1837.  Owing  to  liis  financial 
misfortunes,  she  went  on  tlic  stage,  and  liad  considera- 
ble success  as  an  actress.  Slic  wrote  plays,  poems,  and 
novels,  showing  great  facility  in  composition.  Mr.  Mow- 
att having  been  dead  some  years,  she  married,  in  1854, 
Mr.  Ritchie,  editor  of  the  Richmond  (V^i.)  Enqtilrer. 
They  passed  some  time  in  Europe  ;  but  he  returned  home, 
and  left  her  there.  She  died  at  Twickenham,  on  the 
Thames — having  endeared  herself  to  many  distinguished 
persons  by  her  intellectual  gifts,  and  her  activity  in  all 
good  and  charitable  works.  Mary  Howitt  wrote  of  her  : 
"IIow  excellent  in  character,  how  energetic,  unselfish, 
devoted,  is  this  interesting  woman  !"  She  wrote  "The 
Autobiography  of  an  Actress,"  which  had  a  large  sale  ; 
also  "Pclayo,a  Poem,"  published  by  the  Messrs.  Harper. 


TO    A  BELOVED  ONE. 

A  wish  to  my  lips  never  sjirung, 
A  hope  iu  my  eyes  never  sbone, 

But  ere  it  was  breathed  by  my  tongue, 
To  grant  it  thy  footsteps  have  flown. 

Thy  joys  they  have  ever  been  mine, 
Thy  sorrows  too  often  thine  own ; 

The  snn  that  ou  me  still  would  shine, 
O'er  thee  threw  its  shadows  aloue. 

Life's  garland  then  let  us  divide, 
Its  roses  I'd  fain  see  thee  wear 

For  once — but  I  know  thou  wilt  chide  — 
Ah !  leave  me  its  thorn.s,  love,  to  bear. 


iUrs.  3nnc  (CijncI))  Uotta. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss  Anne  Charlotte  Lynch  was  born  about  1S20,  in 
Bennington,  Vt.  —  the  daughter  of  a  gallant  Irishman, 
who,  having  partaken  in  the  rebellion  of  171t8,  was  ban- 
ished from  his  native  country.  She  was  educated  in 
Albany.  A  handsomely  illustrated  volume  of  her  poems 
was  published  in  1848.  She  is  the  author  of  a  valuable 
"Hand-book  of  Universal  Literature,"  and  has  contrib- 
uted largely  to  periodical  literature.  She  was  married 
inl85oto  Vincenzo  Botta(born  1818),  Professor  of  Italian 
Literature  in  the  University  of  the  City  of  New  York, 
and  a  relative  of  Charles  Botta,  who  wrote  a  history  of 
the  American  Revolution. 


LOVE    WINS   LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend,  not  seeking  love, — 
A  mendicant  tluit  with  imploring  eye 
And  outstretched  hand  ask.s  of  the  passer-by 
The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may  move: — 
For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 
Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop  and  wait, — 
A  su2)pliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 
Like  a  spurned  beggar's  at  a  palace  gate  ; — 
But  thy  heart's  afUuence  lavish,  uncontrolled ; 
The  large.ss  of  thy  love  give  full  and  free, 
As  monarchs  in  their  progress  scatter  gold ; 
And  bo  thy  heart  like  the  exhanstless  sea, 
That  must  its  wealth  of  cloud  and  dew  bestow. 
Though  tributary  streams  or  ebb  or  flow. 


IN  THE   ADIRONDACKS. 

O   clouds   and   winds   and   streams,  that   go   your 

way, 
Obedient  to  fulGl  a  high  behest, 
Unquestioning,  without  or  haste  or  rest, — 
Your  only  law  to  be  and  to  obey, — 
O  all  ye  beings  of  the  earth  and  air 
That  people  these  primeval  solitudes. 
Where  never  doubt  nor  di.scontent  intrudes, — 
In  your  divine  accordance  let  mo  share  ; 
Lift  from  my  soul  this  burden  of  unrest. 
Take  me  to  your  companionship;   teach  mo 
The  lesson  of  your  rhythmic  lives;  to  be 
At  one  with  the  great  All,  and  iu  my  breast 
Silence  this  voice,  that  asks  forever  "  why. 
And  whence,  and  where  ?" — unanswerable  cry  ! 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  BEE. 

The  honcj'-bee  that  wanders  all  day  long 
Tlie  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  garden  o'er, 
To  gather  in  his  fragrant  winter  store. 
Humming  in  calm  content  his  quiet  song, 
Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing  breast. 
The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips. 
But  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds  he  sips 
The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely  pressed 
Within  the  poison  chalice.     Thus,  if  wo 
Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden  sweet 
In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we  meet 
In  the  wide  garden  of  humauity, 
And,  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil  we  bear, 
Hived  iu  our  hearts  it  turns  to  nectar  there. 


MARIAN  EVANS  CROSS  {GEORGE  ELIOT).— MATURIN  M.  BALLOU. 


771 


illariau  (JJuans  Cross  ((Ccorgc  (fUot). 

Afrs.  Cross,  whose  maiden  name  was  Marian  C.  Evans, 
was  born  in  Warwickshire,  England,  in  18:20.  Slie  united 
herself  informally  to  George  Henry  Lewes,  an  eminent 
English  i)hilosophical  writer  (1817-1878),  who  was  sepa- 
rated from  liis  wife,  but,  on  account  of  legal  obstacles, 
not  regularly  divorced.  About  two  years  after  the  death 
of  Lewes  she  married  (1880)  Mr.  Cross,  herlinancial  agent, 
said  to  be  about  twenty  years  her  junior.  As  Miss  Evans 
she  translated  Feuerbach  and  Strauss,  both  atheistic 
writers.  Under  the  pseudonyme  of  George  Eliot,  she 
published  "Scenes  of  Clerical  Life"  (1858);  "Adam 
Bede"  (1859);  "The  Mill  ou  the  Floss"  (1800);  "Silas 
Marner  "  (1861) ; "  Romola  "  (18G3) ;  "  Felix  Holt "  (1866) ; 
"Middlemarch"  (1871);  "Daniel  Deronda"  (1876).  Of 
poetry  she  has  published  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy"  (1868), 
a  drama  in  blank  verse,  interspersed  with  short  lyrical 
pieces;  "The  Legend  of  Jubal,  and  other  Poems."  Her 
reputation  as  a  novelist  far  exceeds  what  she  has  won  by 
her  poetry.  That  lacks  spontaneity,  and  she  does  not 
reach  the  art  to  conceal  art.  The  following  often-quoted 
passage,  in  which,  with  an  artificial  show  of  enthusiasm, 
she  attempts  to  glorify  the  aspiration  to  an  immortality 
of  mortal  influence,  as  if  it  were  a  desideratum  superior 
to  that  of  immortal  life  (belief  in  which  she  rejects),  is 
a  proof  of  the  waj-  in  which  she  has  made  the  intellect 
dominate  the  natural  affections  and  emotions  of  the  heart 
of  humanity : 

"Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
lu  minds  made  better  by  their  presence ;   live 
In  pulses  etlrred  to  generosity, 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
Of  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 
lu  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  uight  like  stars, 
And  witli  their  mild  persistence  urge  men's  minds 
To  vaster  issues. — So  to  live  is  heaven  ; 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  a  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb, 
Unread  forever. — This  ia  life  to  come, — 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us,  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven, — he  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  crnelty, 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diffusion  evermore  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible. 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world." 

The  real  sentiment  of  these  lines  is,  that  the  good  influ- 
ences, whicli  a  man  may  posthumously  shed  on  the  hu- 
man generations,  form  the  true,  the  desirable,  the  unself- 
ish, and  the  only  real  immortality.  Were  not  the  mean- 
ing subtly  disguised  in  the  gush  of  a  forced  enthusiasm, 
the  passage  would  hardly  have  the  effect  of  poetry  upon 
the  mind  that  craves  reunion  with  loved  ones  gone  be- 


fore, and  has  great  philosophical,  religious,  and  psycho- 
physiological reasons  for  its  expectations.  As  a  critic 
in  Hari3cr\^  Marjazine  aptly  remarks:  "The  philosophy 
is  a  pitiful  and  painful  one.  Were  it  trutli,  it  still 
would  not  be  poetry ;  there  is  in  it  nothing  inspiring : 
no  rhythmical  attire,  no  poetic  ornament,  can  redeem  it 
from  its  essential  coldness  and  lifclessncss.  In  depicting 
the  known  and  the  present,  George  Eliot  is  almost  with- 
out a  peer.  In  attempting  to  soar  into  the  unseen  and 
unknown,  she  fails.  To  her  there  is,  in  truth,  no  unseen, 
no  unknown." 


DAY  IS   DYING. 

From  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy." 

Day  is  (lying !     Float,  O  song, 
Down  the  westward  river, 

Requiems  chanting  to  the  Day — 
Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time,  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending ; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting ; 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flower 

July  deeper  flushing. 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure — 

Virgin  jiroudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying !     Float,  O  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 


iHaturin  ill.  Uallou. 


Ballon,  the  son  of  Ilosca  Ballon,  a  distinguished  Uni- 
versalist  clergyman,  was  born  in  Boston  in  1820.  He  was 
fitted  for  Harvard  College,  and  passed  his  examination, 
but  did  not  enter.  His  tastes  led  him  to  an  editorial 
career.  He  became  connected  w'itli  the  OUve  Branch,  a 
fiourishing  weekly  paper,  in  1838.  From  that  time  to 
the  present,  excepting  his  visits  to  Europe,  he  has  not 
lost  his  connection  with  the  Press  a  single  week.  He  is 
the  author  of  "The  Treasury  of  Thought,"  "Biography 
of  Ilosea  Ballon,"  "  Tlie  History  of  Cuba,"  etc.  He  has 
also  exhibited,  in  his  short  lyrical  pieces,  a  marked  taste 
for  poetry. 


772 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


FLOWERS. 

Is  Uiere  not  a  soul  bpyoiul  uttcrnnce,  half  nymph,  hnlf  child, 
ill  these  delicate  petals  which  glow  and  bieathe  about  the  cen- 
tres of  deep  color?— Gkoroi!  Eliot. 

Sweet  letters  of  the  angel  tongue, 

I've  loved  ye  long  .and  well, 
And  never  li.ave  failed  in  yonr  fragrance  sweet 

To  find  some  secret  spell, — 
A  cliarni  that  has  bound  mo  with  \Yittliing  power, 

For  mine  is  tlio  old  belief, 
That,  midst  your  sweets  and  midst  your  bloom, 

There's  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 

Illumined  words  from  God's  own  hand, 

How  fast  my  pulses  beat. 
As  each  quick  seuse  in  rapture  comes, 

Your  varied  sweets  to  greet ! 
Alone  and  in  silence,  I  love  yon  best. 

For  mine  is  the  old  belief, 
That,  midst  yonr  sweets  and  midst  your  bloom, 

There's  a  sonl  ia  every  leaf! 

Ye  are  prophets  sent  to  Ihis  heedless  world, 

The  sceptic's  heart  to  teach — 
And  'tis  well  to  read  your  lore  aright, 

And  mark  the  creed  ye  preach. 
I  never  could  pass  ye  careless  by, 

For  mine  is  the  old  belief. 
That,  midst  yonr  sweets  and  midst  your  bloom. 

There's  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 


llVilliam  €ox  Bennett. 

Bennett  is  the  son  of  a  watch-maker,  and  was  born  at 
(ireenwlch,  England,  in  1820.  About  1845  he  began  to 
contribute  poems  to  the  Englisli  perlodic.ils  ;  but  it  was 
not  till  the  publication  of  his  volume  of  ISOl  that  he  won 
a  place  in  literature.  His  themes  are  of  domestic  joys 
and  sorrows,  and  the  beauties  of  nature;  in  his  treat- 
ment of  wliich  he  shows  true  feeling  and  a  cultivated 
taste.  He  belongs  to  the  school  of  Hunt  and  Keats,  and 
occasionally  reminds  us  of  Ilcrriek  and  Wither.  Among 
his  works  arc :  "  War  Songs"  (1855) ;  "  Baby  ISIay,  and  oth- 
er Poems  on  InAmts"  (1861);  "Songs  for  Sailors"  (1873). 


A  MAY-DAY   SONG. 

Out  from  cities  haste  away: 
This  is  earth's  great  hcdiday; 
^Vho  cau  labor  while  the  hours 
In  with  songs  are  bringing  May, 
Tlirough  the  gaze  of  buds  and  flowers, 
Through  the  golden  pomp  of  day  ! 


Haste,  oh,  ha.ste ; 

'Tis  sin  to  waste 
In  dull  work  so  sweet  a  time; 

Joy  and  song 

Of  right  belong 
To  the  hours  of  Spring's  sweet  prime; 
Golden  beams  and  shadows  brown, 
■\Vhere  the  roofs  of  knotted  trees 
Fling  a  plea.sant  coolness  down, 
Footing  it,  the  young  May  sees; 
In  their  dance,  the  breezes  now 
Dimple  every  pond  you  pass  ; 
Shades  of  leaves  from  every  bough 
Leaping,  beat  the  dappled  grass  ; 
Birds  are  noisy — bees  are  humming 
All  because  the  May's  a-coming; 
All  the  tongues  of  nature  shout, 
Out  from  towns — from  cities  out ; 
Out  from  every  bnsy  street ; 
Out  from  every  darkened  court ; 
Through  the  tield-paths,  let  your  feet 
Lingering  go,  in  pleasant  thought; 
Out  through  dells,  the  violet's  haunting ; 
Out  where  golden  rivers  run  ; 
Where  the  wallflower's  gayly  flaunting 
In  the  livery  of  the  suu  ; 
Trip  it  through  the  shadows  hiding 
Down  in  hollow  wiuding  laues ; 
Where  through  leaves  the  sun-shine  gliding. 
Deep  with  gold  the  woodland  stains  ; 
Where  in  all  her  pomp  of  weeds. 
Nature,  asking  but  the  thanks 
Of  our  pleasure,  richly  prauks 
Painted  heaths  and  wayside  banks. 
Smooth-mown  lawns  and  green  deep  meads; 
Leave  the  noisy  bustling  town 
For  still  glade  and  breezy  down; 

Haste  away 

To  meet  the  May ; 
This  is  earth's  great  holiday. 


A  THOUGHT. 

''God  wills  but  ill,"  the  doubter  said — 
"  Lo,  tinu^  doth  evil  only  bear; 

Give  me  a  sign  His  love  to  prove — 
His  vaunted  goodness  to  declare." 

The  poet  paused  by  where  a  flower, 
A  simple  daisy,  starred  the  sod, 

And  answered,  "  Proof  of  love  and  power- 
Behold— behold  a  smile  of  God." 


HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


773 


j^cnnj  fjouHui)  Broroncll. 

AMERICAN. 

In  1864  a  volume  of  verse  appeared  in  New  York,  in 
which  a  higher  and  bolder  strain  than  we  had  been  ac- 
customed to  seemed  to  be  struck.  It  was  modestly  en- 
titled "  Lyrics  of  a  Day  ;  or,  Newspaper  Poetry  by  a  Vol- 
unteer in  the  United  States  Service,"  and  was  from  the 
pen  of  Henry  Howard  Brownell  (1820-187^).  It  was  not 
his  first  venture  in  verse.  He  had  published  a  volume 
some  fifteen  years  before,  giving  ample  promise  of  some- 
thing better.  He  was  a  native  of  East  Hartford,  Conn., 
and  a  nephew  of  the  well-known  Bishop  Brownell  of 
that  State.  Henry  graduated  at  Trinity  College,  taught 
school  for  awhile,  and  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out 
entered  the  naval  service  as  a  volunteer,  and  took  part 
in  several  of  the  great  sea-fights  in  the  Southern  waters. 
These  he  has  described  in  two  spirited  poems  of  some 
length,  entitled  severally  "The  River  Figlit"  and  "The 
Bay  Fight ;"  the  latter  first  published  in  Harper'' s  Maga- 
zine for  December,  1864.  They  were  the  outcome  of  his 
own  experiences — of  what  he  had  been  personally  en- 
gaged in — and  bear  the  marks  of  that  earnest  sincerity 
and  graphic  power,  which  could  only  come  from  the  un- 
ion of  imaginative  force  with  actual  recollection.  "  Some 
of  the  descriptions,"  he  says,  "might  seem  exaggerated, 
but  better  authorities  than  I  am  say  they  are  not." 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  writes  of  him: 

"Little  did  he  crave 
Men's  praises.    Modestly,  with  kindly  mirth, 

Not  sad  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate,— 

Drank  deep  of  Hfe,  knew  books  and  hearts  of  men, 
Cities  and  camps,  and  War's  immortal  woe  ; 

Yet  bore  through  all  (such  virtne  in  him  sate — 
His  spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then !) 
A  simple,  loyal  nature,  pure  as  suow." 

In  the  Preface  to  his  Lyrics,  Brownell  says  of  them  : 
"  Penned,  for  the  most  part,  on  occasion,  from  day  to  day 
(and  often  literally  currente  calamo),  they  may  well  have 
admitted  instances  of  diffuseness,  contradiction,  or  repe- 
tition." 


AT   SEA:   A  FRAGMENT. 

On  a  night  like  this,  how  many 

Must  sit  by  the  hearth,  like  me,— 
Hearing  the  stormy  weather, 

And  thinking  of  those  at  sea! 
Of  the  hearts  chilled  througli  with  watching, 

The  eyes  that  wearily  blink, 
Through  the  blinding  gale  and  snow-drift. 

For  the  Lights  of  Navesiuk ! 

Like  a  dream,  'tis  all  around  me — 

The  gale  with  its  steady  boom, 
And  the  crest  of  every  roller 

Torn  into  mist  and  spume ; — 
The  shroud  of  snow  and  of  spoon-drift 

Driving  like  mad  a-lee — 


And  the  huge  black  hulk  that  wallows 
Deep  in  the  trough  of  the  sea ! 

The  creak  of  cabin  and  bulk-head — 

The  wail  of  rigging  and  mast, — 
The  roar  of  the  shrouds,  as  she  rises 

From  a  deep  lee-roll  to  the  blast ; — 
The  sullen  throb  of  the  engine, 

Whose  iron  heart  never  tires,-  — 
The  swarthy  faces  that  redden 

By  the  glare  of  his  caverued  tires! 

The  binnacle  slowly  swaying 

And  nursing  the  faithful  steel — 
And  the  grizzled  old  quartermaster, 

His  horny  hands  on  the  wheel : — 
I  can  see  it — the  little  cabin — 

Plainly  as  if  I  were  there — 
The  chart  on  the  old  green  table, 

The  book,  and  the  empty  chair ! 


FROM    "THE    BAY    FIGHT." 

JIOBILE    B.\Y,  AUGUST   5,  18G1. 

Three  days  tlirough  sapphire  seas  we  sailed. 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free. 

The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled. 

The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet. 
We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee. 

And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntiugs  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  ^Vestern  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coastwise  as  we  cruised  or  lay. 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore. 

By  beach  and  fortress-guaided  bay, 

Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, — 


774 


CYCLOrJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


Fresh  from  tho  forest  solitudes, 
Unchallenged  of  bis  seutry-liiies — 

The  bnrsting  of  his  cypress  bnds, 

And  tho  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 

Nor  bolder  flag  a  foe  to  dare, 
Had  left  a  wake  ou  ocean  bine 

Since  Lion-heart  sailed  Trcnc-h-mcr ! 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  fontid, 
"Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  deatli. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold. 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood — 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day. 
With  fort  and  earthwork,  far  away, 

Low  conched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time — but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came  ; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long. 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame ! 

"  Man  your  starboard  battery  !" 

Kimberly  shouted — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  'mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory ! 

None  of  us  doubted. 

No,  not  our  dying — 

Farragnt's  fhig  was  flying! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 
Morgan  roared  on  our  right — 

Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 

Willi  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell. 

Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  figlit ! 

Ha,  old  ship!    do  they  thrill, 

The  brave  two  hundred  scars 

You  got  in  the  River-wars? 
That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard), 
Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam. 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam. 


Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch. 
And  sutured  with  sjdice  aiul  hitch. 

At  tho  Brooklyn  Navy-yard! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down. 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown, 
(Wont  of  old  renown) — 
]5nt  every  sliip  was  dressed 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best. 

As  if  for  a  July  day  ; 
Sixty  flags  and  three. 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay — 
Every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  bravo  Red,  White,  and  Blue — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut. 
The  weaker  lashed  to  jwrt. 

On  we  sailed,  two  by  two — 
That  if  either  a  bcdt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel. 
Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Forging  boldly  ahead, 
The  great  flag-ship  led. 

Grandest  of  sights! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  bad  waved  o'er  twenty  fights — 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  'mid  the  roar 

Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore, 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

All,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  State, 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows — 
Here,  on  tho  flood's  pale-green, 

Hiirk  how  he  bellows, 

Kacli  bluff  old  Sea-lawyer! 
Talk  to  them,  Dalilgren, 

Parrott  and  Sawyer! 

On,  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath. 
We  drew  to  the  line  of  death 

That  our  devilish  foe  had  laid — 

Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 
And  baited  villauous  well. 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 


HENKY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


Hi 


And  there,  O  sight  forlorn  ! 
There,  -while  the  cauuoa 

Hurtled  and  thundered — 
(xih,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn!) — 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath, 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  Lis  hundred! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spraj^  went  o'er  her 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave — 
In  that  gi'eat  iron  coffin. 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing), 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back. 

Closing  up  in  their  stations — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations 

(Christening  the  generations) — 
When  valor  were  all  too  late. 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored — 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief. 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief — 
"  Go  on  !" — 'twas  all  he  said  : 

Our  helm  was  put  to  starboard. 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay)  — 
There  he  was  belching  steam  from  his  1)o\v, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss — 

In  sooth  a  most  curs6d  craft ! — 
In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay. 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 

Kaking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot — 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung! 

And  the  water-batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 


So  the  battle  raged  and  roared — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fiyht  we  made ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE. 

Blue  Gulf  all  around  ns, 

Blue  sky  overhead, — 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter. 

We  must  bury  the  dead ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 

Eugged  of  front  and  form ; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name,  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from, 
We  know — and  there's  nothing  more ! 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
On  the  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 

Keason  drifting  awreck, 
"  'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"  I  must  go  upon  deck !" 

Ay,  on  deck — by  the  foremast ! — - 
But  watch  and  lookout  are  done; 

The  Union-Jack  laid  o'er  him. 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun  ! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine. 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft ! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft — 
Gather  around  the  grating. 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer! 

Let  every  foot  be  quiet. 
Every  head  be  bare — 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service, 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks), 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks — 

"W^e  therefore  commit  his  body 
To  the  deep  " — and,  as  he  speaks, 


776 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAN  POETRY. 


Launclioil  from  the  weather  railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 

Tlio  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 
riimges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousaud  iiithoms, 
Down  into  the  dark ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  (j!ulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin, — 
But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 

There's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  a-wcary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  top-sail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 
Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  bright  o'erhead — 
Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 

We  have  buried  our  dead. 


1S58. 


fjcunj  Uootcs  iJatkson. 

AMERICAN. 

Gen.  Jackson,  a  native  of  Athens,  Ga.,  was  born  in  the 
year  1820.  He  was  educated  in  Edgehill  Seminary,  Prince- 
ton, N.  J.,  and  at  Yale  College,  where  he  graduated  in 
1839.  A  lawyer  by  profession,  he  resides  in  Savannah. 
He  distinguished  himself  in  the  Mexican  War,  and  also 
ill  the  war  for  Southern  separation  from  the  Union.  He 
was  United  States  Minister  at  Vienna  from  18.53  to  18.58. 
He  is  the  author  of  "Tallulah,  and  otiicr  Poems"  (1858), 
full  of  evidences  of  genuine  emotion,  finding  fit  utterance 
in  lyrical  expression. 


MY  FATHER. 

As  die  the  embers  on  tlie  hearth, 

And  o'er  the  lloor  the  shadows  fall. 
And  creeps  the  chirping  cricket  forth. 

And  ticks  the  death-watch  in  the  wall, 
I  see  a  form  in  yonder  chair, 

That  grows  beneath  the  waning  light ; 
There  are  the  wan,  sad  features — there 

The  pallid  brow,  and  locks  of  white! 

My  father!   when  they  laid  thee  down, 
And  heaped  the  clay  upon  thy  breast. 

And  left  thee  sleeping  all  alono 
Upon  thy  narrow  conch  of  rest, 

I  know  not  why  I  could  not  weep, 
The  soothing  drops  refused  to  roll ; 


And  oh!   that  grief  is  wild  and  deep 
Which  settles  tearless  on  the  soul ! 

But  when  I  saw  thy  vacant  chair, 

Thine  idle  hat  upon  the  wall, 
Thy  book — the  pencilled  passage  where 

Thine  eye  had  rested  last  of  all — 
The  tree  beneath  who.se  friendly  shade 

Thy  trembling  feet  had  wandered  forth — 
The  very  prints  those  feet  had  made. 

When  last  they  feebly  trod  the  earth  ; 

And  thought,  while  countless  ages  fled. 

Thy  vacant  seat  would  vacant  stand  ; 
Unworn  thy  hat,  thy  book  unread. 

Effaced  thy  footsteps  from  the  sand  ; 
And  widowed  in  this  cheerless  world 

The  heart  that  gave  its  love  to  thee — 
Torn,  like  the  vine  who.se  tendrils  curled 

More  clo.sely  round  the  falling  tree! — 

Then,  father,  then  for  her  and  thee 

Gushed  madly  forth  the  scorching  tears ; 
And  oft,  and  long,  and  bitterly. 

Those  tears  have  gushed  in  later  years ; 
For  as  the  world  grows  cold  around, 

And  things  their  real  hue  take  on, 
"Tis  sad  to  learn  that  love  is  found 

With  thee,  above  the  .stars,  alone! 


THE   LIVE-OAK. 

Witii  his  gnarled  old  arm.s,  and  his  iron  form, 

Majestic  in  tlie  wood, 
From  age  to  age,  in  the  sun  and  storm. 

The  live-oak  long  hath  stood ; 
With  his  stately  air,  that  grave  old  tree, 

He  stands  like  a  hooded  monk, 
With  the  gray  moss  waving  solemnlj' 

From  his  shaggj^  limbs  and  trunk. 

And  the  generations  come  and  go. 

And  still  he  stands  upright. 
And  he  sternly  looks  on  the  wood  below, 

As  c(mscions  of  his  might. 
But  a  mouruer  sad  is  the  hoary  tree, 

A  mourner  sad  and  lone. 
And  is  clothed  in  funeral  drapery 

For  the  long  since  dead  and  gone. 

For  the  Indian  hunter  beneath  his  shade 
Has  rested  from  the  chase  ; 


HENRY  liOOTES  JACKSON.— FEEDEEICK  LOCKEE. 


777 


And  he  here  has  wooed  bis  dusky  maid — 

The  dark-eyed  of  her  race  ; 
Aud  the  tree  is  red  with  the  gnshiug  gore 

As  the  wiUl  deer  xiauting  dies : 
But  the  maid  is  gone,  aud  the  chase  is  o'er, 

And  the  ohl  oak  hoarsely  sighs. 

In  former  days,  when  the  hattle's  diu 

Was  loud  araid  the  laud, 
lu  his  friendly  shadow,  few  aud  thin, 

Have  gathered  Freedom's  baud  ; 
And  the  stem  old  oak,  how  proud  was  ho 

To  shelter  hearts  so  brave  ! 
But  they  all  are  gone — the  bold  aud  free — 

Aud  he  moaus  above  their  grave. 

And  the  aged  oak,  with  his  locks  of  gray. 

Is  ripe  for  the  sacrifice  ; 
For  the  worm  and  decay,  uo  lingering  prey. 

Shall  he  tower  toward  the  skies ! 
He  falls,  he  falls,  to  become  our  guard, 

The  bulwark  of  the  free, 
Aud  his  bosom  of  steel  is  proudly  bared 

To  brave  the  ragiug  sea ! 

When  the  battle  comes,  and  the  cannon's  roar 

Booms  o'er  the  shuddering  deep, 
Then  nobly  he'll  bear  the  bold  hearts  o'er 

The  waves,  with  bounding  leap. 
Oh !   may  those  hearts  be  as  firm  and  true, 

When  the  war-clouds  gather  dun, 
As  the  glorious  oak  that  proudly  grew 

Beneath  our  Southern  suu. 


MY  WIFE  AND   CHILD. 

The  tattoo  beats,  the  lights  are  gone, 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies ; 

The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on, 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies ; 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  fliown, 
Aud  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  oh !   dearest  one, 

Whose  love  mine  early  life  bath  blessed- 

Of  thee  and  him— our  baby  sou — 
Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast ; 

God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone. 
Oh  !   guard  the  little  sleeper's  rest ! 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her,  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet — 


The  mother-wife ;   the  doubly  dear — 
In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear, 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spirit  yet. 

Now,  as  she  kneels  before  Tliy  throne. 
Oh !   teach  her,  Euler  of  the  skies. 

That  while,  by  Thy  behest  alone. 
Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise, 

No  tear  is  wept  to  Thee  uuknown, 
No  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies ! 

That  Thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hand 
Of  dark  disease,  aud  soothe  its  pain ; 

That  only  by  Thy  stern  command 
The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain  ; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  laud 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again. 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed. 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 

The  brightening  currents  of  her  breast, 

Nor  frowniug  look,  nor  angry  tone, 
Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest. 

Wherever  fiite  those  forms  may  throw, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild ; 

By  day,  by  night,  in  joy,  or  woe. 

By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled. 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 

O  God !   protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 


jTrcbcricIt  £of!\cr. 

Locker,  born  iu  1821, has  published  "London  Lyrics" 
(1857),  a  volume  of  vera  de  societe,  which  has  passed 
through  several  editions.  He  has  also  edited  a  book  of 
drawing-room  poetry,  called  "  Lyra  Elegantiarum."  His 
effusions  at  times  seem  to  be  colored  somewhat  by  his 
reminiscences  of  Praed  and  Holmes ;  but  he  not  unfrc- 
quently  dashes  into  a  style  of  his  own.  He  assigns  to 
Holmes  the  first  place  among  living  writers  of  vers  de  so- 
ciete. Locker  may  be  read  w  ith  pleasure,  for  his  gayety 
is  always  sweet  and  genial. 


ST.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE. 

She  passed  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire. 

Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity ; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word,  there  were 
few 


•778 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  ROETRY. 


Tliat  stood  by  tlio  altar,  or  liid  in  a  pew, 
Ijivt  ciivicil  Lord  Nigel's  felicitj-. 

O  bcaiitiful  IJride  !     80  mock  in  tliy  Kplondor, 
So  frauk  in  tliy  lovo  and  its  trusting  snrrundcr, 

Dcjtarting  yon  leave  ns  the  town  dim! 
May  happiness  ■\ving  to  thy  bosom,  iinsonght, 
And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as  ho  onght, 

Prove  worthy  thy  worsbi]), — confound  him  ! 


THE   UNREALIZED   IDEAL. 

My  only  lovo  is  always  near : 

In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 

Tiie  whisper  of  her  gown. 

Slio  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young; 

Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 
And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung 

And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  mo  in  the  meads ; 

And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  mo  on ;  but  Avhilo  she  leads 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  mo  more  and  more ; 

That  wooing  A'oice — ah  me!   it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

Lightly  I  sjjcd  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase; 

I  follow,  follow  still,  for  I 
Shall  never  see  her  face ! 


fjoracc  Binncri  Sargent. 


Sargent  was  liorn  in  Quincy,  Mass.,  in  1831.  His  fiitlicr 
was  Lucius  Manlius  Sargent  (178G-1807),  who  published  a 
volume  of  poems  in  liis  youth,  and  iu  his  latter  days  was 
a  writer  of  essays,  full  of  wit,  in  the  style  of  Montaigne. 
Horace  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1843,  being  lirst 
in  his  class.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  iu  1845.  He 
recruited  the  First  Massachusetts  Cavalry  iu  1801,  in  the 
war  for  the  Union  ;  became  colonel,  and  was  breveted 
brigadicr-gcncnd  March  21st,  1804;  but  was  discharged 
from  service  September  29tli,  1864,  for  disability  from 
wounds  in  action.  The  fnie  poem  we  cpiote  was  written 
iu  bis  tout  on  a  saddlc-bo.\-,  the  night  after  a  sharp  light- 
ing reconnoissancc.     His  younger  brother,  Lucius  Man- 


lius, Jr.,  who  also  had  poetical  and  artistic  tastes,  entered 
the  army  as  a  surgeon,  became  captain  of  cavalry,  was 
obliged  by  a  wouiul  iu  the  lungs  to  go  home  on  a  fur- 
lough ;  after  a  brief  rcsi)ite,  rejoined  his  regiment  as 
lieutenant-colonel,  and  was  killed  iu  action  by  a  shell, 
December  9th,  1804,  near  BelUield,  Va.,  while  leading  a 
gallant  charge  against  the  enemy. 


AFTER  "TAPS." 

Tramp!   tramp!   tramp!   tramp! 

As  I  lay  with  my  blanket  on. 
By  the  dim  firc-ligbt,  iu  the  moonlit  night, 

^Vllon  the  skirmishing  fight  was  done. 

The  measured  beat  of  the  sentry's  feet. 
With  the  jingling  scabbard's  ring! 

Train])!   trani))  !   in  my  meadow-camp 
]>y  the  Shenandoah's  spring! 

Tho  moonlight  seems  to  shed  cold  beams 

On  a  row  of  pale  grave-stones : 
Give  the  bugle  breath,  and  that  image  of  Death 

"Will  fly  from  the  reveille's  tones. 

By  each  tented  roof,  a  charger's  hoof 

Makes  the  frosty  hill-side  ring: 
Give  the  bugle  breath,  and  a  spirit  of  Death 

To  each  horse's  girth  will  spring. 

Tramp!   tramp!  tramp!   tramp! 

The  sentry  before  my  tent, 
Guards  in  gloom  his  chief,  for  whom 

Its  shelter  to-night  is  lent. 

I  am  not  there.     On  tho  hill-side  bare 

I  think  of  the  ghost  within  ; 
Of  the  brave  who  died  at  my  sword-hand  side, 

To-day,  'mid  tho  horrible  din 

Of  shot  and  shell  and  the  infantry  yell, 
As  wo  charged  v.ith  the  sabre  drawn. 

To  my  heart  I  said,  "Who  shall  be  the  dead 
In  mil  tent  at  another  dawn?" 

I  thought  of  a  blossoming  almond-tree, 

'J'iie  stateliest  tree  that  I  know  ; 
Of  a  golden  bowl ;  of  a  parted  soul ; 

And  a  lamp  that  is  burning  low. 

Oh,  thoughts  that  kill!     I  thought  of  the  hill 

In  tho  fai'-olF  Jura  chain  ; 
Of  the  two,  the  three,  o'er  the  wide  salt  sea, 

Whose  hearts  would  break  with  paiu ; 


HORACE  BINNEY  SARGENT.— AMELIA   B.  WELBY.— CORNELIUS  G.  FENNER. 


779 


Of  my  pride  and  joy — my  eldest  boy ; 

Of  my  darling,  the  second— in  years  ; 
Of  Willie,  whose  face  with  its  pure,  mild  grace, 

Melts  memory  into  tears ; 

Of  their  mother,  my  bride,  by  the  Alpine  lake's  side, 

And  the  angel  asleep  in  her  arms ; 
Love,  Beauty,  and  Truth,  which  she  brought  to  my 
youth, 

lu  that  sweet  April  day  of  her  charms. 

"Halt!     Who  comes  there  ?''     The  cold  midnight  air 
And  the  challenging  word  chills  me  through  : 

The  ghost  of  a  fear  whispers,  close  to  my  ear, 
"  Is  peril,  love,  coming  to  you  ?" 

The  hoarse  answer, "  Relief,"  makes  the  shade  of 
a  grief 

Die  away,  with  the  step  ou  the  sod. 
A  kiss  melts  in  air,  while  a  tear  and  a  prayer 

Confide  my  beloved  to  God. 

Tramp  !    tramp  !   tramp  !   tramp  ! 

"With  a  solemn  pendulum-swing  I 
Though  /  slumber  all  night,  the  fire  burns  bright. 

And  my  sentinels'  scabbards  ring. 


"  Boot  and  saddle !"  is  sounding.     Our  pulses  are 
bounding. 

"To  horse!"     And  I  touch  with  my  heel 
Black  Gray  in  the  tianks,  and  ride  down  the  ranks, 

With  my  heart,  like  my  sabre,  of  steel. 


anulia  D.  llhlbg. 


AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Welby  (1821-18.52)  was  born  at  St.  Michael's,  Md. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Coppuck.  Her  father  removed  to 
Louisville,  Ky.,  in  1835,  where,  in  1838,  slie  was  married 
to  Mr.  Welby,  a  merchant  of  that  city.  She  bcsjan  to 
write  for  tlie  Louisville  Journal  under  the  signature  of 
"Amelia."  Foe,  not  always  an  unbiassed  judge,  said  of 
her:  "  As  for  ouv poetesnes  (an  absurd  but  necessary  word), 
few  of  them  approach  her."  A  volume  of  her  poems  was 
published  in  Boston  in  1844,  and  went  through  four  edi- 
tions.    Another  appeared  in  New  York  in  1850. 


TWILIGHT  AT   SEA  :— A  FRAGMENT. 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  ou  the  sea ; 


For  every  wave,  Avith  dimpled  face. 
That  leaped  upon  the  air. 

Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace. 
And  held  it  trembling  there. 


THE   GOLDEN   RINGLET. 

Here  is  a  little  golden  tress 

Of  soft,  nnbraided  hair. 
The  all  that's  left  of  loveliness 

That  once  was  thought  so  fair ; 
And  yet,  though  time  hath  dimmed  its  sheen, 

Though  all  beside  hath  fled, 
I  hold  it  here,  a  link  between 

My  spirit  and  the  dead. 

Yes!   from  this  shining  ringlet  still 

A  mournful  memory  springs. 
That  melts  my  heart,  and  sheds  a  thrill 

Through  all  its  trembling  strings. 
I  think  of  her,  the  loved,  the  wept. 

Upon  whose  forehead  fair, 
For  eighteen  years,  like  sunshine,  slept 

This  golden  curl  of  hair. 

O  sunny  tress!   the  joyous  brow 

Where  thou  didst  lightly  wave, 
With  all  thy  sister-tresses  now 

Lies  cold  within  the  grave  : 
That  cheek  is  of  its  bloom  bereft ; 

That  eye  no  more  is  gay ; 
Of  all  her  beauties  thou  art  left, 

A  solitary  ray. 


drornclius  (!?corgc  i^cnncr. 


A  modest  little  volume  of  eighty-seven  pages,  entitled 
"  Poems  of  Many  Moods,"  appeared  in  Boston  in  18iC, 
published  by  Little  &  Brown.  It  was  from  the  pen  of 
Fenner,  of  whom  we  know  little  except  that  he  was  born 
in  Providence  in  1823,  and  died  in  18i7  in  Cincinnati, 
where  lie  had  been  settled  as  a  Unitarian  minister.  His 
"Gulf- Weed"  shows  that  young  as  he  was  he  had  in 
him  tlic  elements  of  the  true  poet. 


WINNIPISEOGEE  LAKE. 

The  blue  waves  gently  kiss  the  strand. 
And  flow  along  the  pebbly  shore. 

Then  rippling  leave  the  verdant  land. 

And  seek  the  lake's  calm  breast  once  more. 


780 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEliWAN  rOETRY. 


No  whito  siiil  gleams  upon  tlio  wave, 
Nor  iiiotiou  hatli  it,  savo  its  own 

Brifjht  How  of  waters,  and  no  sound 
Save  its  own  gentle  moan. 

And  deep  and  pnrc  the  summer  blue 

Keflected  in  its  bosom  lies, — 
And  mirrored  there  iutensely  true 

The  thousand-tinted  foliage  dyes! 
Far  towering  stretch  the  pine-trees  round. 

And  from  those  leafy  seas  so  dim 
I  bear  the  wind's  mysterious  sound. 

Like  faint  heard  angel's  hymn. 

Nature,  kind  mother!    from  this  scene 

Of  h6\y  and  serenest  calm, 
May  the  sad  soul  a  lesson  glean, 

A  soothing  tone  'mid  life's  alarm  : — 
To  bid  each  stormy  passion  rest. 

And  lie  in  lake-like,  calm  repose. 
With  sunshine  sleeping  on  my  breast, 

Till  death-shades  round  me  close. 


GULF-WEED. 

A  weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro. 

Drearily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine. 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low. 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine; 
Sport  of  the  spoom  of  the  surging  sea, 

Flung  on  the  foam  afar  and  anear ; 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery, — 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 

I  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 

Kootless  and  rover  though  I  be  ; 
My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 

Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree  ; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er. 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array; 
'Mid  the  wild  waves'  rude  uproar, 

Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore. 

Something  whisi)ers  soft  to  me. 
Restless  and  roaming  for  evermore. 

Like  this  Aveary  weed  of  the  sea ; 
Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 

The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole 
Growth  unfolding  amid  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 


(lljomas  Dufljanau  llcab. 


Read  (1823-1872)  was  a  native  of  Chester,  Pa.  His  ad- 
vantages of  early  education  were  limited.  When  four- 
teen, he  went  to  Cincinnati,  and  became  a  pupil  of  the 
sculptor,  Clcvcngcr;  but  soon  turned  his  attention  to 
painting,  in  which  he  was  financially  successful.  The 
poetical  element  was  strong  in  his  nature,  as  some  of  his 
shorter  pieces  show.  He  published  three  long  poems, 
"The  Now  Pastoral,"  "The  House  by  the  Sea,"  and 
"The  Wagoner  of  the  AUeghanies."  In  1850, and  again 
in  1853,  he  visited  Italy.  The  last  few  years  of  his  life 
were  spent  in  Rome.  Returning  to  New  York,  he  died 
there  after  a  short  illness.  Among  his  ballads  "Sheri- 
dan's Ride"  bus  been  quite  popular;  but  his  "Drift- 
ing" (published  1859)  is  far  the  most  memorable  of  his 
poems. 

DRIFTING. 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away. 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 

My  wing6d  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote : — 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim. 

The  mountains  swim  ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands. 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlookiug  the  volcanic  lands. 

Hero  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  licpiid  miles  ; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits. 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  ripi)ling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff;  — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  Avails  of  Paradise. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


781 


Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild. 

Is  Heaven's  own  child. 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled  ; — 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail ; — 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  clilis  amid. 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid 

Or  down  the  walls. 

With  tipsy  calls. 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  water-falls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

W^ith  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smootli,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  li])S 

Sings  as  she  skips. 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-oti'  ships. 

You  deep  bark  goes 

Where  Traffic  blows. 
From  lauds  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows ; — 

This  happier  one. 

Its  course  is  ruu 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 
To  rise  and  dip. 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 


O  happy  crew. 
My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar! 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise ! 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day. 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 

Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 

The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar, 

Telliug  the  battle  was  on  once  more. 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away ! 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar, 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled. 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray. 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away ! 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down  ; 

And  there  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed,  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night. 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight — 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need. 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed  ; 

Hill  rose  and  fell — but  his  heart  was  gay. 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away  ! 

Still  sprang  from  tliose  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth. 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster; 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  bo  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away! 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 


782 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  tho  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  li.ving  before  the  Avind  ; 

And  tho  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wihl  eyes  full  of  fire. 

But  lo !  he  is  iiearing  his  heart's  desire — 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fraj'. 

With  Sheridau  only  live  miles  away ! 

The  first  that  tho  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  tho  retreating  troops ; — 
What  was  done — what  to  do — a  glance  told  him  both  : 
Thou  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath. 
He  dashed  down  tho  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
Aud  the  wave  of  retreat  chocked  its  course  there, 

bocauso 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was 

gray  : 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostrils'  play, 
He  seemed  to  tho  whole  great  army  to  say : 
"I  have  brought  you  Sheridau  all  tho  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day!" 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  fur  horse  and  man  ! 
And  wheu  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame, — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Slieridan  into  the  fight. 
From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away!" 
1804. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 
Tiio  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
Wiien  all  tho  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

Tlie  gray  barns,  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters,  widening  in  tho  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  tho  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed,  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  farther,  and  tho  streams  sang 
low  ; 

As  in  a  dream,  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  mufllcd  blow. 


The  embattled  forests,  erewhilo,  armed  in  gold, 
Their  Ijanners  bright  with  ev(!ry  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  slumberous  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight ; 

Tho  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  com- 
plaint ; 
And  like  a  star,  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

Tho  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

Ilis  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where,  erst,  the  jay  within  the  elm's  tall  crest 
Made    garrulous    trouble    round    her    uufledged 
young ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 

Fdieboding,  as  tho  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest,  and  a  plenteous  year: — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast, 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn. 

To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  east ; — 
All  now  Avas  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble,  piped  the  quail. 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy 
gloom  ; 

Alone  the  i>hcasant,  drumming  in  the  vale. 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage-loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

Tho   spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by 
night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  uoiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this — in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

Aud  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  tho  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  tho  Year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch ; — 

Amiil  all  this,  the  centre  of  tho  scene. 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  tho  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 
Sat  like  a  Fate,  aud  watched  the  flying  thread. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  BEAD.— MATTHEW  ABNOLD. 


783 


Slie  bad  known  sorrow.    He  had.  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust; 

And,  in  the  dead  leaves,  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  bis  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  Avas  bright  with  suninior  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all, 

And  twice,  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — • 
Ee-gave  the  swords,  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that  drew. 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow  ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  trne, 
Fell  "mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on. 
Like  the  low  murmurs  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone. 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous 
tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head  was 
bowed — 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  Autumn  scene. 


illattljcu)   ^rnolir. 


Born  at  Laleham,  in  England,  1822,  Arnold  was  the 
eldest  son  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby  School. 
He  has  published  several  volumes  of  poems,  and  a  trag- 
edy, entitled  "  Merope."  As  a  theological  writer  he  has 
also  won  distinction.  His  poetry,  though  not  of  the  ob- 
vious and  popular  kind,  is  evidently  the  work  of  a  pro- 
found thinker,  a  scholar,  and  a  true  poet.  In  1857  he  was 
elected  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford. 


SELF-DEPENDE^X•E. 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 

At  the  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forward,  forward  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea,  and  to  the  stars  I  send, — 

"Ye  who  from  my  childhood  np  have  calmed  me! 
Calm  me,  ah !   compose  me,  to  the  end  !" 

"Ah!    once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars!   ye  waters! 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 


Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you." 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 

O'er  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way. 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer, — 

"  Would'st  thou  be  as  these  are  ?     Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long,  moon-silvered  roll; 

For  alone  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  dilferiug  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unobservant 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice  !   long  since  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  my  own  heart  I  hear: 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;   and  know  that  he 
Who  finds  himself  loses  his  misery." 


A   WISH. 

I  ask  not  that  my  bed  of  death 

From  bands  of  greedy  heirs  be  free ; 

For  these  besiege  the  latest  breath 
Of  fortune's  favored  sons,  not  me. 

I  ask  not  each  kind  soul  to  keep 

Tearless,  when  of  my  death  he  hears ; 

Let  those  who  will,  if  any,  weep! 

There  are  worse  plagues  on  earth  than  tears. 

I  ask  but  that  my  death  may  find 

The  freedom  to  my  life  denied ; 
Ask  but  the  folly  of  mankind. 

Then,  then  at  last,  to  quit  my  side. 

Spare  mo  the  whispering,  crowded  room. 
The  friends  who  come,  and  gape,  and  go ; 

The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom : — 

All  that  makes  death  a  hideous  show! 

Xor  bring  to  see  me  cease  to  live, 
Some  doctor  full  of  phrase  and  fame, 


784 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BlilTlUll  A^D  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


To  shake  his  sapient  head,  and  give 
The  ill  he  cannot  cure  a  name. 

Nor  fftcli  to  tiike  Iho  aconstonied  toll 
Of  the  poor  sinner  bound  for  death, 

His  brother  doctor  of  the  soul, 
To  canvass  with  official  breath 

The  fntnrc  and  its  viewless  things — 

Tliat  nndlseovered  mystery 
'Wlilch  one  who  feels  death's  Avinnowing  \^ings 

Mnst  needs  read  clearer,  sure,  than  he ! 

Bring  none  of  these !    bnt  let  mc  be, 

"While  all  around  in  silence  lies, 
Moved  to  the  Aviudow  near,  and  see 

Once  more  before  my  dying  eyes, 

Bathed  in  the  sacred  dews  of  morn, 
The  -wide,  ai-rial  landscape  spread — 

The  Avorld  Avhich  was  ere  I  was  born, 
The  Avorld  ■which  lasts  when  I  am  dead. 

Which  never  was  the  friend  of  one, 
Nor  promised  love  it  could  not  give, 

But  lit  for  all  its  generous  sun. 
And  lived  itself,  aud  made  lis  live. 

There  let  me  gaze,  till  I  become 
In  soul  with  what  I  gaze  on  Aved! 

To  feel  the  universe  my  home  ; 
To  have  before  my  mind — instead 

Of  the  sick-room,  the  mortal  strife. 
The  tupmoil  for  a  little  breath — 

The  pure  eternal  course  of  life. 

Not  hunian  combatings  with  death. 

Thus  feeling,  gazing,  let  me  grow 
Composed,  refreshed,  ennobled,  clear  ; 

Then  willing  let  my  spirit  go 

To  Avork  or  Avait  elscAvhere  or  here ! 


DR.  ARNOLD. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force. 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  in  vain  : 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  A-ast, 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength. 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm ! 


Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  i)a8t, 

Still  thou  i)erf<)rmest  the  Avord 

Of  the  Spirit  in  Avhom  thou  dost  live, 

I'ronipt,  unwearied,  as  here! 

Still  thou  npraisest  Avith  zeal 

Tlie  humble  good  from  the  ground. 

Sternly  repressest  the  bad. 
Still,  like  a  trumpet  dost  rouse 
Those  Avlio  AAitli  half-open  eyes 
Tread  the  border-land  dim 
'Twixt  vice  and  virtue;    reviv'st, 
Succorest — this  was  thy  work. 
This  Avas  thy  life  upon  earth. 


AUSTERITY   OF  POETRY. 

That  sou  of  Italy  Avho  tried  to  blow. 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song. 
In  his  light  youth,  amid  a  festal  throng. 
Sat  Avith  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 

Fair  Avas  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did  glow 
Youth  like  a  star  ;   aud  what  to  youth  belong — 
Gay  raiment,  sparkling  gauds,  elation  strong. 
A  prop  gave  Avay — crash  fell  a  platform!    Lo! 

'Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hnrt  to  death,  she  lay ! 
Shuddering,  they  drew  her  garments  oif — and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth,  white  skin. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  tlie  Muse!  young,  gay. 
Radiant,  adorned  outside;   a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 


(tl)oinas  £al\c  Cjarris. 

Harris  was  born  at  Fenny-Stratford,  England,  May  1.5, 
1823,  and  brouiilit  to  America  when  only  live  years  old. 
The  career  of  Harris  is  a  study  for  the  psychologist. 
Impulsive  and  imi)rcssionable,  he  became  at  an  early  age 
a  Univcrsalist  preacher.  In  18.50  he  Avas  one  of  the  lead- 
ers in  a  movement  for  a  communist  settlement  at  Moun- 
tain Cove,  Fayette  County,  Virginia.  It  Avas  not  a  suc- 
cess. He  lectured  for  a  time  in  opposition  to  Christian- 
ity, but  this  phase  of  his  doctrinal  belief  was  transient : 
he  claimed  a  new  development,  became  zealously  Chris- 
tian, and  assumed  a  thcosophic  authority.  He  taught 
that  in  many  mediums  the  possession  is  of  a  demoniac, 
rather  than  of  an  angelic  origin ;  and  he  admitted  that 
he  had  at  times  been  under  the  influence  of  these  "  sub- 
jective devils,"  from  Avhora  he  was  now  happily  free. 
Believing  that  his  inspiration  was  at  length  purely  divine, 


THOMAS  LAKE  HARlllS.— ROBERT  LEIGHTOX. 


785 


he  became  somewhat  dictatorial  in  his  tone.  There  is 
no  evidence  that  he  lias  not  been  conscientious  and  sin- 
cere in  all  his  changes.  As  a  writer  he  is  forcible  and 
eloquent.  After  preaching  in  London  (18.59,  '00),  he  re- 
turned to  tlie  United  States,  and  organized  a  new  society. 
William  Ilowilt  says  of  him  :  "He  arrives  at  his  conclu- 
sions by  flashes  of  intuition."  In  what  appeared  to  be 
a  state  of  trance,  he  dictated  liis  poems,  a  volume  at  a 
time,  or  as  last  as  his  amanuensis — generally  his  publish- 
er—could write.  The  chief  of  these  productions  are: 
"The  Epic  of  the  Starry  Heavens"  (New  York,  1S;54; 
fourth  edition,  1855) ;  "The  Lyric  of  the  Morning  Land  " 
(1854) ;  "The  Lyric  of  the  Golden  Age"  (1850);  "Rcgina, 
a  Song  of  Many  Days  "  (London,  1859).  The  amazing 
celerity  with  whicli  tliese  remarkable  poems,  all  show- 
ing extraordinary  literary  facility  and  bursts  of  true 
poetry,  were  written  is  attested  by  Mr.  S.  B.  Brittan 
and  others.  Among  the  distinguished  converts  who 
followed  Harris  was  Mr.  Lawrence  Oliphant,  an  English 
autlior  of  note.  In  1880  Harris  was  the  chief  of  a  so- 
ciety, called  "The  Brotherhood  of  the  New  Life,"  estab- 
lished at  Fountain  Grove,  Santa  Rosa,  Cal.  He  says  of 
his  poems:  "They  are  not  mine;  they  are  tlie  work  of 
mighty  poets  in  their  glory  above."  In  this  extraor- 
dinary assertion  he  was  doubtless  sincere. 


THE    SPIRIT-BORN.- 

Nigbt  overtook  me  ere  my  race  was  run, 

And  mind,  wbicli  is  the  chariot  of  the  soul, 
Wliose  wheels  revolve  in  radiance  like  the  sun, 

And  utter  glorious  music  as  they  roll 
To  the  eternal  goal, 
With  sudden  shock  stood  still.     I  heard  the  boom 

Of  thunders :   many  cataracts  seemed  to  pour 
From  the  invisible  mountains  ;  through  the  gloom 

Flowed  the  great  waters  ;  then  I  knew  no  more 
But  this,  that  thought  was  o'er. 

As  one  who,  drowning,  feels  his  anguish  cease, 

And  clasps  his  doom,  a  ^lale  but  gentle  bride, 
And  gives  his  soul  to  slumber  aud  sweet  peace. 

Yet  thrills  when  living  shapes  the  waves  divide, 
Aud  moveth  with  the  tide. 
So,  sinking  deep  beneatli  the  unknown  sea 

Of  intellectual  sleep,  I  rested  there  ; 
I  knew  I  was  uot  dead,  though  soon  to  be. 

But  still  alive  to  love,  to  loving  care. 
To  sunshine  and  to  prayer. 

And  Life  and  Death  and  Immortality, 
Each  of  my  being  held  a  separate  part ; 


1  Harris  claims  to  have  uttered  this  under  the  control  of  the 
spirit  of  Robert  Sonthev,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  died  in- 
sane. There  is  both  method  and  beauty  in  the  "madness" — 
if  such  it  be. 

50 


Life  there,  as  sap  witliiu  an  o'erblown  tree ; 
Death  there,  as  frost,  witii  intermitting  smart; 
But  in  the  secret  heart 
The  sense  of  immortality,  the  breath 

Of  being  indestructible,  the  trust 
In  Christ,  of  linal  triumph  over  death. 
And  spiritual  blossoming  from  dust, 
And  heaven  with  all  the  just. 

The  soul,  like  some  sweet  llower-bud  yet  unblown, 

Lay  tranced  in  beauty  in  its  silent  cell: 
The  spirit  slept,  but  dreamed  of  worlds  unknown. 

As  dreams  tiie  clirysalis  within  its  shell 
Ere  summer  breathes  her  spell. 
But  slumber  grew  more  deep  till  morning  broke, 

The  Sabbath  morning  of  the  holy  skies; 
Au  angel  touched  my  eyelids,  and  I  woke  ; 

A  voice  of  tenderest  love  said,  "  Spirit,  rise," — 
I  lifted  up  mine  eyes, 

Aud  lo !   I  was  in  Paradise.     The  beams 

Of  morning  shone  o'er  landscapes  greeu  aud  gold, 
O'er  trees  with  star-like  clusters,  o'er  the  streams 

Of  crystal,  and  o'er  many  a  tented  fold. 
A  patriarch — as  of  old 
MelchLsedec  might  have  approached  a  guest — 

Drew  near  me,  as  in  reverent  awe  I  beut, 
Aiul  bade  mo  welcome  to  the  Land  of  Rest, 

And  led  me  upward,  wondering,  but  content, 
Into  his  milk-white  tent. 


llobcrt  £cigl]ton. 


A  man  of  genius  and  true  poetical  tastes,  Leightou 
(1823-1809)  was  a  native  of  Dundee.  He  engaged  in 
mercantile  pursuits  in  Liverpool.  In  1855  he  put  forth 
a  volume  entitled  "  Rhymes  and  Poems,"  winch  was  re- 
printed in  1801.  Another  volume  of  poems  from  liis  pen, 
published  in  1809,  was  received  with  much  favor. 


YE   THREE   VOICES. 

Ye  glasso  was  at  my  lipi)e, 
Clear  spirit  sparkling  was  ; 

I  was  about  to  sippe. 

When  a  Aoice  came  from  ye  glasse 
"Aud  would'st  thou  have  a  rosie  nose, 

A  blotched  face  and  vacant  eye, 
A  shakey  frame  that  feeblie  goes, 

A  form  aud  feature  alle  awry, — 
A  bodie  racked  with  rheumic  paine, 

A  burnt-up  stomach,  fevered  braine. 


786 


CYVLOrJiDlA    OF  BlUTlUll  AM)  JMLIiJCAy   rOETliV. 


A  innddio  mind  tliat  oaniiot  tliiiike  ? 

'riicii  (Iriiikc,  (Iriiikc,  driiike.'' 

TI1U8  spoko  yo  A'oico  ami  llcddo, 

Nor  any  moio  did  say  ; 
Hilt  I  thnii<i;lit  on  what  it  saidc, 

And  I  (Int'W  yt;  glassc  away. 

Yo  pipe  AViis  ill  my  moiitli, 

Yc  lirst  floudo  o'er  mo  broke  ; 
I  was  to  Mow  aiioMior, 

^Vil(  11  a  voire  came  from  ye  smoke. 

Conio,  this  must  be  a  hoaxo  ! 

Then  I'll  smide  if  I  may  not  smoke; 
I3iit  a  voice  came  from  yo  boxo  ! 

And  tliiis  those  voices  spoke  : 

"And  \\()iihr.st  ilioii  liave  a  swimmic  licddc, 

A  smokio  breatii  and  blackened  tooth  ? 
And  woiild'st  thon  have  thy  freshness  fade, 

And  wrinkle  up  thy  leafe  of  youtlie  ? 
Would'st  have  thy  voice  to  lose  its  tone, 
'I'liy  heavenly  note  a  bagpipe's  drone  ? 
If  tiion  woiihl'st  thy  health's  channels  choke, 

Tiieii  smoke,  smoke,  smoke  ; 
Ye  pijies  of  thy  sweet  music  stuffe, 

Then  snufte,  snnffe,  snntfe  !" 

Thus  spoke,  nnd   fledde  they  both  ; — 

G lasso  I    pipe  I   l)oxe  I    in  a  day, 
To  lose  them  was  I  loath  ; 

Yot  I  threw  tliom  alio  away. 

Oh!    would  we  be  alio  healthe,  alle  ligiitnesse, 
Alio  youtlie,  alio  Kweetness,  freshness,  brightness, 
Sooiug  through  every  thingo 
With  minds  like  yc  crystal  springe; 
Oil!   would  w(i  be  just  right  cuoiigiiu  — 
Not  drinke — not  smoke  —  not  snulfe. 

Tiien  would  our  forwarde  course 

'!"<)  tlio  right  1)0  as  natiuall 
As  it  is,  withonton  force, 

For  stones  downwarde  to  fallo. 


BOOK.S. 


I  have  a  tliought,  that  as  we  live  elsewhere, 
.So  will   those  dear  creations  of  tiie  br;iiii  ; 
Tliat  what  I  lose  unreatl,  I'll  find,  and  there 
Take  up  uiy  joy  again. 

Oil,  then  tin;  bliss  of  blisses,  to  be  fre(!d 

From  all  the  wants  by  which  the  world  is  driven 
With  liberty  and  endless  time  to  read 
The  libraries  of  Heaven ! 


Dauib  ^tiDOob  lllasson. 

AMERICAN. 

Wasson  was  born  at  West  Brookfickl,  Me.,  May  14t!i, 
1833.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College,  but  left  before  the 
close  of  liis  sophomore  year.  Afterward  lie  studied  law, 
but,  declining  tlic  practice,  turned  his  attention  to  theol- 
ogy. His  writings  have  appeared  cliiefly  in  the  Atlantk 
Moiithhj,  North  American  lieview,  and  Christian  Examiner. 
For  twelve  years  he  lias  been  a  student  of  the  moral  and 
political  sciences  ;  and  it  is  understood  tliat  he  has  on 
hand,  nearly  complete,  an  elaborate  work  on  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  political  socictj-.  An  indcpeiubMit 
thinker,  well  versed  in  the  highest  philosophy,  Wasson 
has  also  given  evidences  of  high  genius  as  a  poet;  while 
he  has  controverted  the  materialism  of  the  age  with  a 
skill  at  once  logical  and  scientific.  Ilis  resideuce  (1880) 
was  West  Medford,  ^lass. 


I  cannot   tliink  tlie.  glorious  worl<l  of  iiiiiid. 
Kmbalmcd  in  books,  which  I  can  only  .see 
In  patches,  though  I  read  my  moments  blind, 
Is  to  be  lost  to  me. 


MINI.STKRING  ANGELS  TO  THE  IMrRLSONED 
SOUL. 

KllOM    AX    UnPIBLISUED    I'OEM. 

The  bread  of  life  wo  bring,  immortal  Truth, — 

The  wine  of  life,  pure  joy  of  Love,  wo  bear; 

Eat,  famished  heart,  regain  thy  godlike  youth. 

Drink,  arid  soul,  and  thy  lost  hojies  repair! 

Yet  liiminons  a'thers  hold  the  hills  of  heaven, 
Yet  breathe  its  meadows  unexhausted  balm, 

■^'(•1.  shining  'mid  tlio  groves  at  morn  and  e\cn. 
'I'lie  wise  with  wise  have  speech  in  regal  calm. 

O  iinforgotten,  how  couldst  thou  forgot  t 

O  chiimed  of  heaven,  chiim  thy  birth  divine. 

O  heir  to  all  tilings,  why  in  misery  yet? 

I'lit  forth  tliy  palm,  the  very  stars  are  thine! 

In  each,  in  thee,  would  fain  Existence  flower. 

Wo  come  to  quicken  all  thy  death  to  bloom. 
Make  live  in  thee  all  grace,  all  peace,  all  power: 

Fling  wide  the   lieart-gates !   give   tliy  brothers 
room ! 


DAVID  ATWOOD    WASSON.  — WILLIAM  CALDWELL   ROSCOK. 


787 


ALL'S  WELL. 

Swcet-voicccl  Hope,  tliy  line  di.scoiir.se 
Foretold  not  lialf  life's  good  to  nie  ; 
Tliy  jiaintcr,  Fancy,  batli  not  force 
To  show  how  sweet  it  is  to  be  I 

Thy  Avitching  dream 

And  pictured  scheme 
To  match  the  fact  still  want  the  power; 

Thy  promise  brave 

From  birth  to  grave 
Life's  boon  may  beggar  in  an  hour. 

Ask  and  receive, — 'tis  sweetly  said  ; 

Yet  what  to  plead  for  know  I  not ; 
For  Wish  is  worsted,  Hope  o'ersped, 

And  aye  to  thanks  returns  my  thought. 

If  I  would  pray, 

I've  naught  to  saj^ 
But  this,  that  God  may  be  God  still ; 

For  Him  to  live 

Is  still  to  give. 
And  sweeter  than  my  wish  his  will. 

0  wealth  of  life  beyond  all  bound! 
Eternity  eacli  moment  given  ! 

What  plummet  may  the  Present  sound  ? 
Who  promises  a  future  heaven  ? 

Or  glad,  or  grieved, 

Oppressed,  relieved. 
In  blackest  night,  or  brightest  day, 

Still  pours  the  flood 

Of  golden  good, 
And  more  than  heartful  fills  me  aye. 

My  wealth  is  common;   I  possess 

No  petty  province,  but  the  whole  ; 
What's  mine  alone  is  mine  far  less 
Than  treasure  shared  bj'^  every  soul. 

Talk  uot  of  store, 

Millions  or  more, — 
Of  values  which  the  purse  may  hold, — 

But  this  divine ! 

I  own  the  mine 
Whose  grains  outweigh  a  planet's  gold. 

1  have  a  stake  in  every  star, 

In  everj-  beam  that  fills  the  day  ; 
All  hearts  of  men  my  cofters  are, 
My  ores  arterial  tides  convey  ; 

The  fields,  the  skies. 

And  sweet  replies 


Of  thought  to  thought  are  my  gold-dust- 

The  oaks,  the  brooks, 

And  speaking  looks 
Of  lover's  faith  and  friendship's  trust. 

Life's  youngest  tides  joy-briuiming  How 

For  him  who  lives  above  all  years, 
Who  all-immortal  makes  the  Now, 
And  is  not  ta'en  in  Time's  arrears : 
His  life's  a  hymn 
The  seraphim 
Might  hark  to  bear  or  help  to  sing, 
And  to  his  soul 
The  boundless  whole 
Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 

'•'All  mine  is  thine,"  the  skj'-soul  saitli  ; 

"The  wealth  I  am,  must  thou  become: 
Richer  and  richer,  breath  by  breath, — 
Immortal  gain,  immortal  room!" 

And  since  all  his 

Mine  also  is. 
Life's  gift  outruns  my  fancies  far, 

And  drowns  the  dream 

In  larger  stream, 
As  morning  drinks  the  morning-star. 


lllilliam  CalbuicU  Uoscoc. 

Roscoe  was  born  in  England  In  1823,  and  died  in  1859. 
He  was  the  author  of  "  Violunzia,"  a  tragedy  published 
anonymously  in  1851.  His  volume  of  "Poems  and  Es- 
says, edited,  with  a  Memoir,  by  his  brother-in-law,  Rich- 
ard Holt  Hutton,"  was  published  in  1860. 


TO   A  FRIEND. 

Sad  soul,  whom  God,  resuming  what  he  gave, 
Medicines  with  bitter  anguish  of  the  tomb, 
Cease  to  oppress  the  portals  of  the  grave. 
And  strain  thy  aching  sight  across  the  gloom. 
The  surged  Atlantic's  winter-beaten  wave 
Shall  sooner  pierce  the  purpo-se  of  the  wind 
Thau  thy  storm-tossed  and  heavy-swelling  mind 
Grasp  the  full  import  of  his  nu'ans  to  save. 
Through   the  dark  night  lie  still ;    God's  faithful 

grace 
Lies  hid,  like  morning,  underneath  the  sea. 
Let  thy  slow  hours  roll,  like  these  weary  stars, 
Down  to  the  level  ocean  patiently; 
Till  His  loved  hand  shall  touch  the  eastern  bars. 
And  His  full  glory  shine  upon  thy  face. 


788 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Caroline  ^tljcrton  lUason. 

AMERICAN. 
Mrs.  Mason  was  born  in  Maiblolicad,  Ma^s.,  in  1823. 
She  was  a  dauglitcr  of  Dr.  Calvin  Brings  of  tliat  town. 
She  married  Charles  Mason,  Es(i.,  a  lawyer  of  Fitchburg, 
Mass.  In  1852  she  published  a  volume  of  her  verses,  en- 
titled "  Utterance  :  a  Colleetion  of  Iloine-Poeins."  They 
are  of  superior  merit,  showing  a  genuine  vein  of  poetic 
sentiment,  with  a  command  of  appropriate  language,  rich 
in  its  simplicity. 

NOT   YET. 

Not  yet: — along  the  pnqiling  sky 

We  see  the  dawning  ray, 
But  leagnes  of  clondy  distance  lie 

Between  us  and  the  day. 

Not  yet: — the  aloo  waits  serene 

Its  promised  advent  lionr, — 
A  patient  century  of  green 

To  one  full  perfect  flower. 

Not  yet : — no  harvest  song  is  sung 

In  the  sweet  ear  of  spring, 
Nor  hear  we,  while  the  blade  is  young, 

The  reaper's  sickle  swing. 

Not  yet : — before  the  crown,  the  cross  ; 

The  struggle  ere  the  j^rize  ; 
Before  the  gain  the  fearful  loss, 

And  death  ere  Paradise. 


BEAUTY  FOR  ASHES. 

I  dare  not  echo  those  Avho  say 
That  life  is  but  a  troubled  way, 
A  barren  waste  devoid  of  charms. 
And  ripe  witli  dangers  and  alarms; 

A  cro.ss  to  take  up  and  to  bear ; 
A  vapor  chilly  Avith  despair; 
A  desert  where  no  roses  blow, 
Nor  any  healing  waters  flow. 

Is  life  a  cro.ss  T     O  burden  blessed 
To  those  of  God's  dear  love  possessed ! 
Let  me  on  him  but  lay  it  down, 
And  lo !    my  cross  becomes  my  crown. 

Is  it  a  desert  vast  and  dim  ? 
On  every  side  beholding  him. 
The  barren  wilderness  doth  bloom 
And  sweeten  with  a  sweet  perfume. 


Is  it  a  vapor  chill  with  death  ? 
I'll  brcallK!  it  witli  a  trusting  breath; 
'Tis  health  to  me!     'Tis  sweet  and  rare 
As  Araby's  best  spices  are. 

Oh,  only  lie  wlio  lets  his  smart 
Grow  cankered  in  a  thankless  heart. 
Dares  scout  with  carjjing  discontent 
His  thousand  blessings  daily  sent. 

And  lie  who  has  and  would  increase 
Within  his  soul  God's  perfect  peace, 
Because  the  Lord  is  made  his  song. 
May  well  go  singing  all  day  long. 


AN   OCTOBER   WOOD   HYMN. 

My  soul  has  gi-own  too  great  to-day 

To  utter  all  it  would. 
Oh  !   these  preventing  bonds  of  clay  ! 
When  will  my  spirit  learn  to  say, 

Unft^ttered,  all  it  should  ! 

I'm  out  in  the  free  wood  once  more. 
With  whispering  boughs  o'eriiead  ; 

Strange  influences  round  me  steal, 

And  yet,  what  deepliest  I  feel 
Must  ever  be  unsaid. 

These  glowing,  glowing  antnnin  hours! 

These  wildering,  gorgeous  days  ! 
This  dainty  show  of  gorgeous  flowers. 
As  though  with  dusty,  golden  showers 

Tlie  air  were  all  ablaze  ! 

This  living,  shining,  bnrni.shed  wood, 

Tricked  with  a  thousand  dyes! 
Its  strong  ribs  laced  with  crimson  sheen. 
And  decked  with  gold  and  glittering  green. 
Like  kingly  tapestries! 

This  tangled  roof  of  braitlcd  light 

Above  me  richly  thing! 
These  glimpses  of  the  sky's  .soft  blue! 
This  (inivering  snn.shine  melting  through! 

'i'lie  wide  earth,  glnry-linng  ! 

How  shall  I  utter  all  I  would  ? 

Alas!   my  struggling  soul — 
It  strives  to  grasp  these  glorious  things 
As  strives  a  bird  on  broken  wings 

To  struggle  to  its  goal. 


JOHN  RANDOLPH  THOMPSON. 


789 


3olju  Uanbolpl)  ^njompson. 

AMERICAN, 
Thompson  (1823-1872),  a  native  of  Riclimoiul,  was  edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Virginia.  lie  studied  law,  and 
was  admitted  to  tlie  Bar  in  1845 ;  but  forsoolv  it  for  the 
more  congenial  pursuit  of  literature.  He  contributed 
largely  to  the  Southern  Literanj  Jfessenge);  which  he  ed- 
ited from  lS-17  to  1801.  During  the  Civil  War  he  went 
to  England,  where  he  contributed  to  MackwoocVs  Maga- 
zine and  other  periodicals.  He  was  afterward  engaged 
on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post. 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP. 

Tn'o  armies  covered  bill  aud  plain 
Where  Eappahaunock's  waters 

Run  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  staiu 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  teuts 

lu  meads  of  heavenly  azure, 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  bid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down, 

With  cannon  grindy  planted. 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted, — 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender  : 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn, 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "Yanks," 

Aud  one  was  gray  with  '-Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still ;  and  then  the  band. 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy. 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 


The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 
But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 

With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

Tlio  trumpet  i)ealcd  sonorous. 
And  "  Yandlo  Doodle"  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  rii»plo  shoreward  flew 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles : 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  "  Boys  in  Blue" 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang. 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 
That  plaintive  note's  appealing. 

So  deeply  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  had  stirred 
The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Of  blue  or  gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  hy  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him  ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  Avaked  by  music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  .shines, 

That  bright,  celestial  creature. 
Who  still  'mid  war's  embattled  lines 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  nature. 


790 


CYCLOrJJDIA    OF  JilllTISlI  AM)  AMEllICAX  VOETRY. 


Coucntnj  j3atmorc. 


Coventry  Kearscy  Digliton  Patiiiorc  was  born  in  Wood- 
ford, England,  in  182:3.  He  publislied  a  volume  of  poems 
in  1844;  and  between  1854  and  1K(W,  "The  Angel  in  the 
House,"  issued  in  four  parts;  "The  Betrothal,"  "The 
Espousal,"  "  Faithful  Forever,"  and  "  The  Victories  of 
Love."  lie  occupied  a  position  in  the  literary  depart- 
ment of  the  British  Museum. 


FROM   "  FAITHFUL  FOKEVKK." 

All  I  am  sure  of  Ileavou  is  tliis  ; 
Howc'er  tlio  mode,  I  shall  not  mi.ss 
One  true  delight  wliicli  I  liavo  known  : — 
Not  on  the  changofnl  earth  alone. 
Shall  loyalty  remain  unmoved 
Toward  everything  I  ever  loved. 

So  Heaven's  voice  calls,  like  Rachel's  voice 
To  Jacob  in  the  field,  Rejoice! 
Servo  on  some  seven  more  sordid  years. 
Too  short  for  weariness  or  tears ; 
Serve  ou  ;   then,  O  beloved,  well-tried. 
Take  me  forever  for  thy  bride ! 


THE   TOYS. 

My  little  son,  who  looked  from  tlionghtfnl  eyes, 
Aud  moved  and  spoke  in  qniet  grown-np  wi.so. 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 
I  struck  him,  aud  dismissed. 
With  hard  words  aud  uukisscd, — 
His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed  ; 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
W^itli  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet  ; 
And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  liis  tears,  left  others  of  my  own  ; 
For  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters,  aud  a  red-veined  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abnuled  by  the  beach. 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  liottle  witli  bluebells, 

And  two  French  copper  coins  ranged  there  with  care- 
ful art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So,  when  that  night  I  ])raycd 
To  God,  I  wept  aud  said  : 

Ah!   when  at  last  we  lie  with  trauc^^d  V)reath. 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 


Aud  thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

W(!  made  our  joys. 

How  weakly  understood 

Tiiy  great  commanded  good, — 

Then,  fatherly,  not  less 

Than  I  Avhom  Thou  hast  mouldod  from  the  day, 

Thon'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

'•  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  ehildisline.ss." 


iHrs.  Savialj  iJauc  Cippiiuott. 

AMERICAN. 

The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  Lippincott  was  Clarke,  and 
she  gained  her  literary  reputation  under  tlie  pen-name 
of  Grace  Greenwood.  She  was  born  in  1823  in  Pomfrey, 
Onondaga  County,  N.  Y.,  and  in  1853  married  Mr.  Lip- 
pincott of  Philadelphia.  She  has  published  a  volume  of 
poetry  and  several  volumes  in  prose  ;  and  is  known  as  a 
graceful,  vivacious  writer.  Latterly  she  has  resided  in 
Colorado. 


THE   I'OET   OF   TO-DAY. 

More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song  is  given 
To  thee,  O  jioet  of  to-day ! — thy  dower 

Comes  from  a  higher  than  Olympian  heaven. 
In  holier  beauty  and  in  larger  power. 

To  thee  Humanity,  her  woes  revealing, 

W^ould  all  her  griefs  aud  ancient  wrongs  rehearse  ; 

Would  make  thy  song  the  voice  of  her  appealing. 
And  sol)  her  mighty  sorrows  through  thy  veise. 

While  in  her  season  of  great  darkness  sharing. 
Hail  thou  the  coming  of  each  promise-star 

Which  climbs  the  midnight  of  her  long  despairing, 
And  watch  fur  morning  o'er  the  hills  afar. 

Wherever  Trutli  licr  holy  Avarfare  wages. 

Or  Freedom  pines,  there  let  thy  voice  be  heard. 

Sound  like  a  prophet-warning  down  the  ages 
The  hnniau  utterance  of  God's  living  word! 

]5ut  bring  not  thou  the  battle's  stormy  chorus. 
The  tramp  of  armies,  ami  the  roar  of  hgiit. 

Not  war's  hot  su)oke  to  taint  the  sweet  morn  o'er  us, 
Nor  blaze  of  pillage,  reddening  up  the  night. 

Oh,  let  thy  lays  pndong  that  angel-singing, 
Girdling  with  music  the  Redeemer's  star, 

Aud  breathe  God's  peace,  to  earth  glad  tidings  bring- 
ing 
From  the  near  heavens,  of  old  so  dim  aud  far! 


GEOliGE  HENET  BOKEE.— THOMAS    WEyTWOETH  HIGGINSOK. 


rm 


(J^corcic  Cjcurn  Bokcv. 

AMERICAN. 

Boker,  born  in  Pliihulelpliia  in  1823,  was  gracluated  at 
Princeton  College,  N.  J.,  in  1843.  He  travelled  in  Eu- 
rope, and,  returning  home,  published  in  1847  his  first 
volume  of  poems.  In  1848  he  produced  "  Cahiynos,  a 
Tragedy  " — played  with  success  in  the  United  States  and 
in  England.  He  wrote  other  plays,  showing  fine  dra- 
matic talent;  and  in  1870  published  his  "Plays  and 
Poems,"  in  two  volumes.  In  1871  he  was  sent  United 
States  Minister  to  Constantinople  by  President  Grant; 
a  jiost  which  he  resigned  in  1877. 


DIRGE   FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

IX   MEMORY   OF  GENEU.\L   PHILIP   KE.\RNEY,  KILLED 
SEPTEMBER   1,  1862. 

Close  Ills  eyes;    his  work  is  done! 

AVliat  to  him  is  friend  or  ibemaii. 
Rise  of  moou,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  inau,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  liim  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he?   he  cannot  know: 
Laj^  him  low  I 

As  man  may,  he  fought  lils  light, 

Proved  liis  truth  by  liis  endeavor ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  niglit, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever ; 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ; 
What  cares  he  ?   lie  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
Wliat  to  him  are  all  onr  wars. 

What  but  death-bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
W^hat  cares  he  ?   he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  liand  that  niadi;  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idlj'  bj' : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  liim. 
Laj'  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?   he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  I 


(Tljomas  llUntiuortl)  f)igc\iu5on. 


Born  in  Cambridge,  ^lass.,  in  182:3,  Iligginson  was  grad- 
uated at  the  College  in  1841.  He  studied  theology,  and 
was  settled  as  pastor  in  Newburyport  in  1847,  and  in 
Worcester  from  1852  to  1858.  When  the  Civil  War  broke 
out  he  gave  up  preaching,  and  was  appointed  colonel  of 
the  first  black  regiment  raised  in  South  Carolina.  Hav- 
ing been  wounded,  he  was  discharged  for  disability,  Octo- 
ber, 1864.  He  has  since  resided  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  or  at 
Cambridge.  He  is  the  author  of  "Out- door  Papers" 
(1863);  "Malbone,  an  Oldport  Romance"  (1809);  "Army 
Life  iu  a  Black  Regiment"  (1870);  "Atlantic  Essays" 
(1871);  "Harvard  Memorial  Biographies  ;"  "History  of 
the  United  States  for  Schools,"  etc.  His  prose  style  is 
fresh,  graceful,  and  compact;  and  his  poem  "Decora- 
tion" establishes  his  claim  as  a  poet.  The  poem,  enti- 
tled "Gifts,"  which  we  append,  is  from  the  pen  of  his 
wife,  Mai-y  Thacher  Higginson,  daughter  of  Peter  and 
Margaret  (Poller)  Thacher  of  West  Newton,  Mass. 


"I   WILL  ARISE,  AND   GO   TO   MY   FATHER." 

To  thine  eternal  arms,  O  God, 

Take  ns,  thine  erring  children,  in  ; 
From  dangerous  paths  too  boldly  trod, 

From  wandering  thoughts  and  dreams  of  sin. 

Those  arms  were  round  our  childi.sh  ways, 
A  guard  through  helpless  years  to  be ; 

Oh,  leave  not  our  maturcr  days, — 
We  still  are  helpless  without  thee! 

We  trusted  hope  and  pride  and  strength  ; 

Our  strength  prov.f;d  false,  our  pride  was  A-ain  ; 
Onr  dreams  have  faded  all  at  length, — • 

We  come  to  thee,  O  Lord,  again! 

A  guide  to  trembling  steps  yet  be  ! 

Give  us  of  thine  eternal  powers! 
So  shall  onr  paths  all  load  to  thee, 

And  life  smile  on,  like  childhood's  hours. 


GIFTS. 


A  lawless  jiearl,  snatched  from  an  ocean  cave 

Remote  from  light  or  air, 
And  by  the  mad  caress  of  stormy  wave 

Made  but  more  i)urc  and  fair; 

A  diamond,  wrested  from  earth's  hidden  zone. 

To  whose  recesses  deep 
It  clung,  and  bravely  flashed  a  light  that  shone 

Where  dusky  shadows  creep; 


792 


CYCLOFJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  sapphire,  in  whoso  licart  the  temhT  rays 

Of  siiiiimcr  skies  have  met ; 
A  ruby,  ji;h)\vinj^  with  the  ardent  bhizo 

Of  suns  that  never  set : — 

These  priceless  jewels  shone,  one  ha]»py  day. 

On  my  bewildered  sight : 
"  We  bring  from  earth,  sea,  sky,"  they  seemed  to  say, 

"Love's  richness  and  delight." 

''For  me?"  I  trembling  cried.     ''Thou  need'st  not 
dread," 

Sang  heavenly  voices  sweet ; 
And  unseen  hands  placed  on  my  lowly  head 

This  crown,  for  angels  meet. 


DECORATION. 

"Manibiis  date  lilia  ijleiii;'." 

'ilid  the  flower-wreathed  tombs  I  stand, 
Bearing  lilies  in  my  hand. 
Comrades !   in  Avhat  soldier-grave 
Sleeps  the  bravest  of  the  brave  ? 

Is  it  he  who  sank  to  rest 
With  his  colors  round  his  breast  ? 
Friendship  makes  his  tomb  a  shrine. 
Garlands  veil  it ;   ask  not  mine. 

One  low  grave,  yon  trees  beneath. 
Bears  no  roses,  wears  no  wreath  ; 
Yet  uo  heart  more  high  and  warm 
Ever  dared  the  battle-storm. 

Never  gleamed  a  prouder  cyo 

In  the  front  of  victory  ; 

Never  foot  had  firmer  tread 

Ou  the  field  ^vhere  hope  lay  dead, 

Than  are  hid  within  this  tond), 
Wiiero  the  nntended  grasses  bloom  ; 
And  no  stone,  with  feigned  distress, 
Mocks  the  sacred  loneliness. 

Youth  and  beauty,  dauntless  will, 
Dreams  that  life  could  ne'er  fulfil, 
Hero  lie  buried, — hero  in  peace 
Wrongs  and  woes  have  found  release. 

Turning  from  my  comrades'  eyes, 
Kneeling  whero  a  woman  lies, 
I  strew  lilies  on  the  grave 
Of  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 


Tin:    KKKl)    IMMORTAL.' 

Reed  of  the  stagnant  waters ! 

Far  in  the  Eastern  lands 
Rearing  thy  peaceful  daughters 

In  sight  of  the  storied  sands ; 
Armies  and  fleets  defying 

Have  swept  by  that  quiet  spot, 
But  thine  is  the  life  undying, 

Tlieirs  is  the  tale  forgot. 

The  legions  of  Alexander 

Are  scattered  and  gone  and  fled  ; 
And  the  Queen,  who  ruled  commantler 

Over  Antony,  is  dead  ; 
The  marching  armies  of  Cyrus 

Have  vanislicd  from  earth  again; 
And  only  the  frail  papyrus 

Still  reigns  o'er  the  sons  of  men. 

Papyrus!     O  reed  immortal! 

Survivor  of  all  renown! 
Thou  heed'st  not  the  solemn  jiortal 

Where  heroes  and  kings  go  down. 
The  monarchs  of  generations 

Have  died  into  dust  away  : 
O  reed  that  outlivost  nations. 

Be  our  symbol  of  strength  to-dav  ! 


Robert  Colljicr. 

Born  at  Kcigliluy,  Yorkshire,  England,  in  182.3,  Collycr 
left  school  at  seven  to  learn  his  father's  trade — that  of  a 
blacksmith.  He  worked  at  the  anvil  till  18.50,  when  Ite 
emigrated  to  America.  He  followed  the  blacksmith's 
trade  at  Shocmakertown,  Pa.,  till  18.59,  wlien  lie  went  to 
Chicago.  He  liad  been  a  Wcsleyan  and  local  preacher 
in  England,  and  continued  to  preach  in  the  United  States 
some  nine  years,  when  he  was  silenced  for  heres)'.  But 
his  talents  were  too  conspicuous  to  be  repressed.  lie 
became  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  Clun-cli  in  Chicago,  and 
soon  rose  to  be  one  of  tlie  most  popular  jireachers  in 
the  country.  In  1879  he  was  invited  to  take  charge  of  a 
church  in  New  York,  and  removed  to  that  city.  He  is 
the  author  of"  Nature  and  Life,"  "A  ilan  in  Earnest," 
and  other  esteemed  prose  works.  His  poem,  "  Saxon 
Grit,"  slmws  his  literary  versatility.  It  was  read  at  the 
New  England  dinner,  December  22(1,  1879,  and  in  intro- 
ducing it,  after  a  brief  speech,  he  said  :  "As  I  found  my 
thought  going  olTin  a  sort  of  swing,  and  taking  the  shape 
of  an  old  ballad,  I  concluded  to  drop  into  poetry,  though 
it '  comes  more  expensive,'  as  Mr.  Wegg  says." 


'  Pliny  tolls  us  that  the  Egyptians  regarded  the  papyrus  as  a 
symbol  of  immortality. 


IWIiERT  COLLYER.—GEOBGE    WILLIAM   CURTIS. 


793 


SAXON   GRIT. 

AVorii  with  tbo  battle,  by  St;inifonl  town, 

I'ighting  the  Norman,  by  Hastings  Bay, 
Harold,  the  Saxon's,  suu  went  down, 

While  the  acorns  were  falling  one  antnnm  day, 
Then  the  Noriuan  said,  "  I  am  lord  of  the  land  : 

l?y  tenor  of  c(mqnest  here  I  sit  ; 
I  will  rule  you  now  with  the  iron  hand;" 

But  he  had  not  thought  of  the  Saxon  grit. 

He  took  the  land,  and  he  took  the  men, 

And  burnt  the  homesteads  from  Trent  to  Tyne, 
Made  the  freeujeu  serfs  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen. 

Eat  up  the  corn  and  drank  the  wine. 
And  said  to  the  maiden,  pure  and  fair, 

'•  Yon  shall  be  my  lenuin,  as  is  most  fit. 
Your  Saxon  churl  may  rot  in  his  lair;" 

But  he  had  not  measured  the  Saxon  grit. 

To  the  merry  green-wood  went  bold  Robin  Hood, 

With  his  strong-hearted  yeomanry  ripe  for  the 
Driving  the  arrow  into  the  maiTow  [fi"iy; 

Of  all  the  proud  Nonnaus  who  came  in  his  way  ; 
Scorning  the  fetter,  fearless  and  free, 

Winning  by  valor,  or  foiling  by  wit, 
Dear  to  our  Saxon  folk  ever  is  he. 

This  merry  old  rogue  with  the  Saxou  grit. 

And  Kett  the  tanuer  whipped  out  his  knife, 

And  Watt  the  smith  his  hammer  brought  down, 
For  ruth  of  the  maid  he  loved  better  than  life. 

And  by  breaking  a  head,  made  a  hole  in  the  Crown. 
From  the  Saxon  heart  rose  a  mighty  roar, 

"  Our  life  shall  not  be  by  the  King's  permit ; 
We  will  fight  for  the  right,  we  want  no  more;" 

Tiien  the  Xorn)au  found  out  the  Saxon  grit. 

For  slow  and  sure  as  the  oaks  had  grown 

From  the  acorns  falling  that  autumn  day, 
So  the  Saxon  manhood  in  tborpe  and  town 

To  a  nobler  stature  grew  alway ; 
Winning  by  inches,  holding  by  clinches. 

Standing  by  law  and  the  human  right. 
Many  times  failing,  never  once  quailing, 

So  the  new  daj'  came  out  of  the  night. 

Then  rising  afar  in  the  W^estern  sea, 

A  new  Avorld  stood  in  the  morn  of  the  day. 

Ready  to  welcome  the  brave  and  free, 

Who  could  wrench  out  the  heart  ami  march  away 

From  the  narrow,  contracted,  dear  old  land. 
Where  the  poor  are  held  by  a  cruel  bit, 


To  ampler  spaces  for  heart  and  hand  — 

And  lu^'o  was  a  ciianci!  for  the  Saxou  grit. 

Steadily  steering,  eagerly  i)eering. 

Trusting  in  (iod  your  fathers  came, 
Pilgrims  and  strangers,  fronting  all  dangers. 

Cool-headed  Saxons,  with  liearts  aflame. 
Bound  by  the  letter,  but  free  from  the  fetter, 

And  hiding  their  freedom  in  Holy  Writ, 
They  gave  Deuteronomy  hints  in  economy. 

And  made  a  new  Moses  of  Saxon  grit. 

They  whittled  and  waded  through  forest  and  fen. 

Fearless  as  ever  of  what  might  befall  ; 
Pouring  out  life  for  the  nurture  of  men  ; 

In  faith  that  by  manhood  the  world  wins  all. 
Inventing  baked  beans  and  no  end  of  machines  ; 

Great  with  the  rifle  and  great  with  the  axe — 
Sending  their  notions  over  the  oceans, 

To  fill  emiitj' stomachs  and  straighten  bent  backs. 

Swift  to  take  chances  that  end  in  the  dollar, 

Yet  open  of  hand  when  the  dollar  is  made. 
Maintaining  the  meetin',  exalting  the  scholar. 

But  a  little  too  anxious  about  a  good  trade ; 
This  is  young  Jonathan,  son  of  old  John, 

Positive,  peaceable,  firm  in  the  right, 
Saxon  men  all  of  ns,  may  we  be  one, 

Steady  for  freedom,  and  strong  in  her  might. 

Then,  slow  and  sure,  as  the  oaks  have  grown 

From  the  acorns  that  fell  on  that  autunni  day, 
So  this  new  manhood  in  city  and  town, 

To  a  nobler  stature  will  grow  alway  ; 
Winning  by  inches,  holding  by  clinches, 

Slow  to  contention,  and  slower  to  quit. 
Now  and  then  failing,  never  once  quailing. 

Let  us  thank  God  for  the  Saxon  grit. 


([rcorijc  lUilliam  (L'urtis. 

AMERICAN. 

Born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  February  24tli,  1824,  Curtis 
received  his  early  education  at  Mr.  Weld's  school,  Ja- 
maica Plain,  Mass.  In  1843  he  joined  the  Brook  Farm 
Association,  in  West  Roxbury,  where  he  passed  a  year 
and  a  half.  In  1846  he  went  to  Europe,  passing  four 
years  in  study  and  travel,  and  extending  his  tour  to 
Egypt  and  Syria.  On  his  return  home  he  published 
"Nile  Notes  of  a  Ilowadji."  lie  was  connected  with 
Pidnani'x  ^Monthly,  for  which  he  wrote  largely  and  well ; 
but  having  taken  a  pecuniary  interest  in  tlie  publication, 
lie  sank  his  private  fortune  in  saving  the  creditors  from 
loss.    He  became  a  public  lecturer  in  1853,  and  was  high- 


794 


CYCLOPjEDIA    of  BRITISU  and  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


ly  successful.  In  all  the  Presidential  cnnipiiigns  since 
1856  he  has  been  iJioniiiient  as  a  pulilician,  Car  above  all 
the  arts  by  which  politicians  usually  thrive.  There  is 
no  public  man  more  trusted  by  the  best  citizens.  For 
some  years  Mr.  Curtis  has  controlled  certain  departments 
in  Harper's  Weekly  and  IJarper\s  Mugaziiic ;  to  which  his 
fresh  and  vigorous  style  always  imparts  interest. 


EGYPTIAN   SERENADE. 

Sing  agniu  the  song  yoii  sung, 
When  we  were  together  yonng — 
When  lliere  were  but  you  :nul  I 

I'mlenicatli  the  suunner  sky. 

Sing  the  song,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Tliongh  I  know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 


PEARL   SEED. 

Songs  are  sung  in  my  mind 

As  pearls  are  formed  in  the  sea; 

Each  thonght  with  thy  name  entwined 
Becomes  a  sweet  song  in  me. 

Dimly  those  pale  pearls  shine, 

Hidden  nnder  the  sea, — 
Vagne  are  those  songs  of  mine. 

So  deeply  they  lie  in  me. 


EBB  AND  FLOW. 

I  walked  beside  the  evening  sea, 
And  dreamed  a  dream  that  could  not  be  ; 
The  Avaves  that  ]ilunged  along  the  shore, 
Said  only — "  Dreamer,  dream  no  more  I" 

But  still  the  legions  charged  the  beach. 
Loud  rang  their  battle-cry,  like  speech  ; 
But  changed  was  the  imperial  strain  ; 
It  nnirmured — "Dreamer,  dream  again!'' 

I  h((me\vard  (iirncd  iVom  out  the  gloom, — 
That  sound   I  heard  not  in  my  room  ; 
But  suddenly  a  sound  that  stirred 
Within  my  verj*  breast,  I  heard. 

It   was  my  heart,  that  like  a  sea 

Within  my  breast  beat  ceaselessly: 

But  like  tlio  waves  along  the  shore, 

It  said — "  Dream  on  !"  and  *'  Dream  no  more ! 


MA.IOR   AND   MINOR. 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree  ; 

Ho  sang — "  I  pour  out  mj'  soul  in  song 
For  the  summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood 
Another  bird  sang — "I  pour 

My  soul  on  the  solemn  solitude 

For  tile  springs  that  return  uo  more." 


MUSIC    r   THE   AIR. 

Oil  listen  to  the  howling  sea. 

That  beats  on  the  remorseless  shore  ; 

Oh  listen,  for  that  sound  shall  be 

When  our  wild  hearts  shall  beat  uo  more. 

Oh  listen  well,  and  listen  long! 

For,  sitting  folded  close  to  me. 
You  could  not  hear  a  sweeter  song 

Than  that  hoarse  murmur  of  the  sea. 


SijLincii  iiljompsou  PcbcK. 

Dobcll  (18:^4-1874)  was  a  native  of  Cranbrook,  Eng- 
land. His  earliest  poetical  productions  appeared  under 
the  pscudonyme  of  "Sydney  Ycndys."  His  dramatic 
poem,  "The  Roman,"  was  published  in  18.50;  "Balder, 
Part  the  First,"  in  1855.  In  1871  he  published  a  spirited 
political  lyric,  entitled  "England's  Day."  Miss  Bronte, 
author  of  "Jane  Eyi-e,"  was  one  of  his  friends  and  corrc- 
siH)iulcnts.     Yendys  is  Sydney  spelled  backward. 


HOWS   MY   BOYf 

"Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea! 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ?'' 
"What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife. 
And  in  what  ship  sailed  he  ?" 

"  My  boy  John — - 

He  that  Avent  to  sea — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor? 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

Yon  coino  back  from  sea. 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  jiarisli 

But  he  knows  my  .loliii. 

How's  ray  boy — my  boy  ? 


SYDNEY  THOMPSON  DOBELL.— ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


795 


Ami  uuless  yon  let  me  know, 

I'll  swear  you  arc  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  uo — 

Brass  buttons  or  uo,  sailor, 

Anchor  anil  crown  or  no  ! — 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton — " 

"Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !" 

"And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 
If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud, 
I'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 
"Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?" 

"That  good  ship  went  down!" 

"How's  my  boy — my  boy? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor? — 

I  was  never  aboard  her ! 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

Siukiug  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say,  how's  nij'  John  ?" — 

"Every  man  on  board  went  down, 
Every  man  aboard  her !" 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other! 
How's  my  boj- — my  boy  ?" 


AMERICA. 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us  !     Oh  ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western  laud, 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth, 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and  God 
For  God  ;   oh  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
Tills  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its  breathing  book  ;    live  worthy  of  that  grand 
Heroic  utterance — jiarted,  yet  a  whole, 
Far,  yet  unsevered, — children  brave  and  free 
Of  the  great  mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 
Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakspeare's  soul, 
Sublime  as  Milton's  immoniorial  tluMue, 
And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as  Spenser's 
dream. 


:2llicliue  D.  ^.  lll|)itncrj. 


Adclhic  Duttou  Train  was  born  hi  Boston  in  1824,  and 
married  in  1843  to  SetU  D.  Whitney.  Her  residence 
(1880)  was  Milton,  Mass.  She  is  known  ehietly  for  her 
spirited  novels,  tlie  last  of  which,  "  Odd  or  Even,"  ap- 
peared in  1880.  Of  poetry  she  has  published  "  Footsteps 
on  the  Seas"  (18.57)  and  "Pansies."  Her  novels,  pure, 
bright,  and  healthy  in  sentiment  and  action,  are  much 
prized  both  by  young  and  old. 


BEHIND   THE   MASK. 

It  was  an  old,  distorted  face, — • 

An  uncouth  visage,  rough  and  wild  ; 

Yet  from  behind,  with  laughing  grace. 
Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 

And  so  contrasting,  fair  and  bright, 

It  made  me  of  my  fancy  ask 
If  half  earth's  wrinkled  grimness  might 

Be  but  the  babj'  in  the  mask. 

Behind  graj'  hairs  and  furrowed  brow 
And  withered  look  that  life  puts  on. 

Each,  as  he  wears  it,  comes  to  know 
How  the  child  hides,  and  is  not  gone. 

For,  while  the  inexorable  years 

To  saddened  features  fit  their  mould. 

Beneath  the  work  of  time  and  tears 

Waits  something  that  will  not  grow  old ! 

And  pain  and  xietnlance  and  care. 
And  wasted  hope  and  sinful  stain 

Shape  the  strange  guise  tlie  soul  doth  wear, 
Till  her  young  life  look  forth  again. 

The  beauty  of  his  boyhood's  smile, — 
What  human  faith  could  find  it  now 

In  yonder  man  of  grief  and  guile, — 
A  very  Cain,  witli  branded  brow? 

Yet,  overlaid  and  hidden,  still 

It  lingers, — of  his  life  a  part; 
As  the  scathed  pine  upon  the  hill 

Holds  the  young  fibres  at  its  heart. 

And,  haply,  round  the  Eternal  Throne, 
Heaven's  pitying  angels  shall  not  ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hatli  known, — 
But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask  ! 


796 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(Eljarlcs  (l^oiitVcn  ticlanb. 


Lclaiul  was  born  in  Philiulclpliia  in  1S:34,  and  graduated 
at  Princctun  College  in  1845.  After  pa-ssing  tlirec  years 
in  Euroiie,  lie  returned  lioinc  and  studied  law,  but  soon 
gave  it  up  lor  literature.  He  translated  many  of  Heine's 
pieces  from  tlie  German,  and  wrote  the  Hans  Breitman 
ballads,  which  had  an  extraordinary  success.  In  1809  he 
revisited  Europe,  and  passed  several  years  in  travel,  re- 
siding most  of  the  time  in  England. 


MINE   OWN. 

And  ob  the  longing,  burning  eyes! 

And  oh  tbe  gleaming  hair 
Which  waves  around  mo  uight  and  day, 

O'er  chamber,  hall,  and  stair! 

And  oh  the  step, half  dreamt,  half  heard! 

And  oh  the  laughter  1o\y  ! 
Aud  memories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago. 

Oh,  art  thou  Sylph, — or  truly  Self, — 

Or  eiihcr,  at  thy  choice? 
Oh,  speak  in  breeze  or  beating  heart. 

But  let  me  hear  tbj'  voice ! 

"  Oh,  some  do  call  me  Laughter,  love  ; 

And  some  do  call  me  Sin  :" — 
"Aud  they  might  call  thee  what  tboy  will. 

So  I  thy  love  may  win." 

"And  some  do  call  me  Wantonness, 

And  some  do  call  nic  Play :" — 
"Ob,  they  might  call  thee  what  they  would 

If  thou  wert  mine  alwaj!" 

'And  some  do  call  me  Sorrow,  love, 

.\n(l  some  do  call  me  Tears, 
And  some  there  be  who  name  me  Hope, 

And  some  that  name  mo  Fears. 

"And  some  do  call  mo  Gentle  Heart, 

And  some  Forgetfnlness  :" — 
"And  if  thou  com'st  as  one  or  all, 

Thou  contest  but  to  bless  I" 

'•And  some  do  call  me  Life,  sweetheart. 

And  some  do  call  me  Death  ; 
And  ho  to  whom  tlie  two  are  one, 

Has  won  my  heart  and  faith." 


Sb<5  twined  her  white  arms  round  his  neck 

Tbe  tears  fell  down  like  rain: 
"And  if  I  live,  or  if  I  die. 

We'll  never  part  again." 


J^rancis  (Turner  IJalgracc. 

Palgi-ave,  born  1824,  was  educated  at  Oxford.  He  has 
liublished  "  Idyls  and  Songs"  (18r)4) ;  "The  Passionate 
Pilgrim,  or  Eros  and  Anteros"  (18.58),  which  appeared 
under  the  tiom  de  jAume  of  Henry  T.  Thurston  ;  "  Essays 
on  Art"  (18GC);  "Hymns"  (1807);  "Lyrical  Poems" 
(1871).  He  has  also  edited  "  The  Golden  Treasury  of  the 
best  Songs  and  Lyrical  Poems  in  the  English  Language;" 
a  tasteful  and  judicious  collection. 


FAITH    AND     SIGHT: 

IX  THE    L.\TTER  D.WS. 

"  I  prie:   Bcquar." 

Thou  say'st,  "  Take  nji  tby  cross, 

O  Man,  and  follow  me  :'' 
The  night  is  black,  tlie  feet  are  slack, 

Yet  we  would  follow  thee. 

But,  O  dear  Lord,  we  cry. 

That  we  thy  face  could  see! 
Tliy  blessed  face  one  moment's  space — 

Tlica  might  we  follow  thee! 

Dim  tracts  of  time  divide 

Those  golden  days  from  me ; 
Thy  voice  comes  strange  o'er  years  of  change  ; 

How  can  I  follow  thee? 

Comes  faint  and  far  thy  voice 

From  vales  of  Galilee  ; 
Thy  vision  fades  in  ancient  shades; 

How  should  we  follow  theef 

L'^nchanging  law  binds  all, 

And  Nature  all  we  see: 
Thou  art  a  star,  far  off,  too  far. 

Too  far  to  follow  thee! 

— All,  sense-bound  heart  and  blind ! 

Is  naught  but  what  we  see  ? 
Can  time  undo  what  once  was  true  f 

Can  we  not  follow  thee  ? 

Is  what  wo  trace  of  law 
The  whole  of  God's  decree  ? 


FRANCIS  T.  PALGEAVE.— WILLIAM  ALEXANDER.— GEORGE  MACDONALD. 


797 


Does  our  brief  spau  grasp  Nature's  plan, 
Auil  bill  not  folh)\v  thee  ? 

O  heavy  cross — of  faith 

In  what  we  cannot  see ! 
As  once  of  yore  thyself  restore, 

And  help  to  follow  thee ! 

If  not  as  once  thoii  cam'st 

In  true  hninanitj', 
Come  yet  as  guest  within  the  breast 

That  burns  to  follow  thee. 

Within  our  heart  of  hearts 

In  nearest  nearness  be  : 
Set  up  thy  throne  within  thine  own  : — 

Go,  Lord  :   we  follow  thee. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

If  by  any  device  or  knowledge 

The  rose-bud  its  beauty  could  know, 

It  would  stay  a  rose-bud  forever. 
Nor  into  its  fulness  grow. 

And  if  thou  could'st  know  thy  own  sweetness, 

O  little  one,  perfect  and  sweet. 
Thou  would'st  be  a  child  forever, 
Completer  while  incomplete. 


lllillicim  ^la'auLicr. 

William  Alexander,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Derry  and  Raphoe, 
has  published  a  theological  prize  essay,  a  volume  of  po- 
ems, several  lectures  and  sermons,  papers  on  the  Irish 
Church,  and  numerous  fugitive  works.  He  was  born  in 
18ii,  and  is  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Cecil  Frances  Alexander, 
author  of  "The  Burial  of  Moses,"  and  other  poems. 


WAVES  AND   LEAVES. 

Waves,  waves,  waves ! 
Graceful  arches,  lit  with  night's  pale  gold, 
Boom  like  thunder  througli  the  mountains  rolled. 
Hiss  and  make  their  music  nmnifohl. 

Sing  and  work  for  God  along  the  strand. 

Leaves,  leaves,  leaves ! 
Beautified  by  Autumn's  scorching  breath. 
Ivory  skeletons  carven  fair  h\  death, 
Float  and  drift  at  a  sublime  command. 


Thoughts,  thoughts,  thoughts  ! 
Rolling  wave-like  on  the  mind's  strauge  shore, 
Rustling  leaf-like  through  it  evermoi-e, 
'  Oh  that  they  might  follow  God's  good  Hand ! 


JACOBS  LADDER. 

Ah,  many  a  time  we  look  on  starlit  nights 
L"p  to  the  sky,  as  Jacob  did  of  old. 

Look  longing  up  to  the  eternal  lights. 
To  spell  their  Hues  in  gold. 

But  never  more,  as  to  the  Hebrew  boy, 
Each  on  his  way  the  angels  walk  abroad  ; 

And  never  more  we  hear,  with  awful  joy. 
The  audible  voice  of  God. 

Yet,  to  pure  eyes  the  ladder  still  is  set. 
And  angel  visitants  still  come  and  go ; 

Many  bright  messengers  are  moving  yet 
From  the  dark  world  below. 

Thoughts,  that  are  red-crossed  Faith's  outspreading 
wings, —  [tryst, — 

Prayers  of  the  Church,  are  keeping  time  and 
Heart-wishes,  making  bee-like  murmurings, 

Their  flower  the  Eucharist. 

Spirits  elect,  througb  suffering  rendered  meet 
For  those  high  mansions  ;  from  the  nursery  door, 

Bright  babes  that  climb  np  with  their  claj'-cold  feet, 
Unto  the  golden  door. 

These  are  the  messengers,  forever  wending 

From  earth  to  heaven,  that  faith  alone  may  scan  ; 

These  are  the  angels  of  our  God,  ascending 
Upon  the  Son  of  Man. 


(Bcorac  ilkciionalb. 


:\Iacdonald,  the  author  of  numerous  imaginative  works, 
was  born  at  Huntly,  Scotland,  in  18^,  and  educated  at 
Aberdeen.  For  a  while  he  was  minister  of  a  Congrega- 
tional Church,  but  gave  up  preaching  on  account  of  the 
state  of  his  health.  He  has  published  a  volume  of  po- 
ems and  some  theological  works.  He  lectured  in  the 
United  States  in  1874. 


BABY. 


Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 


798 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  JiV'i>  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Where  «lid  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  cauie  through. 

What  makes  the  liglit  in  tliom  Hi)arkle  and  spin  .' 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  h'ft  in. 

Wliero  <li<l  you  get  tliat  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  1  got  here. 

What  makes  j-our  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  -went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white  rose? 
I  saw  something  better  thau  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  mo  at  ouce  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

W^here  did  you  get  those  arms  and  liauds  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bauds. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

Bnt  how  did  you  come  to  uk,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 


"LOKD,  I  BELIEVE;    HELP  THOU   MINE 
UNBELIEF." 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  O  my  God  ; 

Come  to  me  everywhere! 
Let  the  trees  mean  thee,  and  the  grassy  sod, 

And  the  water  and  the  air. 

For  tlion  art  so  far  that  I  often  doubt, 

As  on  every  side  I  stare, 
Searching  within,  and  looking  without, 

If  tliou  art  anywhere. 

How  did  men  find  thee  iu  days  of  old  ? 

How  did  they  grow  so  sure  ? 
They    fought    iu    thy    name,  they    Avere    glad    and 
bold. 

They  suffered,  and  kept  themselves  pure. 


Bnt  now  they  say — neither  above  the  sphere 

Nor  down  in  tiie  heart  of  man, 
But  only  in  fancy,  ambition,  or  fear, 

The  thonght  of  thee  began. 

If  only  that  perfect  tale  were  true 
Which  with  touch  of  sunny  gold, 

Of  the  ancient  many  makes  one  anew. 
And  .simplicity  manifold! 

But  he  said  that  they  who  did  his  word. 

The  truth  of  it  should  know : 
I  will  try  to  do  it — if  ho  be  Lord, 

Perhaps  the  old  si)ring  will  flow  ; 

Perhaps  the  old  spirit-wind  will  blow 
That  he  promised  to  their  prayer; 

And  doing  thy  will,  I  yet  shall  know 
Thee,  Father,  everywhere! 


lllilliam  (Sibson. 

AMERICAN. 

A  commander  in  the  United  States  Navy,  Gibson  has 
contributed  some  reinaikabic  poems  (1870-1878)  to  Har- 
per's Magazine  and  otlier  periodicals.  He  was  born  in 
Baltimore,  Md.,  May  '2.5111, 18.'i.x  A  volume  of  his  poems 
was  published  in  18.")3  by  James  Monroe  &  Co.,  Boston  ; 
and  another  and  more  important  collection  was  to  ap- 
pear in  1880. 


FROM  THE   "  HYMN  TO  FREYA." 

Her  thick  hair  is  golden  ; 
Her  white  robe  is  lloating  on  air; 

And,  though  unbcholden. 
We  know  that  her  body  is  fair, 

For  a  rosy  effulgence 
Reveals  the  warm  limbs  as  they  move 

In  rapturous  indnlgeneo 
Of  grace — the  sweet  Goddess  of  Love. 

Like  dew-drops  ethereal, 
■Jewels  her  wliite  ueck  adorn  ; 

But  alone  her  imperial 
Eyes  make  the  dawning  of  morn. 

Oh  !    sweeter  than  singing 
She  whispers — the  birds  burst  to  song, 

And  golden  bells  ringing, 
The  charm  of  ber  presence  prolong. 

The  groves  where  she  passes 
Hang  heavy  with  blossoms  and  fruit  ; 


WILLIAM  GIBSOX.  — WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER. 


r99 


In  rich  meadow-grasses 
Spring  flowers  at  the  touch  of  her  foot. 

She  loves  best  the  roses — 
A  rose  branch  for  sceptre  she  takes ; 

And  where'er  she  reposes 
Droop  willows  o'er  crystalline  lakes. 
#  #  *  * 

She  is  all  that  is  fairest 
lu  the  world'  and  the  welkin  on  high, — 

The  grace  that  is  rarest, 
The  glow  that  is  lioniely  and  nigh ; 

She  is  Freedom  and  Duty, 
Frank  Morn  and  the  Veiling  of  Light, 

The  Passion  of  Beanty, 
The  Fragrance  and  Voices  of  Night. 

Divinest,  snpreniest, 
Crowned  Queen  of  the  Quick  and  the  Dead  ; 

She  is  more  than  thou  dreamest, 
O  soul  of  desire  and  of  dread ! 

She  is  Spring-time  and  Gladness, 
And  rapture  all  glory  above  ; 

She  is  Longing  and  Sadness; 
She  is  Birth — she  is  Death — she  is  Love  ! 


llVilliam  ailcu  Butler. 

AMERICAN. 

Biitlcr  was  born  in  Albany  in  1825.  His  father  was 
the  estimable  and  genial  Benjamin  F.  Butler,  a  member 
of  the  Cabinet  of  Presidents  Jackson  and  Van  Buren. 
"William  completed  his  education  at  the  University  of 
the  City  of  New  York,  and  then  passed  a  year  or  two  in 
European  travel.  He  has  made  some  fine  translations 
from  the  German  of  Uhland  ;  is  the  author  of  "Out-of- 
the-way  Places  iu  Europe,"  and  has  shown,  in  a  series  of 
biographical  and  critical  sketches  of  the  Old  Masters, 
that  he  is  an  excellent  judge  in  art.  His  "Nothing  to 
Wear"  shows  that  he  is  both  a  humorist  and  a  poet.  It 
is  amusing  without  coarseness,  and  rises,  at  its  close, 
into  a  strain  of  pathos  as  easy  and  unforced  as  it  is 
beautiful  and  apt. 


NOTHING  TO   WEAR. 

AX    EPISODE    OF    CITY    LIFE. 

Miss  Fhna  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there. 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  liistory. 
But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  ■without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping, 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping ; 


Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 
At  all  liours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather; 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  tlie  crown  of  her  licad  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  lit  round  her  Avaist, 
Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow. 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below  : 
For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls; 
Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in; 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in  ; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all; 
Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall; 
All  of  them  different  in  color  and  pattern, 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and  satin, 
Brocade  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material. 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 
In  short, for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of. 

From  ten-thousaud-francs  robes  to   twenty-sous 
frills ; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store. 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and  swore. 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills. 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer 

Arago 
Formed,  M'Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her  cal'go. 
Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest. 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 
Their  own  proper  persons  iu  layers  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  nnder-clothes. 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and   such    trifles   as 

those ; 
Then,  wrapped    in    great    shawls,  like    Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave  good-bye  to  the  ship,  and  go-by  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled,  no  doubt, 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 
For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride ; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out. 
And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry  goods 

beside,  C'rv, 

Wliich,  iu  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom-house  sen- 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  pa.s.sed 

since  the  day  ["^vay. 

This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broad- 


800 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


This  Kame  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
Tlio  last  tiino  \vc  iin't,  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  slic  liad  iKitliing  whatever  to  wear! 

Nothing  to  wear!     Now,  as  this  ia  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  us — 

Tiiat  shci'.s  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave,  or  the  Medici  Venus  ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 
When,  at  the  same  moment,  she  had  on  a  dress 
Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent  less, 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should  guess. 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear  ! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 
I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 
The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections, 
Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "affec- 
tions," \&vi, 
And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-kno^vn  work  of 
Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  "  her  heart." 
So  we  were  engaged.     Our  troth  had  been  plighted, 
Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeaui,  by  fountain  or  grove. 
But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 
Beneath  the  gas-fixtures  wo  whispered  our  love. 
Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs. 
Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes. 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions. 
It  was  one  of  the  (iiiictest  business  transactions, 
Witli  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any, 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss. 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 
"  You  know,  I'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please, 
And  flirt  when  I  like — now  stop,  don't  you  speak — 
And  yon  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in  the 

\\('<'k. 
Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball. 
But  always  be  ready  to  come  Avhen  I  call ; 
So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff, 
If  we  don't  break  this  off,  there  will  be  time  enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing;  but  the  bargain  must  be 
That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free. 
For  this  is  a  sort  of  engagement,  you  see. 
Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding  on  me." 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'Flimsey  and  gained 
her,  [her, 

With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 


At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  bj'  day  and  bj'  night  ; 
And   it  being   the   week    of  the   Stuckup's  grand 
ball— 

Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so. 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call. 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found, 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found — I  won't  say — I  caught  her —    j 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning  ' 

To  see  if  perhaps  it  didn't  need  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered — "  Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  tlionglit  that  yon  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  diiuier!" 
"So   I   did,"  1   replied,  "but    the   dinner   is    swal- 
lowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  'tis  now  nine  and  more,     I 
So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door. 
And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  aud  presence  to  lend 
(All  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the   Stickips,  whose   party,  you   know,  is   to- 
morrow ?■' 

The  fair  Flora  looked  up  with  a  pitiful  air, 

And  answered  iiuite  proniptly,  "Why,  Harry,  mon 

vhcr, 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  yon  there; 
But  really  and  truly — I've  nothing  to  wear." 

"Nothing  to  wear!   go  just  as  you  are; 

Wear  the  dress  yon  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 

I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  luuizon" — I  stopped,  for  her  eye. 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery. 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply, 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature),  as  nnich  as  to  say, 
"How  al)surd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  wouhl  gi)  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  line,  that  she  wears  every  day!" 

So  I  viMitiircd  again— "Wear  your  crimson  l)rocade  ' 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose) — "That's  too  dark  by  a 

shade." 
"Your   blue   silk"  —  "That's   too   heavy;"    "Your 

piuk  "—"  That's  too  light." 
"Wear  tnllc  over  satin" — "I  can't  endure  white." 


i 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLEIl. 


801 


"Your  rose-colored,  then,  tho  best  of  the  batch" — 
"I  haven't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to  match." 
"Your  brown  moire  autiquc" — "  Yes,  and  look  like 

a  Qnakcr ;"' 
"The  pearl-colored"— "I  would,  but  that  plaguey 

dress-maker 
Has  had  it  a  week  " — "  Then  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  j'ou  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock." 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation) 
"I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
.^  "  Why  not  ?  It's  my  fancy,  there's  nothing  could 
I  strike  it 

As  more  comine  il  fant — "     "Yes,  but  dear  me,  that 

lean 
Sophronia  Stucknp  has  got  one  just  like  it. 
And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
'•Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Mazarine; 
That  superb  j^oint  (Vahjuille,  that  imperial  green. 
That  zephyr-like  tarleton,  that  rich  grenadine" — 
"Xot  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
f'Theu  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite 

crushed 
Opposition,   "  that    gorgeous    toileite   which   you 

sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 
\Vlien  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of 

the  nation  ; 
•  And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much 

courted." 
The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up, 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation. 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 
"  I  have  worn  it  three  times  at  the  least  calculation. 
And  that  and  the  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped 

np  !" 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash. 
Quite  iuuocent,  though  ;  but,  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "  settled  my  hash," 
And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 
'•'Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  Sir?     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Doesn't  fall  down  and  crush  you — oh,  you  men  have 

no  feeling, 
You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures. 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers. 
Your  silly  pretence — why,  what  a  mere  gness  it  is! 
Pray,  Avhat  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities? 
I  have  told  you   and  shown   yon  I've  nothing  to 

wear, 
And  it's  iierfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care. 
Hut  you  do  not  believe  me  "  (here  the   nose  went 

still  higher). 
I      "  I  suppose  if  you  dared  you  would  call  me  a  liar. 
51 


Our  engagement  is  cihUmI,  Sir — yes,  on  the  spot ; 
You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know 

what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words — Hottentot, 
Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief, 
As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  spark  to  the  powder. 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder, 
It   blew   and   it   rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and 

hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  in'onouns,  till  language    quite 

failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 
And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervatiou  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too. 
Improvised  on  tlie  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo. 
In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would  say ; 
Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 
Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  know  how — 
On  door -step   and    sidewalk,  past  lamp -post  and 

square. 
At  home  and  up-stairs,  in  my  own  easy  chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze, 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Eussias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to 

spare 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear? 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be 

bruited 
Abroad  in  society,  I've  instituted 
A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorougli. 
On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror. 
That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising, 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  tiiis  unsupplicnl  destitution  of  dress, 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "  Nothing  to  wear." 
Eesearches  in  some  of  the  "Upper  Ten"  districts 
Eeveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few: 
In  one  single  liouse  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 
Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  beloAv  twenty- 
two. 
Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  anything 
new 


802 


CYCLOrjiDIA    OF  BlUTISU  AND  AMERICAN  I'UETRY. 


Ill  tlio  way  of  Houiiccd  silks,  ami,  thus  left  in  tlio 

Imx'li, 
Arc  iiiiablo  to  go  to  ball,  conceit,  or  clnucli. 
Ill  another  largo  niaiisiou  near  the  same  place 
Was  fonnd  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitntion  of  Brnsscls  point-lace. 
In  a  neighboring  block  there  was  found,  in  three 

calls. 
Total  want,  long  continued,  of  caniels'-hair  shawls; 
And  a  sull'ering  family,  whose  case  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets; 
One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 
To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian  sable  ; 
Another  confined  to  the  house,  when  it's  w  indier 
Than  usual,  because  her  shawl  isn't  India. 
Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 
Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 
In  which  were  ingulfed,  not  friend  or  relation, 
(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  fonnd  con- 
solation, 
Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation), 
But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and 

collars 
Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dol- 

lai's. 
And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare. 
The   want   of  which   leaves   her   with    nothing   to 

Avear, 
And  renders  her  life  so  dronr  and  dyspeptic 
That  .she's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  .sceptic, 
For  she  touchingly  says  that  this  sort  of  grief 
Cannot  find  in  Ivcligion  the  slightest  relief. 
And  riiilosopliy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 
For  the  victims  of  such  overwliclining  (l(sj)air. 
But  the  saddest  by  far  of  all  the.se  sad  features 
Is  the  cruelty  practised  iipdii  the  poor  creatures 
By  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards  and  Ti- 

mons. 
Who  resist  the  most  touching  ai)peals  made  for  dia- 
monds 
By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave  them 

for  days 
llnsupplied  with  now  jewelry,  fans  or  bomiuels. 
Even  laugh  at  their  mi.series  whenever  they  have  a 

chance. 
And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  extravagance  ; 
One  case  of  a  bride  Avas  brought  to  my  view, 
Too  sad  f(»r  belief,  but,  alas!   'twas  too  true, 
Whose  husband  refused,  as  savage  as  Charon, 
To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to  Sha- 
ron. 
The  couse(pience  was,  that  when  she  got  there, 
At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing  to  wear, 


And  when  she  proposed  to  fini.sh  the  season 
At  Newport,  the  monster  refused  out  and  out. 
For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no  reason, 
Excci»t  that  the  waters  Avere  good  for  his  gout; 
Such  treatment  as  this  Avas  too  shocking,  of  course, 
And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

But  Avhy  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the  curtain 
From  the.se  scenes  of  Avoe  ?     Enough,  it  is  certain. 
Has  here  been  di.sclosed  to  stir  up  the  pity 
Of  cveiy  bencAolent  heart  in  the  city, 
And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 
To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  iustanter. 
Won't  somebody,  moAed  by  this  touching  descrip- 
tion, 
Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  subscription  ? 
Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 
So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 
Take  charge  of  the  matter  ?  or  won't  Pkteij  Coopkij 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  splendi<l  super- 
Structure,  like  that  Avhich  to-day  links  his  name 
In  the  Fnion  unending  of  honor  and  fame  ; 
And  fonnd  a  ucaa'  charity  ju.st  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  Avoraeu  with  nothing  to  wear. 
Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  Avhich  would  daily  be 

claimed, 
The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be  named? 
Won't  Si'KWAKTjOr  some  of  our  dry -goods  importers, 
Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives   and  our 

daughters  ? 
Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  to  supply  these  distresses, 
And  life's  pathway  strew  Avith  shawls,  c(dlars,  and 

dresses, 
Ere  the  Avant  of  tlicni  makes  it  nnich  rougher  and 

thornier, 
Won't  some  one  discover  a  new  Califmiiia  ? 

O  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  Avhiil  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride. 
And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  toAver  on  each  side, 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  liaA-e  built ; 
Where"  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  tAvin  beasts  of  prey. 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair; 
Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered 

skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  Avay  through  the  dampness  and 
dirt,  [stair 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety 

To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the 

old,  [cold. 

Half-starved  and  half-naked,  lie  crouched  from  the 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER.— IlIC HARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


803 


See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitteu  feet, 
All  bleeding  and  bniised  by  the  stones  of  the  street; 
Then  home  to  yonr  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  yon  dare, 
Spoiled  children  of  fashion,  yon'vc  nothing  to  wear! 

And  oh,  if  perchance  there  ahould  bo  a  sphere 
Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles  us  here ; 
Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime  ; 
W^here  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense, 
Unscreened  by  its   trappings,  and  shows,  and  pre- 
tence, 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love, — - 
O  daughters  of  earth  !   foolish  virgins,  beware  ! 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you  have  nothing  to  wear  ! 


AMERICAN. 

Stoddard,  born  in  Hinghara,  Mass.,  in  1825,  removed 
wlien  quite  young  to  New  York.  He  engaged  early  in 
literary  pursuits;  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  18i2; 
another  in  1849;  "Songs  of  Summer,"  in  1856;  "The 
King's  Bell,"  in  1863;  "The  Book  of  the  East,"  in 
1871;  "Later  Poems"  (1871-1880).  In  the  last-named 
year  an  elegant  edition  of  his  collected  poems,  with  a  fine 
portrait,  was  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New 
York.  Stoddard  has  done  much  literary  work  for  pub- 
lishers as  author,  editor,  and  compiler.  For  some  time  he 
held  a  place  iu  the  Custom-house.  His  wife  (Elizabeth 
Drew  Barstow,boru  1833),  a  native  of  Mattapoisett,  Mass., 
lias  also  achieved  success  in  authorship,  having  produced 
several  novels  and  contributed  largely  to  magazines.  One 
of  her  poems  is  subjoined.  In  his  short  lyrical  pieces 
Stoddard  exhibits  much  of  the  grace,  tenderness,  and  del- 
icacy of  expression  that  charm  us  in  Herrick,  Tennyson, 
and  the  German  Heine.  He  is  one  of  the  born  poets, 
having  manifested  when  a  child  extreme  sensitiveness 
to  the  influences  of  external  nature  and  to  all  that  is 
beautiful  in  art.  A  series  of  short  poems  on  the  death 
of  his  little  boy  are  remarkable  for  the  deep  and  true 
pathos  they  embody. 


SOXGS   UNSUNG. 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small. 
Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song ; 

For  song  cometh,  if  at  all. 
Not  because  we  woo  it  long, 

But  because  it  suits  its  will. 

Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 
Was  before  it  took  a  Aoice  ; 


Waiting  since  the  world  was  young 

For  the  poet  of  its  choice. 
Oh,  if  any  waiting  be, 
May  thej'  come  to-day  to  me! 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 

W^hatsoever  they  impart ; 
Sorrows  sent  by  them  are  sweet — 

They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart ; 
Xy,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 
Something  serious  doth  remain. 

What  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth, 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth — 
Try  me,  merry  Muses,  now. 

I  can  still  with  numbers  fleet 

Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young ; 

Old  am  I  this  manj'  a  year; 
But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung. 

Though  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 
Oh,  my  son,  that  is  to  be. 
Sing  my  songs,  and  think  of  me! 


FROM  THE  PROEM  TO  COLLECTED  POEMS. 

These  songs  of  mine,  the  best  that  I  have  sung. 

Are  not  my  best,  for  caged  within  the  lines 

Are  thousands  better  (if  they  would  but  sing!). 

Silent  amid  the  clamors  of  their  mates  :  > 

I  know  they  are  imperfect,  none  so  well, — 

Echoes  at  first,  no  doubt,  of  older  songs, 

(Not  knowingly  caught,  but  echoes  all  the  same,) 

Fancies  where  facts  were  wanting,  or  hard  facts 

Which  only  fancies  made  endurable  ; 

I  grant,  beforehand,  all  the  faults  they  have, 

Too  deeply  rooted  to  bo  plucked  up  now, 

And  leave  them  to  their  fate;   content  to  know 

That  they  sustained  me  in  my  dreariest  days. 

That  they  consoled  me  in  my  darkest  nights. 

And  to  believe,  now  I  have  done  with  them, 

I  may  do  well  enough  to  win  at  last 

The  Laurel  I  have  missed  so  many  years. 


HOW  ARE  SONGS  BEGOT  AND  BRED? 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred  ? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow  ? 


604 


CYCLOI'jIWIA    UF  BRlTiaU  AND  AMICltlCAN  rOETKY. 


From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head  ? 
Happy  Poet!   let  nu!  know. 

Toll  me  iirst  how  folded  flowers 
Hud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bowers  ; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune- 
Tlie  harper  he  of  June! 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know  ; 
Winds  and  flowers  come  and  go, 
And  the  self-same  canons  bind 
Nature  and  the  Poet's  mind. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Not  "what  Ave  would,  but  what  we  must. 

Mates  up  the  sum  of  living; 
Keaveu  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 

In  taking  and  in  giving. 
Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the  plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  Avhose  feet 

Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 
Familiar  -with  its  loneliest  street — 

Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 
My  cradle  "was  beside  the  sea, 
And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead  !     In  that  old,  gray  town. 

Thy  vane  is  seaward  blowing, 
Tiie  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 

To  where  the  tide  is  flowing: 
Below  they  lie,  their  sails  all  furled, 
The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 

Inland,  with  pines  beside  it; 
Some  peach-trees,  with  unfruitful  boughs, 

A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it : 
No  flowers,  or  only  such  as  rise 
Self-sown,  poor  things,  Avhich  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home!     Can  I  forget 

The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles? 
The  window-vines  that  clamber  yet, 

Whoso  bloom  the  bee  still  rifles? 
The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 
And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  Pipe  ? 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 
Content  with  rustic  labor; 


Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield. 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 
Well  days,  sound  nights,  oh,  can  there  be 
A  life  more  rational  and  free? 

Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  ! 

For  both  the  best,  the  strongest. 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 

And  hast  outlived  the  longest : 
Their  cities  perished  long  ago; 
Who  the  Iirst  farmers  were  we  know. 

Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall  ; 

If  so,  no  lamentations. 
For  Motlier  Earth  will  shelter  all. 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations ; 
Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 
Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


ON  THE   CAMPAGNA. 

MkS.   15.   H.   STODDAIiD. 

Stop  on  the  Appian  Way, 
In  the  Eoman  Campagna, — 

Stop  at  my  tomb, 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella! 

To-day  as  you  see  it 
Alaric  saw  it  ages  ago, 
When  lie,  with  his  pale-visaged  Goths, 
Sat  at  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Reading  his  Runic  shield. 
Otlin,  thy  curse  renuiins. 

Beneath  these  battlements 
My  bones  were  stirred  M'ith  Roman  pride, 
Though  centuries  Vx'fore  my  Romans  died: 
Now  my  bones  are  dust:   the  Goths  are  dust, 
The  river-bed  is  dry  where  sleeps  the  king; 

My  tomb  rcm;iins. 
When  Rome  commanded  the  earth 

Great  were  the  Metelli  : 

I  was  Metellus'  wife  ; 

I  loved  him,— and  I  died. 
Then  with  slow  patience  built  he  this  menmrial 

Each  century  marks  his  love. 

Pass  by  on  the  Appian  Way 

The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella. 
Wild  shepherds  alone  seek  its  shelter, 
Wild  burtaloes  tramp  at  its  base  : 
Deep  in  its  desolation. 
Deep  as  the  shadow  of  Rome ! 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  MCGEE.— ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 


805 


(Lljomas  P'^vcvj  iHcC^cc. 

McGee(boni  in  lS25)\vas  a  native  of  Carlingford, County 
Lontli,  Ireland;  the  son  of  a  member  of  the  Coa&t  Guard 
Service.  In  184r3  Tliomas  emigrated  to  America,  and  was 
connected  for  awhile  with  The  Pilot.  He  returned  to 
Ireland  to  be  associated,  first  with  the  Dublin  Freonaii's 
Journal,  and  then  with  The  Nation.  In  1S4S  he  returned 
to  America,  and  started  the  New  York  Nation;  it  was  not 
a  success,  and  he  commenced  The  American  Celt  in  Bos- 
ton. Sellini;  out  his  interest  in  that  paper,  he  accepted 
an  invitation  to  remove  to  Montreal, where  he  was  elect- 
ed to  the  Canadian  Parliament.  Here  he  opposed  the 
Fenian  movement,  and,  incurring  the  hatred  of  the  most 
radical  of  his  countrymen,  was  assassinated  April  7th, 
1868.  His  poems  are  unequal  in  merit,  many  of  them 
showing  a  great  lack  of  artistic  care.  A  collection  of 
them  was  published  in  New  York  in  1869. 


CATHAUS   FAREWELL   TO   THE   RYE. 

Cnthal  Crov-derg  (the  red-handed)  O'Connor,  being  banished 
from  Counanght,  was  found  reaping  rj-e  in  a  field  i)i  Leinster, 
when  news  was  brought  that  called  him  to  assert  his  rights. 
Cathal  threw  down  the  sickle,  saying,  "Farewell,  sickle  ;  now 
for  the  sword  !"    The  saying  grew  to  be  proverbial  iu  Ireland. 

Sliiuing  sickle  !  lie  tliou  there  ; 

Another  harvest  needs  my  hand, 
Another  sickle  I  must  bear 

Back  to  the  fields  of  my  own  laud. 
Farewell,  sickle  I   welcotue,  sword  I 

A  crop  waves  red  ou  Couuaught's  plaiu. 
Of  bearded  meu  and  banners  gay. 

But  we  will  beat  them  down  like  rain, 
And  sweep  them  like  the  storm  away. 
Farewell,  sickle  !   welcome,  sword  ! 

Peaceful  sickle !   lie  thou  there, 

Deep  buried  iu  the  vanquished  rye ; 

May  this  that  iu  thy  stead  I  bear, 
Above  as  thick  a  reaping  lie  ! 

Farewell,  sickle  !   welcome,  sword  I 

Welcome,  sword  !   out  from  yonr  sheath, 
And  look  upon  the  glowing  sun ! 

Sharp  shearer  of  the  field  of  death. 
Your  time  of  rust  and  rest  is  done. 
Welcome,  welcome,  trusty  sword  ! 

W^elcome,  sword  !   no  more  repose 
For  Cathal-Crov-derg  or  for  thee. 

Until  we  walk  o'er  Erin's  foes. 
Or  they  wallc  over  you  and  mo. 

My  lightniug,  banner-cleaving  sword  ! 


AVelcome,  sword  !   thou  magic  wand, 

Wliich  raises  kings  and  casts  them  down  ; 

Thou  sceptre  to  the  foarloss  hand, 

Thou  fetter-key  for  limbs  long  bound, — 
Welcome,  wonder-working  sword ! 

Welcome,  sword  !    no  more  with  love 
Will  Cathal  look  on  hind  or  main. 

Till  with  thine  aid,  my  sword !   I  prove 

What  race  shall  reap  and  king  shall  reign. 
Farewell,  sickle  !   welcome  sword  I 

Shining  sickle!   lie  thou  there; 

Another  harvest  needs  my  hand. 
Another  sickle  I  must  bear 

Back  to  the  fields  of  my  own  laud. 
Farewell,  sickle  !   welcome,  sword  I 


^licUaiLic  ^unc  Procter. 

Miss  Procter  (1835-1864)  was  that  "golden -tressed 
Adelaide,''  of  whom  her  father,  while  writing  under  the 
pseudonyme  of  Barry  Cornwall,  used  to  sing.  N.  P. 
Willis  described  her  while  a  child  as  "a  beautiful  girl  of 
eight  or  nine  years,  delicate,  gentle,  and  pensive,  as  if  she 
was  born  on  the  lip  of  Castaly,  and  knew  she  was  a  poet's 
daughter."  In  1858  she  published  "Legends  and  Lyr- 
ics," a  book  of  verse.  Many  of  her  earliest  poems  ap- 
peared in  Charles  Dickens's  weekly  magazine,  Household 
^YorcU.  They  bi-eathe  an  earnest  religious  sentiment, 
and  have  a  character  of  their  own  which  distinguishes 
them  from  all  mere  imitations,  ^liss  Procter  became  a 
Roman  Catholic  in  the  latter  part  of  her  short  life.  An 
American  edition  of  her  poems  has  met  with  a  good  sale. 
One  of  her  critics  says  :  "It  is  full  of  a  thoughtful  seri- 
ousness, a  grave  tenderness,  a  fancy  temperate  but  not 
frigid,  with  touches  of  the  true  artist." 


MINISTERING  ANGELS. 

Angels  of  light,  spread  your  bright  wings  and  keep 

Near  me  at  moru  ; 
Nor  in  the  starry  eve,  nor  midnight  deep. 

Leave  me  forlorn. 

From  all  dark  spirits  of  unholy  power 

Guard  my  weak  heart. 
Circle  around  me  iu  each  perilous  hour, 

And  take  my  part. 

From  all  foreboding  thoughts  and  dangerous  fears 

Keeii  me  secure  ; 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  throngli  the  bitterest  tears 

Still  to  endure. 


806 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


If  lonely  in  tlic  road  so  fair  and  wido 

My  loot  should  stray, 
Tlion  llirougli  a  ronghor,  safer  iiatlnvay  guide 

Mo  day  by  day. 

SJiould  my  lioart  faint  at  its  nnerjnal  strife, 

Oh,  still  bo  ueav — 
Shadow  the  perilous  swectucss  of  this  life 

With  holy  fear. 

Then  leave  me  uot  alone  in  this  bleak  world, 

AVhcre'er  I  roam  ; 
And  at  the  end,  with  your  bright  wings  uufurlcd, 

Oh,  take  uie  hou»e  ! 


THE    LOST   CHORD. 

Seated  cue  day  at  the  orgau, 
I  was  weary  aud  ill  at  ease, 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  know  not  what  I  was  playing. 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  of  then, 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  nnisic 
I>ike  the  sound  of  a  great  An)en  I 

It  Hooded  the  crimson  twilight, 
liiko  the  close  of  an  angel's  psalm, 

Aud  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 
With  a  loueh  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  aud  sorrow. 
Like  love  overcoming  strife; 

It  seemed  the  liariuonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  life. 

It  linked  all  jterplcxi'd  meanings 

Into  one  ])erfect  i)eace, 
And  trembled  away  into  silence 

As  if  it  were  loath  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 
'i'hat  one  lost  chord  divine. 

Tiiat  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ. 
And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  bo  that  Death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  choixl  again  ; 

It  may  be  that  only  in  heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen  I 


STRIVi:,  WAIT,  AND   I'KAY. 

Strive;   yet  I  do  not  promise, 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day. 
Will  not  fade  when  you  think  to  grasp  it, 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away; 
I'nt  another  aud  holier  treasure, 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over, 

Aud  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wiiit;   yet  I  do  not  tell  you, 

The  hour  you  long  for  now. 
Will  not  come  with  its  radiance  vanished. 

And  a  shadow  npon  its  brow  ; 
Yet  far  through  the  misty  future. 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light. 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  winging  her- silent  flight. 

Pray  ;   though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears. 
May  never  repay  your  pleading, 

Yet  pray,  aud  with  hopeful  tears; 
An  answer,  uot  that  you  long  for. 

But  diviner,  will  eomo  one  day  ; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 

Yet  strive,  and  wait,  ami  pray. 


Uaiiari)  (Laiilor. 


Jiunes  Bayard  Taylor,  as  lie  was  christened  (182.5-1878), 
was  a  native  of  Kennct  Square,  Chester  County,  Pa.  llis 
active  career  began  witli  an  apprenticesliip  in  a  printing- 
otticc  of  llis  native  place.  Wlicn  nineteen  years  old  lie 
set  out  for  Europe,  and  travelled  afoot  for  two  years. 
His  first  book,  "  Views  Afoot,"  had  a  profitable  sale. 
He  subsequently  travelled  in  California,  Central  Africa, 
India,  China,  Jai)an,  Sweden,  Denmark,  Lapland,  Greece, 
and  Russia,  and  embodied  his  experiences  iu  many  books 
of  travel.  lie  was  connected  editorially  with  the  Kew 
York  Tribune.  He  published  three  novels,  made  a  brill- 
iant translation  of  Goethe's  "Faust,"  and  was  the  au- 
thor of  several  vohinies  of  poems,  containing  sonic  lyrics 
of  a  high  order.  Married  to  a  German  lady,  he  became 
an  aeeomplishcd  German  scholar,  and  undertook  a  life 
of  Goethe,  for  preparing  which  his  opportunities  were 
ample.  Under  the  Presidency  of  Mr.  Hayes  he  was  made 
Minister  to  Berlin  iu  1878,  but  died  in  that  city  iu  the 
flush  of  his  schemes  ofliterary  labor  and  of  diplomatic 
culture.  He  was  a  man  greatly  beloved  by  numerous 
friends,  and  has  left  a  literary  record  that  is  likely  to 
make  his  name  long  familiar.  A  complete  edition  of  his 
poems  appeared  in  Boston  iu  1880. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


STORM-SONG. 

The  cloiuls  are  scudding  across  the  raoou  ; 

A  uiisty  light  is  on  the  sea ; 
The  wiud  in  the  shrouds  has  a  wintry  tunc, 

And  the  foaiu  is  iiyiug  free. 

Brothers,  a  night  of  terror  and  gloom 

Speaks  in  the  cloud  and  gathering  roar  ; 

Thank  God,  he  has  given  us  broad  sea-room, 
A  thousand  miles  from  shore ! 

Down  with  the  hatches  on  those  who  sleep! 

The  wild  and  whistling  deck  have  we ; 
Good  watch,  my  brothers,  to-night  we'll  keep, 

While  the  tempest  is  on  the  sea ! 

Though  the  rigging  shriek  in  his  terrible  grip, 
And  the  naked  spars  be  snapped  away, 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  we'll  drive  our  ship 
Straight  through  the  whelming  spray  ! 

Hark,  how  the  surges  o'erleap  the  deck! 

Hark,  how  the  i)itiless  temiiest  raves  ! 
Ah,  daylight  will  look  upon  many  a  wreck, 

Drifting  over  the  desert  waves ! 

Yet  courage,  brothers !   we  trust  the  wave, 
With  God  above  us,  our  star  and  chart ; 

So,  whether  to  harbor  or  ocean-grave. 
Be  it  still  with  a  cheery  heart! 


A  CRIMEAN  EPISODE. 

"  Give  us  a  song,"  the  soldier  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding. 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camp  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scofi'. 
Lay  grim  and  threatening  under. 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

"  Give  us  a  song,"  the  Guardsmen  say, 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 
Below  the  smoking  cannon; 


Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  the  Clyde, 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon  ! 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame, 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory — 
Each  heart  recalled  a  ditferent  name, 

But  all  sang  Annie  Laurie ! 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  Its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem  rich  and  strong, 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean,  burned 

The  bloody  sunset  embers  ; 
And  the  Crimean  valley  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  the  fires  of  hell 
Raiped  on  the  Russian  quarters — 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 

And  Irish  Norah's  eyes  were  dim. 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory. 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  Annie  Laurie. 

Ah!  soldiers,  to  your  honored  rest 
Your  love  and  glory  bearing, — 

The  bravest  are  the  loveliest, 
The  loviu"-  are  the  darinjr ! 


THE   FIGHT   OF   PASO   DEL    MAR. 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees  ; 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandj'  bar. 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescadivr,  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 
Sees  the  dint  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  wa.ste  of  the  tide  ; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall. 
Where  the  faint  moving  speck  of  the  rider 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 


808 


CYCLOPJiDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Kodc  down  fioiu  tlic  bills  bobiiid ; 
Witb  tbe  bells  on  bis  gray  nnilo  tinkling, 

He  sang  tbrongh  tho  fog  and  wind. 
I'nder  bis  tbick,  misted  eyebrows 

Twinkled  bis  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  be  sang  as  tbe  sea-Avinds 

Drove  cold  on  tbe  Paso  del  Mar. 

Now  Bernal,  tlie  berdsmau  of  Cbino, 

Had  travelled  tbe  sbore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  tbe  rancbes  bebind  bini, — 

(jood  reason  bad  be  to  be  gone  ! 
Tbe  Vtlood  was  still  red  on  bis  dagger, 

Tbe  fnry  was  bot  iu  bis  brain, 
And  tbe  cbill,  driving  scud  of  tbe  breakers 

Beat  tbick  on  bis  forebead.  in  vain. 

Witl)  his  poiiclio  wrapped  gloomily  round  bini, 

He  mounted  tbe  dizzying  road, 
And  tbe  cbasms  and  steeps  of  tbe  beadland 

Were  slippery  and  wet  as  be  trode: 
"Wild  swept  tbe  wind  of  tbe  ocean, 

Kolling  the  fog  from  afar. 
When  near  him  a  mnle-bell  came  tinkling, 

Midway  on  tbe  Paso  del  Mar. 

"Back!"  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely. 

And  "  Back  !"  shouted  Pablo,  in  wrath, 
As  bis  mule  baited,  startled  and  shrinking. 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
Tbe  roar  of  devouring  surges 

Came  up  from  tbe  breakers'  boarse  war; 
And  "  Back,  or  you  peri.sb  !"  cried  Bernal, 

"I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar!" 

Tbe  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  lieadland  : 

He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein. 
When  Pablo  rose  up  in  bis  saddle 

And  smote  till  be  dropped  it  again, 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 

And  brandished  bis  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  forward, 

And  fought  o'er  bis  trusty  mule's  bead. 

They  fonght  till  the  black  wall  below  them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast; 
.Stout  Pablo,  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

Tbe  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,  frenzied  Avitb  pain,  tbe  swart  herdsman 

Closed  on  him  witb  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 


They  grajtpled  witb  desperate  madness, 

On  the  slip[>ery  edge  of  the  wall; 
They  swayed  on  tbe  brink,  and  together 

Keeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  tbe  wildest  deatb-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  tbe  mist  afar. 
And  tbe  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  Ihe  lijibt  of  tbe  Paso  del  Mar. 


ilTrs.  iJiilia  €.  Porr. 


Julia  Caroline  Ripley,  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  for 
some  time  President  of  the  Rutland  County  (V*t.)  Bank, 
was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  in  182.5.  Her  father  re- 
moved to  New  York,  and  she  had  a  Northern  education. 
In  \^1  she  nnirried  Seneca  M.  Dorr,  of  Chatham,  N.  Y.. 
and  they  removed  to  Rutland.  Slie  has  had  liteiary 
tastes  from  childhood,  and  is  the  author  of  some  half- 
dozen  successful  novels.  Her  first  volume  of  poems 
appeared  in  1872;  and  in  1879  it  was  followed  by  "Friar 
Ansclmo,  and  other  Poems."  Slic  shows  a  truly  original 
vein  in  these  productions,  Avliich  seem  always  i)rompted 
by  genuine  feeling  and  a  natural  lyrical  endowment.  A 
happy  wife  and  mollicr,  her  best  work  has  been  given 
to  other  than  literary  pursuits. 


QUIETNESS. 

I  would  be  quiet,  Lord,  nor  tease,  nor  fret ; 
Not  one  small  need  of  mine  wilt  Thou  forget. 
I  am  not  wise  to  know  what  most  I  need  ; 
I  dare  not  cry  too  loud  lest  Thou  shouldst  heed, — 

Lest  Thou  at  length  shouldst  say,  "Child,  liave  thy 

will ; 
As  thou  bast  chosen,  lo !  thy  cup  I  fill!" 
What  I  most  crave,  perchance  Tboii  wilt  withhold. 
As  wo  from  bands  nnmeet  keep  pearls  or  gold ; 

As  we,  when  childish  bands  would  play  witb  fire, 
Withhold  the  burning  goal  of  their  desire. 
Yet  choose  Thou  for  me — Thou  who  knowest  best ; 
This  one  short  prayer  of  mine  holds  all  the  rest! 


HEIKSHIP. 

Little  store  of  wealth  have  I, 
Not  a  rood  of  land  I  own ; 

Nor  a  mansion  fair  and  bigb. 
Built  of  towers  of  fretted  stone. 

Stocks  nor  bonds,  nor  title-deed.s, 
Flocks  nor  herds  have  I  to  show ; 


MRS.  JULIA    C.  DOltR. 


809 


When  I  rule,  no  Arab  steeds 

Toss  for  mo  their  manes  of  snow. 

I  liave  neither  pearls  nor  gold, 

Massive  plate,  nor  jewels  rare  ; 
Broidered  silks  of  worth  untold, 

Nor  rich  robes  a  queen  might  \year. 
In  my  garden's  narrow  bound 

Flaunt  no  costly  tropic  blooms, 
Ladening  all  the  air  around 

With  a  weight  of  rare  perfumes. 

Yet  to  an  immense  estate 

Am  I  heir  by  grace  of  God, — 
Richer,  grander  than  doth  wait 

Any  earthly  monarch's  nod. 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Heir  of  all  that  they  have  wrought. 
All  their  stores  of  emprise  high, 

All  their  wealth  of  precious  thought. 

Every  golden  deed  of  theirs 

Sheds  its  lustre  on  my  way  ; 
All  their  labors,  all  their  prayers. 

Sanctify  this  present  day ! 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  earned 

By  their  passion  and  their  tears, — 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  learned 

Through  the  weary,  toiling  years  ! 

Heir  of  all  the  faith  sublime 

On  Tvhose  wings  they  soared  to  heaven 
Heir  of  every  hope  that  Time 

To  Earth's  fainting  sons  hath  given  I 
Aspirations  pure  and  high, — 

Strength  to  dare  and  to  endure, — 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Lo !   I  am  no  longer  poor ! 


TO-DAY:    A   SONNET. 

What  dost  thou  bring  to  me,  O  fair  To-day, 
That  comest  o'er  the  mountains  with  swift  feet? 
All  the  young  birds  make  haste  thj-  steps  to  greet ; 
And  all  the  dewy  roses  of  the  May 
Turn  red  and  white  with  joy.     The  breezes  play 
On  their  soft  harps  a  Avelcome  low  and  sweet ; 
All  nature  hails  thee,  glad  thy  face  to  meet. 
And  owns  thy  presence  in  a  brighter  ray. 
But  my  poor  soul  distrusts  thee !     One  as  fair 
As  thou  art,  O  To-day,  drew  near  to  me, 
Serene  and  smiling,  yet  she  bade  me  wear 


The  sudden  sackcloth  of  a  great  despair! 
O,  pitiless !   that  through  the  wandering  air 
Sent  no  kind  warning  of  the  ill  to  be ! 


SOMEWHERE. 

How  can  I  cease  to  pray  for  thee  ?     Somewhere 
In  God's  great  universe  thou  art  to-day. 

Can  he  not  reach  thee  with  his  tender  care  ? 
Can  he  not  hear  me  when  for  thee  I  pray  ? 

What  matters  it  to  him  who  holds  within 
The  hollow  of  his  hand  all  worlds,  all  space. 

That  thou  art  done  with  earthly  pain  and  sin? 
Somewhere  within  his  ken  thou  hast  a  place. 

Somewhere  thou  livest  and  hast  need  of  him  ; 

Somewhere  thy  soul  sees  higher  heights  to  climb; 
And  somewhere  still  there  may  be  valleys  dim 

That  thou  must  pass  to  reach  the  hills  sublime. 

Then  all  the  more  because  thou  canst  not  hear. 
Poor  human  words  of  blessing  will  I  pray. 

O  true,  brave  heart !     God  bless  thee,  wheresoe'er 
In  his  great  universe  thou  art  to-dav. 


TWENTY-ONE. 

Grown  to  man's  stature !     O  my  little  child  ! 

My  bird  that  sought  the  skies  so  long  ago ! 
My  fair,  sweet  blossom,  pure  and  iindefiled. 

How  have  the  years  flown  since  we  laid  thee  low! 

What  have  they  been  to  thee  ?  If  thou  wert  here 
Standing  beside  thy  brothers,  tall  and  fair. 

With  bearded  lip,  and  dark  eyes  shining  clear, 
And  glints  of  summer  sunshine  in  thy  hair, 

I  should  look  np  into  thy  face  and  saj', 

Wavering,  perhaps,  between  a  tear  and  smile, 

"  O  my  sweet  son,  thou  art  a  man  to-day !" — 
And  thou  wouldst  stoop  to  kiss  my  lips  the  while. 

But — up  in  Heaven — how  is  it  with  thee,  dear? 

Art  thou  a  man — to  man's  full  stature  grown  ? 
Dost  thou  count  time  as  wo  do,  year  by  year? 

And  what  of  all  earth's  changes  hast  thou  known  ? 

Thou  liadst  not  learned  to  love  nie.  Didst  thou  take 
Any  small  germ  of  love  to  heaven  with  thee, 

That  thou  hast  watched  and  nurtured  for  my  sake, 
Waiting  till  I  its  perfect  flower  may  see  ? 


810 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Wliiit  is  it  to  liave  lived  iu  heaven  always? 

To  Lave  no  memory  of  pain  or  slii  ? 
Ne'er  to  have  known  in  all  tbo  calm,  brijilit  days 

Tlie  jar  and  fret  of  earth's  discordant  din  ? 

Thy  brothers — they  are  mortal — they  must  tread 
Ofttiuics  in  rough,  hard  ways,  with  bleeding  feet; 

Must  fight  witli  dragons,  must  bewail  their  dead, 
And  lierco  ApoUyon  face  to  face  must  meet. 

I,  who  would  give  nij'^  very  life  for  theirs, 

I  cannot  save  them  from  earth's  i)aiu  or  loss ; 

I  cannot  shield  ^heni  from  its  griefs  or  cares; 
Each  human  heart  must  bear  alone  its  cross! 

Was  God,  then,  kinder  unto  thee  than  them, 
O  thou  whose  little  life  was  but  a  span  ? 

Ah,  think  it  not!     In  all  his  diadem 

No  star  shines  brighter  than  the  kingly  man. 

Who  nobly  earns  whatever  crown  he  wears, 
Who  grandly  conquers,  or  as  grandly  dies ; 

And  the  white  banner  of  his  manhood  bears, 
Tlirongh  all  the  years  uplifted  to  the  skies! 

What  lofty  pa-ans  shall  the  victor  greet ! 

What  crown  resplendent  for  his  brow  be  fit'. 
O  child,  if  earthlj-  life  bo  bittei'-swcet, 

Hast  thou  not  something  missed  iu  missing  it  ? 


Stcpljcii  (Collins  -foster, 


Foster  (1826-1804),  known  chiefly  for  his  musical  com- 
positions, was  a  native  of  Pittshurgli,  Pa.  At  an  early  age 
lie  had  become  a  skilful  performer  on  the  flute,  fliigco- 
Ict,  and  i)iano-fortc.  His  voice  was  clear,  and  well  un- 
der control.  When  a  boy  of  fii.vtecn  he  produced  his 
song  "Oh,  Susanna,"  which  was  sung  by  a  travelling 
minstrel  troupe,  was  published  by  Peters  of  Cincinnati, 
and  largely  sold.  Foster  was  accustomed  to  attend  Meth- 
odist camp-meetings,  botli  wliite  and  black,  and  tlms  got 
many  a  hint  for  his  wonderfully  i)oi)ular  "folk-songs," 
founded  many  of  them  on  extemporized,  miwritten  ne- 
gro melodies.  Of  his  "Old  Folks  at  Home,"  200,000 
copies  were  sold  ;  of"  My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  1.50,000; 
of  "Ellen  Brtyne,"  12.5,000;  and  of  several  others,  the 
sale  was  enormous.  Foster  was  a  poet,  as  his  songs  at- 
test, the  words  of  nearly  every  one  of  them  being  of  his 
own  composition.  Though  he  enriched  others,  he  laid 
np  little  for  himself  Unhappily,  he  was  intemperate. 
His  death  was  occasioned  by  a  severe  fall  at  a  Bowery 
hotel,  in  New  York.  At  Pittsburgh,  his  native  city,  inter- 
esting ceremonies  were  held  in  his  honor ;  and  a  large 
concourse  gathered  to  do  homage  to  his  memory. 


OLD   FOLKS   AT   HOME. 

'Way  down  npon  de  Swannee  Kibber, 

Far,  far  away, — 
Dare's  whar  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, — 

Dare's  whar  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation. 

Sadly  I  roam  ; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation. 
And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam  ; 
Oh,  darkeys,  liow  my  heart  grows  weary. 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home! 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered. 

When  I  was  young; 
Den  many  bai)py  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  with  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder  ! 

Dare  let  me  live  and  die! 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary,  etc. 

One  little  hut  among  de  rushes, —  , 

One  dat  I  love, — 
Still  sadl^'  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-hummiug. 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumniing 

Down  in  my  good  old  home? 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary,  etc. 


Cotitcs  lunncn. 

AMERICAN, 
Kiiniey  was  born  on  Crooked  Lake,  near  Pcnn  Yan, 
Yates  County,  N.  Y.,  in  182G.  He  went  West  while  a  bov. 
taught  school,  edited  newspapers,  and  finally  practised 
law.  Besides  writing  for  the  magazines,  he  has  publish- 
ed "Kecuka:  an  American  Legend,  and  other  Poems" 
(1(10  pages,  18.54).  He  made  bis  mark  as  a  poet  by  his 
"Kain  on  the  Roof;"  but  has  given  evidence  of  original 
power  in  other  productions. 


FROM   THE  "MOTHER   OF  GLORY." 

Cehbrity  by  some  great  accident, 
Some  single  opportunity,  is  like 
Aladdin's  palace  in  the  wizard  tale, 
^■anished  when  euvy  steals  the  charm  away 


COATES  KINNEY.— MRS.  CRAIK  {DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK). 


811 


But  Tliotiglit  up-pyrannds  itself  to  fame 

By  husbaiulry  of  opportunities, 

Grade  after  grade  coustructiug  to  that  height, 

Which,  seen  above  the  far  horizon,  seems 

To  peak  among  the  stars.     Go  mummify 

Tliy  uame  Avithiu  that  arcliitectural  pile 

Whieli  others'  intellect  has  builded  ;   none — 

For  all  the  hieroglyjths  of  glory — none 

Save  but  the  builder's  name,  shall  sound  along 

The  everlasting  ages.     Heart  and  brain 

Of  thine  must  resolutely  yoke  themselves 

To  slow-paced  years  of  toil,  else  all  the  trumps 

Of  hero-heraldry  that  ever  twanged, 

Gathered  in  one  mad  blare  above  the  graves, 

Shall  not  avail  to  resurrect  thy  name 

To  the  salvation  of  remembrance  then, 

When  once  the  letters  of  it  have  slunk  back 

Into  the  alphabet  from  off  thy  tomb.       [crumbles 

Ay,  thou    must   think,  think!      Marble   frets    and 

Back  into  nndistinguishable  dust 

At  last,  and  epitaphs  grooved  into  brass 

Yield  piecemeal  to  the  hungry  elements  ; 

But  truths  that  drop  plumb  to  the  depths  of  time 

Anchor  the  name  forever  : — thou  must  think 

Such  truths,  aud  speak,  or  write,  or  act  them  forth — 

Thyself  must  do  this — or  the  centuries 

Shall  take  thee,  as  the  maelstrom  gulps  a  wreck. 

To  the  di'ead  bottom  of  oblivion. — Think  ! 

A  bibulous  memorj'  sponging  up  tlie  thoughts 

Of  dead  men,  is  not  thought;   it  holds  no  sway. 

Where  genius  is :   not  freighted  argosies. 

But  thunder-throated  guns  of  battle-ships 

Command  the  high  seas.     Destiny  is  not 

About  thee,  but  within  ;    thyself  must  make 

Thyself:   the  agonizing  throes  of  Thought, 

These  bring  forth  glorj^,  bring  forth  destiny. 


RAIN   ON  THE   ROOF. 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 
What  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed. 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead ! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 
Has  an  echo  in  the  heart ; 

And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 
Into  busy  being  start ; 


And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  bright  hues  into  woof, 

\ii  I  listen  to  the  patter 
Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  fiincy  comes  my  mother 

As  she  used  to,  years  agone. 
To  survey  her  darling  dreamers, 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn  ; 
Oh  !   I  see  her  bending  o'er  me, 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain. 
Which  is  played  npon  the  shingles 

B}^  the  i)atter  of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister. 

With  her  wings  aud  waving  hair. 
And  lier  bright-eyed  cherub  brother — - 

A  serene,  angelic  pair ! — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow. 

With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  soft  raiu  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eyes'  delicious  blue '; 
And  forget  I,  gazing  on  her, 

That  her  heart  was  all  untrue  : 
I  remember  but  to  love  her 

With  a  rapture  kin  to  pain, 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

There  is  naught  in  Art's  bravuras 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  spirit's  pure,  deep  fountains, 

Whence  the  holy  passions  well. 
As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


illrs.  Craik  [Diiml]  iXlax'm  fllulock). 

Miss  Mulock  (1S;2G-....)  became  Mrs.  Craik  in  180."), 
after  she  had  gained  considerable  literary  distinction  un- 
der her  maiden  name.  She  has  written  a  series  of  admi- 
rable novels,  and  licr  short  lyrical  pieces  are  remarkable 
for  a  union  of  tenderness  and  force,  beauty  and  feeling. 
She  was  born  at  Stoke-upon-Trent,  Staffordshire,  and  her 
first  novel,  "The  Ogilvies,"  appeared  in  1849;  "John 
Halifax,"  the  most  popular  of  her  fictions,  in  1857.  She 
is  also  the  author  of  "Studies  from  Life"  (18G0)  and 
"Sermons  out  of  Church"  (1875). 


812 


CYCLOl'JiDIA   OF  liRITISH  ASD    AMIJIUCAN  POETRY. 


TO   A  WINTER   WIND. 

Loud  wiiul, strong  wind, sweepiiiK  o'er  the  mountains, 

FrcsU  wind,  free  wind,  blowing  from  the  sea. 
Pour  forth  thy  vials  like  streams  from  airy  fountains, 
Draughts  of  life  to  me! 

Clear  wind,  cold  wind,  like  a  Northern  giant, 

Stars  brightly  threading  thy  cloud-driven  hair, 
Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  a  voice  defiaut, 
Lo  I   I  meet  thee  there  ! 

Wild  wind,  bold  wind,  like  a  strong-armed  angel, 
Clasp  me  round — kiss  me  with  thy  kisses  divine. 
Breathe  in  my  dull  heart  thy  secret  sweet  evangel  — 
]Mino,  and  only  mine  ! 

Fierce  wind, mad  wind, howling  through  the  nations, 
Knew'st  thou  how  leapcth  that  heart  as  thou  go- 
est  by,  [tience, 

Ah!   thou  wouldst  pause  awhile  in   a  siulden  pa- 
Like  a  human  sigh. 

Sharp  wind,  keen  wind,  cutting  as  word  arrows. 

Empty  thy  quiverful!  pass  on!  what  is't  to  thee 
Though  in  sonic  mortal  eyes  life's  whole  bright  cir- 
cle narrows 

To  one  misery  ? 

Loud  wiiul,  strong  wind,  stay  thou  in   the  moun- 
tains ! 
Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  trouble  not  the  sea! 
Or  lay  thy  deathly   hand   upon  my  heart's  warm 
fountains, 

That  I  hear  not  thee  ! 


TOO   LATE. 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  tlie  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  lie  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  teiuler  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do : 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Oh  !   to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  iu  heaven, 

Douglas,  Dougla.s,  tender  and  true  f 


I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  ; 
Now  all  men  beside  socm  to  me  like  shadows — 

I  love  yon,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew. 

As  I  laj'  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


PHILIP,  MY  KING. 

"Who  bears  iipou  his  baby  brow  the  round  and  top  of  sov- 
ereignty." 

Look  at  mo  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  King ! 
For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood's  regal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  liand. 

With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther,  to  command. 

Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  King ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  are  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sittest  all  glorified !— Rule  kindly. 
Tenderly,  over  thj'  kingdom  fair, 

For  we  that  love,  ah  !   we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  King. 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip,  my  King ; 
Ay,  there  lies  the  spirit,  all  sleeping  now. 
That  may  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  God-throned  amidst  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer. 
Let  me  behold  thee  iu  cpniing  years  ! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  mj'  King! 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

IMiilip,  my  King, 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  tread,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  bitter,  aiul  cold,  and  gray  : 
Rebels  witliin  thee,  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  erown.     But  go  on,  glorious. 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  !   till  angels  shout, 

As  thou  sittest  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 
"Philip,  the  King!" 


WALTER  MITCHELL. 


813 


lHaltcr  illitcljcil. 


Mitchell  -was  born  at  Nantucket,  Mass.,  Jannaiy  23d, 
1826.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  the  class 
of  1846  ;  entered  the  ministry  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Ckurch  in  1858;  was  settled  at  Stamford,  Conn.,  in  the 
same  year;  and  in  1880  was  Rector  of  Trinity  Church, 
Rutland,  Vt.  lie  is  the  author  of  "Bryan  Maurice,"  a 
novel,  published  by  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia ;  also 
of  a  poem  delivered  before  the  Plii  Beta  Kappa  Society 
of  Harvard,  in  18T5.  His  "  Tacking  Ship  "  is  remarkable 
for  the  nautical  accuracy  of  the  description.  It  is  as 
true  to  life  as  any  part  of  the  "Shipwreck"  of  Fal- 
coner, while  it  surpasses  that  once  famous  poem  in 
graphic  power  and  freedom  of  style. 


TACKIXG  SHIP    OFF  SHORE. 

I. 

The  weather  leech  of  the  top-sail  shivers, 

The  bowlines  strain  and  tlie  lee-shrouds  slacken, 
The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 

And    the  Traves   with  the   coming  squall -cloud 
blacken. 

II. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow 

Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island  head  ; 

Tliere's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 


I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 

Till  the  muttered  order  of  "Full  and  by!" 
Is  suddenly  changed  to  "Full  fok  stays!" 


The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 

As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays  ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas, 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "  Stand  by  for  stays  !" 


It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place. 

With  the  gathered  coils  in  his  hardened  hands. 
By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace. 

Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 


And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  head  draws  near. 
As,  trumpet-wiuged,  the  pilot's  shout 

From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear. 
With  the  ^velcome  call  of  "  Ready!  About!" 


VII. 

No  time  to  spare!   it  is  touch  and  go,       [down!" 
And  the  captain  growls,  "  Down    helm  !   Haud 

As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw. 

While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm-cloud's 

frown. 

VIII. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 

As  I  answer,  "  Ay,  ay,  Sir  !   H-a-a-r-d  a-lee  !" 


With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 

And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 


The  top-sails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse. 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats  ; 

The  spanker  slats,  and  the  main-sail  flaps. 

And  thunders  the  order,  "Tacks  and  sheets!" 


'Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the  crew, 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall ; 

The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for  "  Main-sail,  haul  !" 


And  the  heavy  yards  like  a  baby's  toy 
By  tifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung; 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwarks  flung. 


"Let  go  and  haul!"     'Tis  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more  ; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 


What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea; 
The  first  mate  clamors,  "  Belay  there,  all  !" 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 


And  so  otf  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 
In  iny  fo'castle  bunk  in  a  jacket  dry, — 

Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  Avatch  is  below. 


814 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


llHUiam  tjaiucs  iliitlc. 


Lytic  (1826-1803)  was  a  native  of  Cincinnati,  O.  After 
a  schohibtic  cdncation,  he  studied  law  in  the  oflice  of  his 
xincie,  E.  S.  llaincs.  On  the  breakino;  out  of  the  Mexi- 
can War  he  caught  the  military  spirit,  and  sers'cd  as 
captain  with  distinction.  In  ISGl  he  became  colonel  of 
the  lOtli  Ohio  Volunteers,  and  took  part  in  the  battle 
of  Rich  Mountain.  He  led  a  brigade  at  Carnifax  Ferry, 
where  he  was  wounded.  He  next  commanded  the  17th 
Brigade  under  Mitchell,  and  was  again  wounded  at  Pcr- 
ryville,  where  he  was  made  prisoner.  In  18Go  he  was  ap- 
pointed Brigadier-general  of  Volunteers,  and  served  un- 
der Rosecraus,  until  killed  at  Chickamauga,  Sept.,  18G3. 


ANTONY  TO  CLEOPATRA. 

"I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying!"— Suakspeahe. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast ; 
And  the  dark,  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arm,  O  Queen,  support  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear ; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets, 

Thon,  and  thon  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
Though  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  mo, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, — 
I  must  i)erisli  like  a  Roman, — 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Ca'sar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  hiid  low; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  liand  that  felled  him, 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  tlie  blow  : — 
His  who,  pillowed  on  tliy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses. 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  tl)e  base  plebeian  rabble, 

Dare  assail  my  fame  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, — 
Seek  her ;   say  the  gods  bear  witness, — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled. 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 


And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian, 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Light  my  path  through  Stygian  darkness 

Witli  the  sidendor  of  thy  smile. 
Give  to  Ca-sar  thrones  and  kingdoms. 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 
I  can  scorn  all  meaner  triumphs. 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  (lying,  Egypt,  dying! 

Hark  !   the  insulting  foeman's  cry  ; 
They  are  coming — quick,  my  falchion ! 

Let  mo  front  thera  ere  I  die. 
Ah  !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  soul  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee — 

Cleopatra !   Rome  !   farewell ! 


£uci)  £arcom. 


Miss  Larcom,  who  made  a  name  by  her  simple  ballad 
of  "Hannah  binding  Slioes,"  was  born  at  Beverly  Farms, 
Mass.,  in  1820.  She  has  edited  various  publications,  has 
done  some  good  work  for  the  magazines,  is  the  author 
of  a  volume  of  jioems,  and  the  compiler  of  "Breathings 
of  the  Better  Life."  At  one  time  she  was  a  factory  op- 
erative at  Lowell. 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

Poor  lono  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Faded,  wrinkled. 
Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she. 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree ; 
Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 

To  her  whisper, 
"  Is  there  from  the  lishers  any  news  ?" 
Oh,  lier  heart's  adrift  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 
Night  and  morning, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  iisher,  gayly  woos ; 

Hale  and  clever. 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 


LUCY  LARCOM.— ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN. 


815 


M:iy-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughiug  so ! 
For  her  wedding 
Hamiali  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 

May  is  passing ; 
Mid  the  apple-bonghs  a  pigeou  coos. 

Hannah  shudders, 
For  the  mild  south-wester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped  ; 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

'Tis  November; 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely:  "Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Beu  ?" 
Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons ! 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 
Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 


Uobcrt  Barrt)  (Eoffin. 


Coffin  was  born  at  Hudson,  New  York,  in  1826.  His 
great-grandfather  was  one  of  the  original  thirteen  pro- 
prietors of  the  island  of  Nantucket.  Robert  received  a 
good  classical  education  ;  and,  after  some  experience  as  a 
clerk  and  a  bookseller,  formed  a  literary  connection  with 
Morris  &  Willis  of  the  Home  Journal  (18.58).  In  1863  he 
accepted  a  position  in  the  N.  Y.  Custom-house.  Sev- 
eral volumes  in  prose  from  his  pen,  and  one  in  poctrj' 
(1873),  have  appeared  under  the  name  of  Barry  Gray. 


SHIPS   AT   SEA. 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea, 
More  than  fifty  years  ago  ; 

None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 
But  are  sailing  to  and  fro. 

I  have  seen  them  in  my  sleep. 

Plunging  through  the  shoreless  deep. 


With  tattered  sails  and  battered  hulls. 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low.  Hying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  stayed 

From  me,  sailing  round  the  world  ; 
And  I've  said,  "  I'm  half  afraid 

That  their  sails  will  ne'er  be  furled." 
Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold. 
Silks,  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold  ; 
While  the  spices  that  they  bear 
Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 
As  they  sail,  as  they  sail. 

Ah  !   each  sailor  in  the  port 

Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 
Of  the  winds  and  waves  the  sport. 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 
Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk, 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk. 
Till  I  put  my  fears  aside. 
And,  contented,  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers. 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay, 
Days  and  nights  for  many  years, 
Till  I  turned  heart-sick  away. 
But  the  pilots,  when  they  land. 
Stop  and  take  me  by^  the  hand. 
Saying,  "You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  one  and  all." 

So  I  never  quite  despair. 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail  ; 
And  some  daj'',  when  skies  are  fair. 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  shall  buy  then  all  I  need, — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read, 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art, — 
Everything  except  a  heart — 
That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once  when  I  was  pure  and  yonng. 

Richer,  too,  than  I  am  now. 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  mo  flung. 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow. 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine  ; 
But  she's  something  now  divine. 
And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea, 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me 
Ever  more,  ever  more. 


816 


CTCLOPJSDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Cjoratio  ^'clson  {Joidcvs. 


Of -English  and  German  descent,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Powers 
was  born  in  Amenia,  N.  Y.,  April  SOtli,  182G.  lie  was 
f^radiiatcd  at  Union  College  in  1S50,  and  was  ordained  in 
Trinity  Cluireh  in  I&jS.  lie  was  Rector  of  the  Episco- 
l>al  Cliurch  in  Davenport,  Iowa,  several  years;  of  St. 
John's  Church,  Chicago,  in  18G8;  but  in  1875  became  Rec- 
tor of  Christ  Church,  Bridgeport,  Conn.  Ilis  books  are  : 
"Through  the  Year,"  a  collection  of  discourses  (1ST5); 
"  Poems,  Early  and  Late"  (Chicago,  1870).  He  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  Bryant  and  Bayard  TayTor;  and  has 
been  a  contributor  to  the  leading  periodicals  of  America, 
as  well  as  to  U Art,  the  French  art  review.  His  poetry 
has  the  charm  of  an  cutliusiasm  genuine  and  spontane- 
ous, and  we  feel  iu  it  the  throbs  of  au  emotion  always 
true  and  pure. 


FEOM  "MEMORIAL   DAY." 

Out  of  thine  azure  depths,  O  sun  benign, 
Shower  thy  golden  kisses  on  the  May! 

Drink,  fertile  fields,  kind  Nature's  mystic  wine, 

Till  every  herb  throb  with  a  life  divine;— 
Let  not  a  single  dew-drop  go  astray. 

Brood,  moistened  airs,  -with  warm  and  fragrant  wing, 
On  all  the  vales ;  and  baste,  with  glowing  feet, 
Ye  soft-Iii)ped  Hours,  to  make  the  landscape  sweet 

Till  eartli  shall  bnrst  to  flowers — a  perfect  Spring  ! 
O  vernal  season  !   give  yonr  richest  blooms- 
Rare  radiance  woven  in  celestial  looms, 
Tlie  snbtlest  meanings  of  each  tint  and  tone 
Tliat  Beauty  keeps  abont  her  peerless  throne  : 

Our  hearts  ache  with  iinsyllablcd  applause. 
We  are  nnwortliy, — but  for  those  who  lie 

In  graves  made  holy  by  their  life-blood  shed, — 

The  bero-yonth  who  took  our  perilled  cause, 
And  thought  it  sweet  and  beautiful  to  die. 

That  Freedom's  fields  by  us  bo  liarvestcd, — 
Wo  crave  the  clioicest  emblems  to  impart, — 
Tlie  sense  of  (hat  wliich  blossoms  in  the  heart! 

Tbo  nation  lives:   after  War's  bloody  showers 
The  air  is  sweet  with  Freedom's  stainless  flowers. 
Let  praise  ascend  and  gratulations  grand  ! 
The  graves  of  martyrs  consecrate  the  land. 


A   ROSE-BUD. 

It  was  merely  the  bud  of  a  blood-red  rose 

That  I  found  'tween  the  lids  of  my  bocdc  to-day; 

Wliat  of  it  ?  Nothing  to  yon,  I  snjjpose — 
Sweet  ashes  a  bi'cath  would  scatter  away  ! 


Yet  here  I  am  holding  the  dead,  faded  thing, 
As  the  sun  drops  out  of  the  August  sky, 

And  dew-drunken  blossoms  their  odors  fling 
On  tbo  twilight  air — do  yon  ask  me  why  ? 

The  j'ears  arc  gathered  in  this  little  tomb, — 

(Strange  that  a  grave  in  my  liand  I  should  bold!) 
Springs  that  sbowered  their  kisses  of  bloom, 

And  summers  that  revelled  in  fruits  of  gold. 
No  breath  of  the  meadows  nor  orange  bough 

Sheds  to  my  spirit  an  odor  so  rare  : 
You  see  not — ^how  can  you? — what  I  see  now  — 

That  marvellous  face — Are  the  angels  so  fair  f 

She  gave  me  this  bud  and  a  single  leaf,- 

Geranium — it  has  crumbled  away  ; — 
What  a  glory  touched  life  then,  but  how  grief 

Drives  to  tasks  that  sprinkle  the  head  with  gray  ! 
Half  doubting  I  number  the  seasons  since  flown  ; 

Like  a  star  she  just  trembled  on  womanhood's  eve  : 
To  wliat  in  the  garden  of  God  has  she  grown  ? 

Naught  more  fair  than  she  was  can  my  fancy  con- 
ceive. 

For  the  roses  of  morning,  and  music,  and  ligbt, 

The  motions  of  birds,  and  the  freshness  of  June, 
The  glimmer  of  lilies,  and  childhood's  delight, 

In  her  exquisite  nature  were  blended  in  tune. 
Its  sweetness  yet  lingers  like  perfume  that  clings 

To  the  air  when  the  splendor  of  blossoms  has  fled, 
More  tender  than  touch  of  invisible  wings, 

The  spell  of  her  presence  around  mo  seems  shed. 

And  now  while  this  faded  bud  in  my  palm 

Grows  dim  in  the  darkness,  and  still  is  dear. 
All  over  my  sorrow  is  sprinkled  a  balm 

From  the  depth  of  a  heavenly  atmosphere. 
A  hand  long  vani.shed  I  seem  to  hold  ; 

The  years  their  glory  of  dreams  restore  : 
I  see  a  face  that  can  never  grow  old. 

And  life  looks  large  on  the  other  shore. 


iUovtimcr  Collins. 

Born  at  Plymouth,  England,  1827,  Collins  died  0876) 
in  his  forty-ninth  year,  the  victim  of  excessive  literary 
labor.  He  was  the  autiior  of  fourteen  moderately  suc- 
cessful novels;  and,  in  poetry,  of  "Idyls  and  Rhymes" 
(ISS.'j),  "Summer  Songs"  (1800),  "Inn  of  Strange  Meet- 
ings" (1871),  "Tlie  British  Birds"  (1872).  He  was  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  Punch  and  other  prosperous  peri- 
odicals. "  I  wholly  agree,"  lie  writes,  "iu  the  great  s^y- 
iw^,  Labor  are  est  orare :  I  adA,  Laborare  est  vivere."    Again 


MORTIMER   COLLINS. 


817 


he  writes :  "  I  should  grow  very  weary  of  life  if  I  did  not 
feel  that  I  had  God  for  frieud."  His  marriage  was  an 
exceptionally  happy  one.  He  not  only  wrote  poetry, 
bnt  made  life  a  poem.  Says  one  of  his  friends:  "He 
rejoiced  in  diffusing  gladness;  was  intensely  gentle  and 
tender,  and  peculiarly  sensitive  to  kindness."  By  intui- 
tion he  seemed  to  have  a  thorough  faith  in  God  and  a 
future  life.  Ilis  writings  indicate  a  highly  poetical  tem- 
perament, and  he  preserved  his  intellectual  vigor  and 
kindly  nature  to  the  last. 


FIRST    OF  APRIL,  1876. 

Now,  if  to  be  an  April-fool 

Is  to  delight  in  the  song  of  the  thrush, 
To  long  for  the  swallow  in  air's  blue  hollow, 

Anil  the  nightingale's  riotous  niusic-gnsh, 
And  to  paint  a  vision  of  cities  Elysiau 

Out  away  in  the  snnset-flnsh — 
Then  I  grasp  my  flagou  and  swear  thereby, 
We  are  April-fools,  uiy  Loa'b  and  I. 

And  if  to  be  an  April-fool 

Is  to  feel  contempt  for  iron  and  gold, 
For  the  shallow  fame  at  which  most  men  aim— 

And  to  turn  from  worldlings  cruel  and  cold 
To  God  in  His  splendor,  loving  and  tender. 

And  to  bask  in  His  presence  manifold — 
Then  by  all  the  stars  in  His  infinite  sky, 
AYe  are  April-fools,  my  Love  and  I. 


IN  VIEW   OF  DEATH. 

No:   I  shall  pass  into  the  Morning  Lund 
As  now  from  sleep  into  the  life  of  uunn  ; 
Live  the  new  life  of  the  new  world,  unshorn 

Of  the  swift  brain,  the  executing  hand  ; 

See  the  dense  darkness  suddenly  withdrawn. 
As  when  Orion's  sightless  eyesdiscei-ned  the  dawn. 

I  shall  behold  it :   I  shall  see  the  utter 

Glory  of  sunrise  heretofore  unseen. 

Freshening   the    woodland    ways   with    brighter 
green, 
And  calling  into  life  all  wings  that  flutter, 

All  throats  of  music  and  all  eyes  of  light, 

And  driving  o'er  the  verge  the  intolerable  night. 

O  virgin  world !   O  marvellous  far  daj's ! 

No  more  with  dreams  of  grief  doth  love  grow 

bitter. 
Nor  trouble  dim  the  lustre  wont  to  glitter 
In  happy  eyes.     Decay  alone  decays : 
52 


A  moment — death's  dull  sleep  is  o'er;  and  we 
Drink  the  immortal  morning  air  Eiirind. 


THE  POSITIVISTS. 

Life  and  the  universe  show  spontaneity  : 
Dowu  with  ridiculous  notious  of  Deity, 

Churches  and  creeds  are  all  lost  in  the  mists; 

Truth  must  be  sought  with  the  Positivists. 

Wise  are  their  teachers  beyond  all  comparison, 
Comte,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Mill,  Morley,  and  Harrison  : 
Who  will  adventure  to  enter  the  lists 
With  such  a  squadron  of  Positivists  ? 

Social  arrangements  are  awful  miscarriages  ; 
Cause  of  all  crime  is  our  system  of  marriages. 

Poets  with  sonnets  and  lovers  with  trysts 

Kiudle  the  ire  of  the  Positivists. 

Husbands  and  wives  should  be  all  one  community. 
Exquisite  freedom  with  absolute  unity. 

Wedding-rings  worse  are  than  manacled  wrists. 
Such  is  the  creed  of  the  Positivists. 

There  was  an  ape  in  the  days  that  are  earlier; 

Centuries  passed,  aud  his  hair  became  curlier; 
Centuries  more  gave  a  thumb  to  his  wrist — 
Then  he  was  Max, — and  a  Positivist. 

It'  you  are  pious  (mild  form  of  insanity), 
Bow  down  and  worship  the  mass  of  humanity. 
Other  religions  are  buried  in  mists  : 
"  We're  our  own  gods !"  say  the  Positivists. 


COLLINS'S  LAST  VERSES. 

I  have  been  sitting  alone 

All  day  while  the  clouds  went  by, 

Wliile  moved  the  strength  of  the  .seas, 
While  a  wind  with  a  will  of  his  own, 

A  Poet  out  of  the  sky. 

Smote  the  gi'een  harp  of  the  trees. 

Alone,  yet  not  alone, 

For  I  felt,  as  the  gay  wind  whirled, 

As  the  cloudy  sky  grew  clear. 
The  touch  of  our  Father  half-known, 

Who  dwells  at  the  heart  of  the  world, 

Yet  who  is  always  here. 


818 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAN  POETRY. 


illrs.  (!:tljcl  £jiuu  Beers. 

AMERICAN. 

Etlicliiula  Elliott  (1837-187!))  was  born  and  educated 
in  Goshen,  Orange  Count}',  N.  J.  She  began  to  write  for 
llic  weekly  and  monthly  periodicals  under  the  pscudo- 
nynie  of  Ethel  Lynn,  whicli  she  retained  after  her  mar- 
riage. A  volume  of  poems  from  her  pen  appeared  short- 
ly before  her  death.  Her  poem  of  "The  Picket-guard," 
whieli  first  appeared  in  Harper's  TlecA-/*/,  November,  1801, 
was  afterward  claimed,  erroneously  it  would  seem,  for 
Major  Lamar  Fontaine  of  Texas.  It  also  appeared  in 
"The  War  Poetry  of  the  South,"  edited  by  William  Gil- 
more  Simms.  In  a  private  letter  ^Irs.  Beers  wrote :  "  The 
poor  '  Picket '  has  liad  so  many  '  authentic '  claimants  and 
willing  sponsors,  that  I  sometimes  question  myself  wheth- 
er I  did  really  write  it  that  cool  September  morning  af- 
ter reading  the  stereotyped  announcement,  'AH  quiet,' 
etc.,  to  which  was  added  in  small  type,  'A  picket  shot!'  " 


THE   PICKET-GUARD. 

'•.\11  quiet  along  tlie  Potomac,"  tliey  say, 

"Excej)t  uow  ami  then  a  stray  picket 
Ls  shot,  as  be  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro. 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing — a  j)iivate  or  two,  uow  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men. 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  (juiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

"Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  antun)n  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tronnilons  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Thi'ough  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  croejiing  ; 
While  stars  up  above,  w  ith  fluir  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard — for  tiie  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread. 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain. 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trnndle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim. 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, — 

For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her! 

Tlie  moon  seems  to  shine  Just  a.s  brightly  as  then. 

That  night,  when  tlie  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lijis — when  low-murmnred  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  oft'  tears  that  are  welling, 


And  gathers  his  gun  clo.scr  up  to  its  place. 
As  if  to  keep  (h)wn  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  foiinlain,  the  blasted  pine-tree — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light. 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

AVas  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle — "Ah!   Mary,  good-bye !" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  I'otomac  tu-uight, 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 
The  picket's  oft'  duty  forever ! 


(^bgar  ^Ifrclr  BoiDring. 

A  son  of  Sir  John  Bowring,  himself  a  poet,  hymn-writ- 
er, and  translator,  Edgar  (born  in  England  about  1827) 
has  made  translations  from  Goethe  and  other  German 
poets. 


WHAT  SONGS   ARE   LIKE. 

After  Goetue. 

Songs  are  like  painted  w  indow-panes  : 
In  darkness  wrapped,  the  Church  remains, 
If  from  the  market-place  we  view  it  : 
Thus  sees  the  ignoramus  through  it. 
No  wonder  that  he  deems  it  tame, — 
And  all  his  life  'twill  be  the  same. 

But  let  us  now  inside  repair. 

And  greet  the  holy  Cliapel  there ! 

At  once  the  whole  seems  clear  and  bright. 

Each  ornament  is  bathed  in  light. 

And  fraught  with  meaning  to  the  sight. 

(iod's  children!   thus  your  fortune  prize, 

Be  edified,  and  feast  your  eyes. 


YOUTH    AND  AGE. 

From  Goethe,  JEt.  77. 

When  I  was  still  a  youtlil'nl  wight, 
So  full  of  enjoyment  and  merry. 

The  painters  used  to  assert  in  spite. 
That  my  features  were  small — yes,  very 

Yet  then  full  many  a  beauteous  child 

With  true  affection  upon  me  smiled. 


EDGAR  ALFRED  BOWRIXG.—ROSE   TERRY  COOKE. 


819 


Now  as  ;i  giaybeaixl  I  sit  hero  in  state, 
By  street  aud  by  laue  held  in  awe,  sirs ; 

And  may  bo  seen,  like  old  Frederick  the  Great, 
On  pipcbowls,  on  cnps,  and  on  saucers. 

Yet  the  beauteous  maidens,  they  keep  afur ; 

O  vision  of  youth!     O  golden  star! 


l1os£  ^crrji  dlooke. 


AMERICAN. 

Rose  Terry  was  born  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  February 
ITtli,  1S:2~,  aud  educated  in  that  city  at  the  Female  Sem- 
inary. After  lier  marriage  she  became  a  resident  of  Win- 
sted,  Litchfield  County,  Conn.  In  the  early  days  of  tlie 
.f??((/(?ic'J/o;(?/(?;/ she  contributed  to  its  pages  many  graph- 
ic and  amusing  sketches  of  rural  life  in  New  England.  In 
1801  she  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  Boston.  She  is 
one  of  the  genuine  warblers,  whose  songs  are  not  so  much 
artificial  products  as  they  are  the  melodious  expression 
of  some  heart-felt  thouirht  or  emotion. 


TRAILIXG   AEBUTUS. 

Darlings  of  the  forest! 

Blossoming  alone 
When  Earth's  grief  is  sorest 
For  her  jewels  gone — 
Ya-q  the  last   snow  -  drift   melts,  your  tender  buds 
have  blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 

Like  the  morning  sky. 
Or  more  pale  aud  saintly. 

Wrapped  iu  leaves  ye  lie, 
Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith's  simplicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-roliin 

Hymns  yonr  solitude. 
And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
Through  the  budding  wood, 
Wliile  the  low  south  wind  sighs,  but  dare  not  be 
more  rude. 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 

Out  of  air  aud  dew  : 
Starlight  unimpassioued, 
Dawn's  most  tender  hue — 
And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gathered  sweets  for 
you? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  woi-ld  apart, 


Made  for  beauty  only, 

Veiled  from  Nature's  heart. 
With  such  unconscious  grace  as  makes  tlio  dream 
of  Art ! 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 

An  immortal  shade. 
Then  would  I  to-morrow 
Such  a  flower  be  made. 
And  live  in  the  dear  woods  where  my  lost  childhood 
played. 


INDOLENCE. 

Indolent!   indolent!   yes,  I  am  indolent. 
So  is  the  grass  growing  tenderly,  slowly; 
So  is  the  violet  fragrant  aud  lowly. 

Drinking  in  quietness,  peace,  and  content ; 

So  is  the  bird  on  the  light  branches  swinging. 
Idly  his  carol  of  gratitude  singing. 

Only  on  living  and  loving  intent. 

Indolent!   indolent!  yes,  I  am  indolent! 

So  is  the  cloud  overhanging  the  mountain  ; 

So  is  the  tremulous  wave  of  a  fountain. 
Uttering  softly  its  silvery  psalm. 

Nerve  and  sensation  in  quiet  reposing. 

Silent  as  blossoms  the  night  dew  is  closing, 
But  the  full  heart  beating  strongly  and  calm. 

Indolent!    indolent!  yes,  I  am  indolent. 
If  it  be  idle  to  gather  my  pleasure 
Out  of  creation's  uncoveted  treasjire, 

Midnight  aud  morning,  by  forest  and  sea, 
Wild  with  the  tempest's  sublime  exultation, 
Lonely  in  Autumn's  forlorn  lamentation. 

Hopeful  and  happy  with  Spring  and  the  bee. 

Indolent!   indolent!   are  ye  not  indolent? 

Thralls  of  the  eai'th,  and  its  usages  weary ; 

Toiling  like  gnomes  where  the  darkuess  is  dreary, 
Toiling  and  sinning,  to  heap  up  your  gold! 

Stifling  the  heavenward  breath  of  devotion  ; 

Crushing  the  freshness  of  every  emotion  ; 
Hearts  like  the  dead  which  are  pulseless  aud  cold ! 

Indolent!    indolent!   art  thou  not  indolent f 
Thou  who  art  living  unloving  and  lonely, 
Wrapiied  in  a  pall  that  will  Qover  thee  ouly, 

Shrouded  in  selfishness,  piteous  ghost! 

Sad  eyes  behold  thee,  and  angels  are  weeping 
O'er  thy  forsaken  and  desolate  sleeping  ; 

Art  thou  not  indolent  ? — Art  thou  not  lost  ? 


820 


CTCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


iJoljn  (LoiunsciiLi  ^roiubviLiiic. 

AMERICAN. 

Trowbridge  was  born  in  Oudcii,  N.  Y.,  in  18:37.  lie  re- 
ceived II  }^ood  comniou  selioul  education,  but  was  largely 
self-taught — mastering  the  Latin,  French,  and  German 
languages.  He  went  to  New  York  in  184G,  applied  him- 
self to  literature,  encountered  gallantly  some  of  the  ex- 
periences of  tlic  unknown  and  impecunious  author,  re- 
moved to  Boston  in  1850,  wrote  "  Father  Bright  Hopes," 
a  story  for  the  young,  tlicn  several  novels  wliich  had  a 
good  sale:  he  contributed  largely  to  the  leading  mag- 
azines, published  "The  Emigrant's  Story,  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1875;  and  "The  Book  of  Gold,  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1877.  lie  is  also  the  author  of  "Guy  Brown," 
a  novelette  in  verse,  published  in  "The  Masque  of  tlie 
Poets"  (Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  187S);  and  of  some 
half-dozen  successful  stories  for  tiic  young.  It  is  in  his 
poetry  tliat  Trowbridge  excels.  "  The  Vagabonds  "  has 
been  neatly  illustrated  by  Darley.  It  is  one  of  the  happy 
hits  that  are  not  soon  forgotten. 


BEYOND. 

From  her  own  fair  dominions, 
Long  since,  with  shorn  ])inions, 
My  spirit  was  banislied  : 
But  ahove  her  still  hover,  in  vigils  and  dreams, 
Ethereal  visitants,  voices,  and  gleams. 
That  forever  remind  her 
Of  something  behind  her 
Long  vanished. 

Throngh  the  listening  night, 
With  mysterious  flight, 

Pass  those  winged  intimations: 
Like  stars  shot  from  heaven,  tlieir  still  voices  fall 

to  me  ; 
Ear  and  departing,  they  signal  and  call  to  me, 
Strangely  beseeching  me, 
Chiding,  yet  tcacliing  nio 
Patience. 

Then  at  limes,  oh!   at  times, 
To  their  luminous  climes 

I  pursue  as  a  swallow  I 
To  the  river  of  Peace,  and  its  solacing  shades, 
To  the  liaunts  of  my  lost  ones,  in  heavenly  glades. 
With  strong  as])irations 
Their  pinion.s',  vibrations 
I  follow. 

O  heart!   be  thou  jiatient! 
Though  here  I  am  stationed 


A  season  in  durance, 
The  chain  of  the  world  I  will  cheerfully  wear; 
For,  sp.inning  my  soul  like  a  rainbow,  I  bear, 
Witii  the  yoke  of  my  lowly 
Condition,  a  lioly 
Assurance,  — 

That  never  in   vain 
Does  the  spirit  maintain 

Her  eternal  allegiance  : 
Though  suffering  and  yearning,  like  Infancy  learning 
Its  lesson,  we  linger;   then  skyward  returning. 
On  plumes  fully  grown 
We  depart  to  our  own 
Native  regions ! 


THE  VAGABONDS. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger's  my  dog — come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentleman — mind  your  eye! 

Over  the  table— look  out  for  the  lamp ! 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five    years   we've   tramped    through    wind    and 
weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  wore  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank  and  starved  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you — 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow  ! 

Tlie  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(Tiiis  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Tlieu  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

•And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings. 

No,  thank  yc,  sir — I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  ami  I  are  exceediugly  moral. 
Aren't  we,  Roger? — see  him  wink! 

Well,  something  hot,  then — we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too — see  him  nod  his  head  : 

What  a  pity,  sii",  that  dogs  can't  talk! 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said. 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  sir!)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets 


JOHN  TOWNSEND   TIIOWBIUDGE.— JULIAN  FANE. 


821 


And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  ami  gin, 

He'll  follow  -while  he  has  eyes  iu  his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 

Wonlcl  tlo  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master! 
N(),  sir — see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !   it  makes  my  old  eyes  water! 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  uo  matter. 

We'll  have  some  music  if  you're  willing, 

And  Koger  (hem  !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir  !) 
Shall  march  a  little.     Start,  yoii  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !  'Bout  face  !  Salute  your  officer  ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !     Dress  !     Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  yon  see  !)  Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentleman  gives  a  trifle 

To  aid  a  jioor  old  patriot  soldier. 

March  !     Halt !     Now  show  how  the  rebel  sliakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  ns  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps — that's  five;   he's  mighty  knowing. 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses ! 
Quick,  sir!   I'm  ill — my  brain  is  going! 

Some  brandy — tliauk  you — there!   it  passes! 

Why  not  reform  ?     That's  easilj'  said  ; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread. 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to.  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love —     But  I  took  to  drink — 

The  same  old  story ;  you  know  bow  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features — 

You  needn't  laugh,  sir;   they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  I 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young. 
Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast. 

If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

Wheu  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have 
guessed 


Tliat  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door  \\  ith  fiddle  and  dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog. 

She's  married  since — a  parson's  wife  ; 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her!     Once.     I  was  weak  and  spent; 

On  the  dust3'  road  a  carriage  stopped, 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped ! 

You've  set  me  to  talking,  sir ;   I'm  sorry ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing?     You  find  it  strange? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before — ■     Do  yon  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain,  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep  if  he  could, 

No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were^ 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food. 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now ;  that  glass  was  warming — 

You  rascal,  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  iu  the  street. 
Not  a  A'ery  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soou  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink — 

The  sooner  tlie  better  for  Roger  and  me! 


Sulian  Jane. 

Julian  Charles  Henry  Fane  (1827-lSTO),  a  nalivc  of 
Loudon,  was  "a  poet,  a  musician,  a  linguist,  a  diploma- 
tist, an  eloquent  speaker,  a  wit,  a  mimic,  a  dcligiitful 
talker."  So  says  Mr.  John  Dennis,  a  contemporary  man 
of  letters.  In  conjunction  with  his  friend  Edward  Robert 
Bulwer  (afterward  Lord  Lytton),  Fane  published  "Tann- 
hauser;  or,  tlie  Battle  of  the  Bards— a  Poem"  (1861). 
He  had  previously  published  (18.52)  a  volume  of  poems, 
a  second  edition  of  which,  with  additional  notes,  appear- 
ed in  18.53.  His  Sonnets  to  his  Mother  (Ad  Matrem)  are 
remarkable  specimens  of  this  form  of  composition,  al- 


822 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


thoufjli  framed  after  the  Sliakspearian  model.  A  Life  of 
Fane  was  iiublislied  (1871)  by  Lord  Lytton,  wlio  says  of 
tlie  two  sonnets,  dated  1870 :  "  On  the  eveninj^  of  the  12th 
of  Mareh,  1870,  liis  pliysieal  sufl'erinj:  was  exeessive.  The 
following  day  was  the  birthday  of  his  mother."  She 
found  what  she  "  dared  not,  eould  not  antieipatc."  There 
lay  upon  the  table  a  letter  with  the  two  sonnets.  "  They 
are  tiie  last  words  ever  written  by  Julian  Fane.  But 
this  jjolden  chain  of  votive  verse  *  *  *  was  not  broken 
till  life  itself  had  left  the  hand  that  wrought  it." 


AD    MATREM. 

MARCH  13,  1862. 

Oft  ill  tlio  after-days,  when  tlion  and  I 
Have  fallen  from  the  scope  of  Ininiaii  view, 
When,  both  together,  under  the  sweet  sky 
We  sleep  beneath  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
Men  will  reeall  thy  gracious  presence  bland, 
Conning  the  pictured  sweetness  of  thy  face  ; 
Will  pore  o'er  paintings  by  thy  plastic  liand, 
And  vaunt  thy  skill,  and  tell  thy  deeds  of  grace. 
Oh  may  they  then,  who  crown  thee  with  true  bays. 
Saying,  "  What  love  unto  her  son  she  bore !" 
Make  this  addition  to  thy  perfect  praise, 
"Nor  ever  yet  was  mother  worshipped  more!" 
So  shall  I  live  with  thee,  and  thy  dear  fame 
Siiall  link  my  love  unto  thine  honored  name. 


AD     MA/rREM. 

M.MiClI  13,  18G4. 

Music,  and  frankincense  of  Howcrs,  belong 

To  this  sweet  festival  of  all  the  year. 

Take,  then,  the  latest  blossom  of  my  song. 

And  to  Love's  canticle  incline  thine  ear. 

What  is  ifc  that  Love  chants?  thy  perfect  praise. 

What  is  it  that  Love  prays  ?   worthy  to  ])rove. 

What  is  it  Love  desires  ?   tliy  length  of  days. 

What  is  it  that  Love  a.sks  ?   return  of  love. 

Ah,  what  requital  can  Love  ask  more  dear 

Than  by  Love's  priceless  self  to  bo  repaid  ? 

Thy  liberal  love,  increasing  year  Ijy  year, 

Hath  granted  more  than  all  my  heart  hath  prayed, 

And,  prodigal  as  Nature,  makes  nie  i)ine 

To  think  how  jioor  my  love  compared  witli  thine! 


AD    MATREM 
M.\RCII  13,  1870. 


AVhen    all    things   sweet    and   fair  are   cloaked   in 

shrouds. 
And  dire  calamity  and  care  have  birth  ; 
When  furious  tempests  strip  the  woodland  green, 
And  from  bare  boughs  the  hapless  songsters  sing; 
When  Winter  stalks,  a  spectre,  on  the  scene. 
And  breathes  a  blight  on  every  living  thing; 
Then,  when  the  spirit  of  man,  by  sickness  tried. 
Half  fears,  half  hopes,  that  Death  be  at  his  side, 
Outleaps  the  sun,  and  gives  him  life  again. 
O  Mother,  I  clasped  Death  ;   but,  seeing  thy  face, 
Leaped  from  his  dark  arms  to  thy  dear  embrace.' 


Pautc  (f?abricl  Uossctti. 

Rossetti  was  born  in  London  in  1828;  the  son  of  Mr. 
Gabriel  Rossetti  (178:3-1854),  Professor  of  Italian  at  King's 
College,  and  author  of  a  Commentary  on  Dante.  A  poet, 
Rossetti  is  also  an  artist,  and  one  of  the  originators  of 
the  so-called  Pre-Raphaelite  school  of  painting.  He 
published  in  1870  a  volume  of  poems;  also  a  work  on 
the  early  Italian  poets.  Mr.  Stedman,  in  his  "  Victorian 
Poets,"  says  of  him  :  "  He  approaches  Tennyson  in  sim- 
plicity, purity,  and  richness  of  tone.  His  verse  is  com- 
pact of  tenderness,  emotional  ecstasy,  and  poetic  Pre." 


LOST   DAYS:    SONNET. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay  ? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
Tiio  throats  of  men  in  Hell,  who  thirst  alway  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  here ;    but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 
Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath  : 
"  I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  mo  ?" 
"And  I — and  I — thyself"  (lo  !   each  one  saith), 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  I" 


When  the  vast  heaven  is  dark  with  ominous  clonds, 
That  lower  their  gloomful  faces  to  the  earth ; 


FROM  '-THE   rORTRAIT." 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was: 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 

As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 
Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 

I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 

Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

'  It  will  be  remarked  that  this  sounet  has  but  thirteen  liues 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI.— CLARENCE  COOK. 


823 


That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 

To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart : — 
Ami  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 
Alas !   even  such  the  thiu-drawu  ray 

That  makes  the  prisou-depths  more  rude, — 
The  drip  of  water  night  aud  day 

Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 
Yet  tliis,  of  all  love's  perfect  prize 
Kemains  :   save  what  in  mournful  guise 

Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone; 

Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 
Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 


Clarence  Cook. 


A  native  of  Dorchester,  now  a  part  of  Boston,  Mass., 
Cook  was  born  September  8th,  1828.  He  was  fitted  for 
Harvard  College,  which  he  entered,  and  was  duly  gradu- 
ated. As  a  writer  on  art  and  kindred  subjects,  he  has 
won  well-raerited  distinction.  His  residence  is  tlie  city 
of  New  York.  His  poems  are  scattered  througli  tlie 
magazines,  but  are  well  worthy  of  being  collected  into 
a  volume.  His  "Abram  and  Zimri"  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  narrative  poems  in  the  language. 


ABRAM   AND   ZIMRI. 

Ahram  and  Zimri  owned  a  field  together — 

A  level  field  hid  in  a  happy  vale  ; 

They   ploughed    it    with    one    plough,  and    in    the 

sj)ring 
Sowed,  walking  side  by  side,  the  fruitful  seed. 
In  harvest,  when  the  glad  earth  smiles  with  grain, 
Each  carried  to  his  home  one-half  the  sheaves. 
And  stored  them  with  much  labor  in  his  barns. 
Now  Abram  had  a  wife  aud  seven  sons, 
But  Zinu'i  dwelt  alone  withiu  his  house. 

One  night,  before  the  sheaves  were  gathered  in. 
As  Zimri  lay  upon  his  lonely  bed 
And  counted  in  his  mind  his  little  gains. 
He  tlmnglit  upon  his  brother  Abram's  lot, 
And  said,  "I  dwell  alone  witliin  my  house, 
But  Abram  hath  a  wife  and  seven  sons, 
And  yet  wo  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 
He  surely  needeth  more  for  life  than  I ; 
I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Down  to  the  field,  and  add  to  his  from  mine." 

So  he  arose,  aud  girded  up  his  loins, 
Aud  went  out  softly  to  the  level  field ; 
The  moon  shone  out  from  dusky  bars  of  clouds, 
The  trees  stood  black  against  the  cold  blue  sky, 
The  branches  waved  and  whispered  in  the  wind. 


So  Zimri,  guided  by  the  shifting  light, 
"Went  down  the  mountain  patli,  and  found  the  field, 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 
And  bore  them  gladly  to  his  brother's  heap, 
And  then  went  back  to  sleep  aud  happy  dreams. 

Now,  that  same  night,  as  Abram  lay  in  bed, 
Tliinking  upon  his  blissful  state  in  life. 
He  thought  upon  his  brother  Zimri's  lot. 
And  said,  "He  dwells  within  his  house  alone, 
He  goeth  forth  to  toil  with  few  to  help, 
He  goeth  home  at  night  to  a  cold  house, 
And  hath  few  other  friends  but  me  and  mine" 
(For  these  two  tilled  the  happy  vale  alone) ; 
"  While  I,  whom  Heaven  hath  very  greatly  blessed, 
Dwell  happy  with  my  wife  aud  seven  sous, 
Who  aid  me  in  my  toil  and  make  it  light, 
And  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike. 
This  surely  is  not  pleasing  unto  God; 
I  will  arise  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Out  to  the  field,  and  borrow  from  my  store. 
And  add  unto  my  brother  Zimri's  pile." 

So  he  arose  and  girded  up  his  loins. 
And  went  down  softly  to  the  level  field  ; 
The  moon  shone  out  from  silver  bars  of  clouds. 
The  trees  stood  black  against  the  starry  skj-. 
The  dark  leaves  waved  aud  whispered  in  the  breeze. 
So  Abram,  guided  by  the  doubtful  light, 
Passed  down  the  mountain  path  and  found  the  field, 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third. 
And  added  them  unto  his  brother's  heap ; 
Tlien  he  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

So  the  next  moruiug  with  the  early  sun 
The  brothers  rose,  and  went  out  to  their  toil ; 
And  when  they  came  to  see  the  heavy  sheaves, 
Each  wondered  in  his  heart  to  find  his  heap. 
Though  he  had  given  a  third,  was  still  the  same. 

Now  the  next  night  went  Zimri  to  the  field. 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  share 
And  placed  them  on  his  brother  Abram's  heap, 
Aud  then  lay  down  behind  his  pile  to  watch. 
The  moon  looked  out  from  bars  of  silvery  cloud. 
The  cedars  stood  up  black  against  the  sky. 
The  olive-branches  whispered  in  the  wind: 
Tiien  Abram  came  down  softly  from  his  home, 
And,  looking  to  the  right  and  left,  went  on, 
Took  from  his  ample  store  a  generous  third. 
And  laid  it  on  his  bi'other  Zimri's  pile. 
Then  Zimri  rose  and  caught  him  in  liis  arms. 
And  wept  upon  his  neck,  aud  kissed  his  cheek. 
And  Abram  saw  the  whole,  and  could  not  speak. 
Neither  could  Zimri.     So  thej"  walked  along 
Back  to  their  homes,  and  thanked  their  God  in  prayer 
That  he  had  bound  tliem  in  such  loving  bands. 


824 


CYCLOP JiDI A    OF  liRlTLSlI  AM)   AMKlilCAN  rOETIiV. 


lUalter  ^Ijoruburp. 


Tlionibury  (1828-1876)  was  the  son  of  u  London  solic- 
itor, and  by  baptism  his  lirst  name  was  George,  which 
lie  dropped.  His  poetical  woiks  were:  "Lays  and  Le- 
gends of  the  New  World,"  1851 ;  "  Songs  of  Cavaliers  and 
Roundheads,"  1857;  and  "Historical  and  Legeiidary  Bal- 
lads and  Songs,"  1875.  He  was  the  author  of  some  six 
or  seven  novels,  and  was  for  some  years  art-critic  to  the 
Athenwurn.  As  a  tourist,  he  wrote  "Experiences  in  the 
United  States,"  also  "Life  in  Turkey."  He  toiled  on 
till  within  a  few  days  of  his  death,  which  came  suddenly  ; 
the  result  of  over-brain-work. 


HOW   SIR  RICHARD  DIED. 

Stalely  as  bridegroom  to  a  feast 
Sir  Richard  trod  tbo  scaffold  stair, 

And,  bowing  to  tbe  crowd,  untied 
The  love-locks  from  bis  sable  bair; 

Took  off  bis  watcb,  "Give  that  to  Ned, 

I've  done  witb  time,"  be  proudly  said. 

'Twa.s  bitter  cold — it  made  bim  shake. 

Said  one — "  Ah  !  see  tbe  villain's  look !" 
Sir  Ricliard,  witb  a  scornful  frown. 

Cried,  "  Frost,  uot  fear,  my  body  sliook  !" 
Giving  a  gold-piece  to  tbe  slave, 
He  laugbed,  "Now  praise  ine,  master  knave!" 

Tbcy  pointed,  witb  a  sneering  smile. 
Unto  a  black  box,  long  and  grim; 

But  uo  wbito  sbroud,  or  badge  of  death, 
Had  power  to  draw  a  tear  from  bim  ; 

"It  needs  no  lock,"  be  said  in  jest, 

"Tliis  chamber  wbcre  to-nigbt  I  rest." 

Tlien  crying  ont — "God  save  tbo  King!'' 
In  spite  of  liiss  and  shout  and  frown  ; 

Ho  stripped  bis  doublet,  dropped  bis  cbvik, 
And  gave  tbe  beadsman's  man  a  crown  ; 

Tlien  "On  for  beaven !"  bo  proudly  cried. 

And  bowed  liis  bead — and  so  be  died. 


THE  OLD  GRENADIER'S  STORY. 

TOLD    ON    A    BEXCII    OUTSIDE    THE    IN'V.\L1DES. 

'Twas  tbe  day  beside  tbe  Pyramids, — 

It  seems  but  an  bour  ago, 
That  Kleber's  Foot  stood  firm  in  siinarcs, 

Returning  blow  for  blow. 
The  Mamelukes  were  tossing 

Their  standards  to  tbe  sky, 
When  I  beard  a  cbild's  voice  say,  "My  men, 

Teacli  me  the  way  to  die!" 


'Twas  a  little  drummer,  witb  bis  side 

Torn  terribly  with  shot ; 
But  still  be  feebly  beat  bis  drum, 

As  tbougb  tbe  wound  were  not. 
Aud  wben  tbe  Mameluke's  wild  borse 

Burst  with  a  scream  aud  cry. 
He  said,  "  O  men  of  tbe  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die! 

"My  mother  bas  got  other  sons, 

Witb  stouter  bearts  than  mine, 
But  none  more  ready  blood  for  France 

To  pour  out  free  as  wine. 
Yet  still  life's  sweet,"  tbe  brave  lad  moaned, 

"  Fair  are  this  earth  and  sky  ; 
Then,  comrades  of  tbe  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die .'" 

I  saw  Saleuche,  of  tlie  granite  heart, 

Wiping  his  burning  eyes  : 
It  was  by  far  more  pitiful 

Than  mere  loud  sobs  and  cries. 
One  bit  bis  cartridge  till  bis  lip 

Grew  black  as  winter  sky. 
But  still  the  boy  moaned,  "Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  tcay  to  die !" 

Ob  never  saw  I  sight  like  that! 

The  sergeant  flung  down  flag. 
Even  the  lifer  bound  bis  brow 

With  a  wet  and  bloody  rag; 
Then  looked  at  locks,  and  fixed  their  steel, 

But  never  made  reply. 
Until  he  sobbed  out  once  again, 

"  T'each  me  the  tvay  to  die !" 

Tlicn,  with  a  shout  that  flew  to  God, 

Tiioy  strode  into  tbo  fray; 
I  saw  their  red  plumes  join  and  wave, 

But  slowly  melt  away. 
The  last  who  went — a  wounded  man — 

Bade  the  poor  boy  good-bye, 
And  said,  "We  men  of  the  Forty-third 

Teach  you  the  way  to  die .'" 

I  never  saw  so  sad  a  look 

As  the  poor  youngster  cast, 
When  the  hot  smoke  of  cannon 

III  cloud  and  Mhirlwind  passed. 
Eartli  shook,  and  Heaven  answered : 

I  watched  his  eagle-eye. 
As  be  faintly  moaned,  "Tbe  Forty-third 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die !" 


WALTER   THORNBUBY.  — WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


825 


Then,  with  a  musket  for  a  crutch, 

He  limped  unto  the  fight ; 
I,  with  a  bullet  iu  my  hip, 

Had  neither  strength  uor  might. 
But,  proudlj'  beating  ou  his  drum, 

A  fever  iu  his  eye, 
I  heard  him  moan,  "The  Forty-third 

Taiiijht  ))ie  the  icai/  to  die!" 

They  found  him  ou  the  morrow, 

Stretched  ou  a  heap  of  dead ; 
His  haud  was  iu  the  grenadier's 

Who  at  his  bidding  bled. 
They  hung  a  medal  round  his  ueck, 

Aud  closed  his  dauutless  eye  ; 
Ou  the  stoue  they  cut,  "The  Forty-third 

Taught  him  the  ivay  to  die!" 

'Tis  forty  years  from  theu  till  uow — 

The  grave  gapes  at  my  feet — - 
Yet  wheu  I  think  of  such  a  boy, 

I  feel  my  old  heart  beat. 
Aud  from  my  sleep  I  sometimes  wake, 

Hearing  a  feeble  crj", 
Aud  a  voice  that  says,  "Now,  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die!" 


lUilliam  ^llingljam. 

Allingham  (1838- )   is  a  native  of  Ballysbannou, 

County  of  Donegal,  Ireland.  Removing  to  England,  he 
obtained  an  appointment  in  tlie  Customs.  His  publica- 
tions are:  "Poems,"  1850;  "Day  and  Night  Songs," 
1854;  "Laurence  Bloomfield  in  Ireland"  (a  poem  in 
twelve  chapters),  1864 ;  and  "Fifty  Modern  Poems," 
1865.  For  several  years  he  was  editor  of  Fvasef  s  2Ia(ja- 
zine,  but  retired  from  the  editorship  in  1879. 


SONG. 


O  Spirit  of  the  Summer-time ! 

Bring  back  the  roses  to  the  dells  ; 
Tiie  swallow  from  her  distaut  clime. 

The  honey-bee  from  drowsy  cells. 

Bring  back  the  friendship  of  the  sun  ; 

The  gilded  eveuings,  calm  and  late, 
Wheu  merry  children  homeward  run, 

Aud  iieeping  stars  bid  lovers  wait. 

Bring  back  the  singing ;   aud  the  scent 
Of  meadow-lands  at  dewy  prime  ; — 

Oh  bring  agaiu  my  heart's  content. 
Thou  Spirit  of  tlie  Summer-time ! 


THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a  Touchstone  iu  his  haud, 
Aud  tested  all  things  iu  the  land 

By  its  unerring  spelL 

A  thousand  transform atious  rose 

From  fair  to  foul,  from  funl  to  fair ; 
The  goldeu  crown  he  did  not  spare. 

Nor  scoru  the  beggar's  clothes. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 

AVere  mauj^  changed  to  chips  aud  clods ; 
And  even  statues  of  tlie  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Theu  augi'ily  the  people  cried, 

"The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are : 

We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

Aud,  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest. 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "Let  him  test 

How  real  is  our  jail!" 

But  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  iu  a  fire  his  Touchstone  burned. 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturued. 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm. 
They  strewed  its  ashes  ou  the  breeze. 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of  these 

Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 


AUTUMNAL  SONNET. 

Now  Autumn's  fire  burns  slowly  along  the  woods, 

And  day  by  day  the  dead  leaves  fall  aud  melt. 

And  night  by  night  the  monitory  blast 

Wails  iu  the  key-hole,  telling  liow  it  passed 

O'er  empty  fields,  or  upland  solitudes, 

Or  grim,  wide  wave ;  and  now  the  power  is  felt 

Of  melancholy,  tenderer  in  its  moods 

Thau  any  joy  indulgent  summer  dealt. 

Dear  friends,  together  iu  the  glimmering  eve, 

Peusive  and  glad,  with  tones  that  recognize 

The  soft  invisible  dew  in  each  one's  eyes, 

It  may  be,  somewhat  thus  we  shall  have  leave 

To  walk  with  memory,  when  distant  lies 

Poor  Earth,  where  Ave  were  wont  to  live  and  grieve. 


826 


CYCLOFJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(!?crali)  illassci). 

Massey  was  born  in  Hertfordshire,  England,  in  1828. 
Of  liuniblc  origin,  lie  fouglit  his  way  bravely  up  to  dis- 
tinction in  the  face  of  severe  difliculties.  lie  has  pub- 
lished several  volumes  both  in  i)rose  and  verse.  In  1875- 
'7G  he  lectured  in  the  United  States  ou  the  subject  of 
Spiritualism. 

LITTLE  WILLIE. 

Poor  little  Willie, 

With  bis  many  pretty  wiles ; 
Worlds  of  wisdom  iu  his  look, 

Ami  quaint,  quiet  smiles  ; 
Hair  of  amber  touched  with 

Gold  of  Ileaveu  so  brave ; 
All  lying  darkly  hid 

Iu  a  workhouse  grave. 

You  reuicmber  little  Willie, 

Fair  and  funny  fellow  !   he 
Sprang  like  a  lily 

From  the  dirt  of  poverty. 
Poor  little  Willie  ! 

Not  a  friend  was  nigh 
When  from  the  cold  world 

He  crouched  down  to  die. 
In  the  day  we  wandered  foodless, 

Little  Willie  cried  for  bread; 
In  the  night  wo  wandered  homeless, 

Little  Willie  cried  for  heel. 
Parted  at  the  workhouse  door. 

Not  a  word  wo  said  ; 
Ah!   so  tired  was  poor  Willie! 

And  so  sweetly  sleep  the  dead! 

'Twas  iu  the  dead  of  winter 

AVe  laid  him  in  the  earth  ; 
The  world  brought  in  the  new  year 

On  a  tide  of  mirth. 
But  for  lost  little  Willie 

Not  a  tear  we  crave ; 
C(dd  and  hnnger  cannot  wake  him 

In  his  workhouse  grave. 

Wo  thought  him  beantifnl, 

Felt  it  hard  to  part ; 
We  loved  him  dutiful : 

Down,  down,  poor  heart ! 
The  storms  they  may  beat, 

The  winter  winds  may  rave ; 
Little  Willie  feels  not 

In  his  workhouse  grave. 


No  room  for  little  Willie ; 

In  tho  Avorld  ho  had  no  iiart ; 
On  him  stared  the  Gorgou  eye 

Through  which  looks  no  heart. 
"  Come  to  me,"  said  Heaven  ; 

And  if  Heaven  will  save, 
Little  matters  though  the  door 

Be  a  Avorkhouse  grave. 


(George  illcrctiitlj. 

An  English  novelist  and  poet,  born  about  1828,  Mere- 
dith has  published  "Poems"  (18.51);  "Poems  and  Bal- 
lads" (18G2);  "  Beauchanip's  Career"  (1875);  "Poems 
of  the  English  Roadside,"  and  several  other  works — ex- 
hibiting his  marked  abilitj'  as  a  writer  both  iu  poetry 
and  prose.  Among  his  best  novels  are  "  Evan  Harring- 
ton" (1801)  and  "Rhoda  Fleming"  (18G5). 


LOVE   WITHIN  THE   LOVER'S   BREAST. 

Love  within  the  lover's  breast 
Burns  like  Hesper  in  the  West, 
O'er  tho  ashes  of  the  sun, 
Till  the  day  and  night  arc  done  ; 
Then  when  Dawn  drives  up  the  car — 
Lo !   it  is  the  morniug-star. 

Love  I   thy  love  pours  down  on  mine 

As  tho  sunlight  on  the  vine, 

As  the  snow-rill  on  the  vale, 

As  the  salt  breeze  on  the  sail ; 

As  tho  song  unto  the  bird 

Ou  my  lips  thy  name  is  heard. 

As  a  dew-drop  on  the  rose 

In  thy  heart  my  passion  glows; 

As  a  skylark  to  the  sky 

Up  into  thy  breast  I  Uy ; 

As  a  sea-shell  of  the  sea 

Ever  shall  I  sing  of  thee. 


AT  THE  GATE. 

Outside  the  open  gate  a  spirit  stood. 

One  called  :  "  Come  in  !''     Then  he :  "  Ah,  if  I  could  ! 

For  there  within  'tis  light  and  glorious, 

But  here  all  cold  and  darkness  dwell  with  us." 

"Then,"  said  the  other,  "  come — the  gate  is  wide!'' 

But  he  :  "  I  wait  two  angels  who  must  guide. 

I  cannot  come  unto  Theo  without  these; 

Repentance  first,  and  Faith  Thy  face  that  sees. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH.— ALBERT  LAIGHTON. 


827 


I  weep  and  call :   they  do  not  hear  my  voice  ; 
I  never  shall  within  the  gate  rejoice." 

"O  heart  unwise!"  the  voice  did  answer  him, 
"I  reign  o'er  all  the  hosts  of  seraphim. 
Are  not  these  angels  also  in  my  hand? 
If  they  come  not  to  thee,  'tis  my  command. 
The  darkness  chills  thee,  tumult  vexes  thee  ; 
Are  angels  more  than  I  ?     Come  in  to  me." 

Then  in  the  dark  and  restlessness  and  woe 
That  spirit  rose  and  through  the  gate  did  go, 
Trembling  because  no  angel  walked  before, 
Yet  by  the  voice  drawn  onward  evermore. 
So  came  he  weeping  where  the  glory  shone, 
And  fell  down  crying,  "  Lord,  I  come  alone !" 

"  And  it  was  thee  I  called,"  the  voice  replied  ; 
"  Be  welcome."     Then  Love  rose,  a  mighty  tide 
That  swept  all  else  away.     Speech  found  no  place, 
But  silence,  rapt,  gazed  up  unto  that  face  ; 
Nor  saw  two  angels  from  the  radiance  glide, 
And  take  their  place  forever  at  his  side. 


::7llbcrt  Caigljton. 


AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  Laighton  was  born  in 
1829.  He  was  for  some  time  employed  as  the  teller  of  a 
bank  in  his  native  town.  In  18.59  he  published  a  volume 
of  "  Poems,"  of  which  the  specimens  we  give  are  the  best 
commendation.  Another  edition  of  his  poems  appeared 
in  1878.  He  is  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter,  to  whom 
he  dedicates  his  last  volume. 


\ 


UNDER  THE   LEAVES. 

Oft  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths. 
Without  the  blessed  foreknowing 

That  underneath  the  withered  leaves 
The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 

To-day  the  south-wind  sweeps  away 
The  types  of  Autumn's  splendor. 

And  shows  the  sweet  arbutus  flowers, — 
Spring's  children,  pure  and  tender. 

O  prophet  flowers! — with  lips  of  bloom, 

Outvjiug  in  your  beauty 
The  pearly  tiuts  of  ocean  shells, — - 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty ! 

Walk  life's  dark  ways,  ye  seem  to  say. 
With  Love's  divine  foreknowing. 

That  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  the  sweet  flowers  growing. 


TO   MY   SOUL. 

Guest  from  a  holier  world, 
Oh,  tell  me  where  the  peaceful  valleys  lie! 
Dove  in  the  ark  of  life,  when  thou  slialt  fly. 

Where  will  thy  wings  be  furled? 

Where  is  thy  native  nest? 
Where  the  green  pastures  that  the  blessdd  roam  ? 
Impatient  dweller  in  thy  clay-built  home. 

Where  is  thy  heavenly  rest  ? 

On  some  immortal  shore, 
Some  realm  away  from  earth  and  time,  I  know, — 
A  land  of  bloom  where  living  waters  flow, 

And  grief  comes  nevermore. 

Faith  turns  my  eyes  above  ; 
Day  fills  with  floods  of  light  the  boundless  skies  ; 
Night  watches  calmly  with  her  starry  eyes 

All  tremulous  with  love. 

And,  as  entranced  I  gaze. 
Sweet  music  floats  to  me  from  distant  lyres ; 
I  see  a  temple  round  whose  golden  spires 

Unearthly  glory  plays. 

Beyond  those  azure  deeps 
I  fix  thy  home, — a  mansion  kept  for  thee 
Within  the  Father's  house,  whose  noiseless  key 

Kind  Death,  the  warder,  keeps  ! 


THE   DEAD. 

I  cannot  tell  you  if  the  dead. 
That  loved  us  fondly  when  on  earth. 
Walk  by  our  side,  sit  at  our  hearth. 

By  ties  of  old  aftection  led  ; 

Or,  looking  earnestly  within. 
Know  all  our  joys,  hear  all  our  sighs, 
And  watch  us  with  their  holy  eyes 

Whene'er  we  tread  the  paths  of  sin; 

Or  if  with  mystic  lore  and  sign, 
They  speak  to  us,  or  press  our  baud. 
And  strive  to  make  us  understand 

The  nearness  of  their  forms  divine  : 

But  this  I  know, — iu  many  dreams 
They  come  to  us, from  realms  afar, 
And  leave  the  golden  gates  ajar. 

Through  which  immortal  glorv  streams. 


828 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


C)« 


icnri)  ilimvoi). 

AMERICAN. 

Boni  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  in  1820,  Tiinrod  died  in  Co- 
lunibia,  S.  C,  in  1807.  In  his  brief  career  he  gave  tokens 
of  rare  poetical  powers,  which,  iflife  had  been  prolonj^ed, 
and  oppoitunities  had  been  more  favorable,  would  un- 
questionably have  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  con- 
teniporarj'  poets.  An  eloquent  and  touching?  memoir  of 
him  by  Paul  II.  Ilayne,  himself  a  true  poet,  was  publish- 
ed in  1873,  as  an  aeeompaniment  to  a  collection  of  Tim- 
rod's  poems.     See  the  lines  by  liis  father,  page  420. 


HARK  TO  THE   SHOUTING  WIND. 

Hark  to  the  .shouting  Wind ! 

Hark  to  the  flying  Raiu  ! 
And  I  care  not  though  I  never  see 

A  bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to-day 
That  are  not  for  human  speech  : 

But  I  hoar  them  in  the  driving  storm, 
And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And  oh  to  be  with  that  ship 

Tliat  I  watch  through  the  blinding  brine! 

0  Wind!  for  thy  sweep  of  land  and  sea! 
O  Sea!   for  a  voice  like  thine! 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  Wind, 

To  the  frightened  and  flying  Kain  ! 

1  care  not  though  I  never  see 
A  calm  blue  sky  again. 


ODE. 


Sang  on  the  occ.isioii  of  decoratiug  the  graves  of  the  Con- 
federate dead  at  Maguolia  Cemetery,  Charleston,  S.  C,  1807. 

Sloop  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth. 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !   your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


Small  tributes!    but  your  shades  will  smile 

More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 
Tlian  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 

Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Thau  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned! 


A  COMMON  THOUGHT. 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet, 
In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 

In  the  dew-drop,  in  the  sunshine. 
Sleeps  a  solenui  daj-  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness — hist !   oh,  hist ! 

In  a  dim  and  musky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away  ; 
Some  one  draAvs  a  curtain  softly, 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith. 
As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 

There's  a  hush  of  death  about  me. 
And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone !" 


FROM  "A  SOUTHERN    SPRING." 

Spring,  with  tliat  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Wliicli  dwells  with  all  things  fair; 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  raiu. 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 


HENRY  TIMEOD.— LIZZIE  DOTEN. 


829 


Save  where  the  imiple  reddens  on  the  hiwn, 
Fhished  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  v.'here,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 

The  brown  of  Autumu  corn. 

As  yet  the  tnrf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom. 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems, 
Appear  some  azure  gems. 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala-day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

lu  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 

The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green. 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pas? 
Along  the  budding  grass, 

And  weeks  go  by  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still,  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by. 
And.  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  jialace  gate 

Some   wondrous  pageant ;    and  you    scarce   would 

start. 
If  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
"  Behold  me !   I  am  May  !" 


SONNETS. 
I. 
Poet !   if  on  a  lasting  fame  be  bent 
Thy  uuperturbing  hopes,  thou  wilt  not  roam 
Too  far  from  thine  own  happy  heart  and  home ; 
Cling  to  the  lowly  earth,  and  be  content! 
So  shall  thy  name  be  dear  to  many  a  heart ; 


So  shall  the  noblest  truths  by  thee  be  taught  ; 
The  flower  and  fruit  of  wholesome  human  thought 
Bless  the  sweet  labors  of  thy  gentle  art. 
The  brightest  stars  are  nearest  to  the  earth, 
And  we  may  track  the  mighty  sun  above, 
Even  by  the  shadow  of  a  sleuder  flower. 
Always,  O  bard,  humility  is  power! 
And  thou  may'st  draw  from  matters  of  the  hearth 
Truths  wide  as  nations,  and  as  deep  as  love. 


I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature !  at  the  lot 

That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 

And  shut  me  from  thy  sweetest  sights  and  sounds. 

Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 

Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;   so  my  youth 

Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  but  wholesome  truth. 

Here,  too,  O  Nature !   in  this  haunt  of  Art, 

Tliy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 

There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth ! 

The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 

And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 

Clouds  do  not  scorn  us  :    yonder  factory's  smoke 

Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke. 


Ci^jic  Dotcu. 


Miss  Doten  was  born  in  Pl_ynioutb,  Mass.,  about  the 
year  1829.  She  received  a  good  early  education,  but  was 
mostly  self-taught.  She  is  publicly  known  as  au  "in- 
spirational speaker,"  and  her  poems  are  nearly  all  im- 
provisations, produced  with  little  or  no  intellectual  la- 
bor. She  has  put  forth  two  volumes  of  poems,  which' 
have  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention  in  England  as 
well  as  in  her  native  country.  Her  residence  for  sev- 
eral years  has  been  in  Boston. 


"GONE  IS  GONE,  AND  DEAD  IS  DEAD." 

"Ou  returning  to  the  hiu,  he  found  there  a  wandering  min- 
sticl— a  woman— singing,  and  accompanying  her  voice  with  the 
music  (if  a  harp.  The  harden  of  the  song  was,  'Gone  is  gone, 
and  dead  is  dead.'  "—Jean  Paul  Ricutf.r. 

"  Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead  !" 
Words  to  hopeless  sorrow  wed — 
Words  from  deepest  anguish  wrung, 
Which  a  lonely  wanderer  sung, 
While  her  harp  prolonged  the  strain, 
Like  a  spirit's  cry  of  pain 
When  all  hope  with  life  is  fled  : 
"Gone  is  gone,  aud  dead  is  dead." 


830 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Mournful  singer!   hearts  unknown 
Tlnill  responsive  to  that  tone  ; 
By  a  coiiinion  ueal  and  woe, 
Kindred  sorrows  all  must  know. 
Lips  all  tremulous  Avith  paiu 
Oft  repeat  that  sad  refrain 
When  the  fatal  sliaft  is  sped — 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

Paiu  and  death  are  everywhere — 
In  the  earth,  and  sea,  and  air  ; 
And  the  sunshine's  golden  glance, 
And  the  heaven's  serene  expanse, 
With  a  silence  calm  and  high, 
Seem  to  mock  tliat  mournful  cry 
Wrung  from  hearts  by  hoi)e  unfed — 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

O  ye  sorrowing  ones,  aiise  ; 
Wipe  the  tear-drops  from  your  eyes ; 
Lift  your  faces  to  the  light ; 
Read  Death's  mystery  aright. 
Life  unfolds  from  life  within, 
And  Avith  death  does  life  begin. 
Of  the  soul  cannot  be  said, 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

As  the  stars,  which,  one  by  one. 
Lighted  at  the  central  sun. 
Swept  across  ethereal  space, 
Each  to  its  predestin»;d  place, 
So  tlie  soul's  Promethean  lire, 
Kindled  never  to  expire. 
On  its  course  innnortal  sped, — 
Is  not  gone,  and  is  not  dead  ! 

By  a  Power  to  tlionght  unknown. 
Love  shall  ever  seek  its  own, 
Sundered  not  by  time  or  space, 
With  no  distant  dwelling-jilace, 
Soul  shall  answer  unto  soul, 
As  the  needle  to  the  pole  : 
Leaving  grief's  lament  unsaid, 
"  Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

Evermore  Love's  quickening  breath 
Calls  the  living  soul  from  death  ; 
And  the  resurrection's  power 
Comes  to  every  dying  hour. 
When  the  soul,  with  vision  clear. 
Learns  that  Heaven  is  always  near, 
Never  more  shall  it  be  said, 
"  Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 


(!3un   Ijumplircij  illcillaGtcr. 


Born  at  Clyde,  N.  Y.,  182'.),  McMaster  became  a  lawyer 
and  tlien  a  judge,  resident  at  Bath,  N.  Y.  In  the  few 
poems  from  liis  pen  he  has  given  evidence  of  a  jjurely 
original  vuiii. 


CARMEN  BELLICOSUM. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 
When  the  Grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles. 
From  the  smoky  night  encampment  bore  the  banner 
of  the  rampant 

Unicorn, 
And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  tlic  roll  of 
the  drummer 

Through  the  morn ! 

But  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires ; 
As  the  roar 
On  the  shore 
Swci>t  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green  sod- 
ded acres 

Of  the  plain  ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  cracked  the  black  gun- 
powder. 

Cracking  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  Saint  George's 

Cannoniers, 
And  the  "  villauons  saltpetre  " 
Rang  a  fierce  discordant  metre 
Round  their  ears. 
As  the  swift 
Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger  came  the  Horse-guards' 
clangor 

On  our  Hanks ; 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned  the  old-fash- 
ioned fire 

Through  the  ranks! 


GUY  HUMrHREY  MvMASTER.—FITZ-JAMES  O'BIIIEN. 


831 


Tbeu  tbo  oUl-fashioucd  Colouel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud  ; 
His  broad-sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing, 
Trumpet-loud; 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the 
leaden 

Rifle-breath, 
And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder  roared  the  iron  six- 
pounder, 

Hurling  death. 


BRAXT   TO   THE   INDIANS. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  Centennial  Poem,  deliv- 
ered August  29th,  1ST9,  in  memory  of  the  Battle  of  the  Che- 
mung. The  scene  of  the  battle,  which  took  place  iu  1779,  was 
the  beautiful,  virgin  valley  of  Chemung,  not  far  from  Newtown, 
N.  Y.,  the  English  name  of  a  small  Indian  village,  and  near 
Elmira. 

Ye  braves  of  the  Ancient  League — the  people's  de- 
fenders ! 

Here,  in  the  gates  of  the  South,  the  white  foe  comes, 

Daring  his  doom,  yet  marching  with  banners  and 
splendors, 

With  empty  roar  of  cannon  and  rattle  of  drums. 

These  are  the  hungry  eaters  of  land — the  greedy 
Devourers   of   forest   and    lake    and  meadow   and 

swamp  ; 
Gorged  with  the  soil  they  have  robbed  from  the 

helpless  and  needj^, 
The  tribes  that  trembled  before  their  martial  pomp. 

These  are  the  rich,  who  covet  the  humble  goods  of 
the  poor: 

The  wise,  who  with  their  cunning  the  simple  en- 
snare ; 

The  strong,  who  trample  the  weak  as  weeds  on  the 
moor; 

The  great,  Avho  grudge  with  the  small  the  earth  to 
share. 

But  you  are  the  valiant  braves  of  Ho-den-a-sau-nee  ; 
The  tribes  of  the  East  were  weaklings,  with  hearts 

of  the  deer  ; 
Uncouquered  iu  war  you  are,  and  ever  shall  be, 
For  your  limbs  are  mighty — your  hearts  are  void 

of  fear. 


Continue  to  listen  !     These  white  men  are  liars  who 

say 
That  red  men  arc  faithless  to  treaty,  and  heed  not 

their  iiledgo ; 
That  they  love  but  to  ravage  and  burn,  to  torture 

and  slay,  [edge! 

And  to  ruin  the  towns  with  torch,  and  the  hatchet's 

The  Spii"it  above  gave  his  red  children  these  lands, 
The  deer  on  the  hills,  the  beaver  and  fowls  in  the 

jionds ; 
The  bow  aud  the  hatchet  and  knife  he  jdaced  in 

your  hands, 
Aud  bound  your  tribes  together  in  mighty  bonds. 

Who  are  these  farm-house  curs  that  foolishly  rant 
At  you,  the  untamable  cubs  of  the  mountain-cat  ? 
Who  is  this  lawyer'  that  seeks  on  the  Avar-path  for 
Brant,  [eral's  hat  ? 

And  struts  with  a  new -bought  sword  and  a  gen- 
Why  do  these  choppers  of  wood,  these  ox-driving 

toilers. 
Lust  for  the  ancient  homes  of  Ho-den-a-san-nee  ? 
Why  from  their  barn-yards  come  these  rustic  de- 
spoilers  ?  [be? 
Shall  the  sweet  wilderness  like  their  vile  farms  e'er 

Can  the  warrior  become  a  farmer's  hired  clowu  ? 

Shall  he  hoe  like  the  squaw,  or  toss  up  grass  on  a 
fork? 

Will  the  panther  churn  milk  in  the  pen  of  the  tread- 
mill hound  ? 

Or  the  bear  wear  an  apron  and  do  a  scullion's  work  ? 

Continue  to  listen  !    Ye  are  not  fashioned  for  slaves! 
And  that  these  blue -eyed  robbers   at  once   shall 

know  : 
Want  they  your  lauds  ? — they  shall  not  even  have 

graves, 
Until  their  bodies  are  buried  by  winter's  snow! 


£\\]3cimt5  (D'Bricu. 

O'Brien  (1829-1863),  the  son  of  a  barrister,  was  born  in 
Ireland,  and  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  While 
quite  young  he  went  to  London,  and  wrote  for  Dickens's 
Household  Words.  In  18.53  he  emigrated  to  America,  and 
soon  became  a  valued  contributor  to  the  leading  period- 
icals.    Many  of  bis  poems  appeared  \n  Um~per''s  Magazine 

1  This  is  a  reference  to  General  Sullivan,  who  commanded 
the  American  army,  numbering  five  thousand  men. 


832 


CYCLOV.EDIA    OF  JJKJTI.SU  JMJ  AMERICAN  rOETUY. 


and  Ilarjter's  Weekly  between  1853  and  1860.  When  news 
of  the  death  of  Kiuie  reached  New  York,  O'Brien  was 
asked  to  write  a  poem  on  tlic  subject  for  the  next  num- 
ber o{  Jfai-jxr's  Weckli/.  It  is  a  brilliant  proof  of  his  f?cn- 
ius  that  he  could  produce  to  order  such  a  poem  as  he  did. 
Rude  in  places,  and  showing  a  lack  of  the  labor  Ibna,  It  is 
yet  a  remarkable  production. 

When  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  he  enlisted  in  the  New 
York  Seventh  Rei^iment,  and  marched  with  his  company 
to  the  capital.  In  January,  18G2,  he  got  an  appointment 
on  the  stafl'  of  Gen.  Lander,  and  showed  great  bravery  in 
several  skirmishes.  The  following  month,  while  head- 
ing a  cavalry  charge,  he  was  shot  in  the  shoulder.  The 
wound  was  not  at  first  thought  dangerous,  but  from  sur- 
gical maltreatment  it  became  so.  On  the  4th  of  April 
he  had  to  submit  to  an  operation,  of  which  he  wrote : 
"  All  my  shoulder-bone  and  a  portion  of  my  upper  arm 
have  been  taken  away.  I  nearly  died.  My  breath  ceased, 
heart  ceased  to  beat,  pulse  stopped.  *  *  *  There  is  a 
chance  of  my  getting  out  of  it ;  that's  all.  In  case  I 
don't,  good-bye,  old  fellow,  with  all  my  love!"  Two 
days  after  this  was  written,  he  died. 


ELISHA    KENT    KANE. 
DIED   FEBRUARY   Ifi,  1857. 

Aloft,  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Wliicli,  scalped  by  keen  winds  that  defend  tho 

Pole, 
Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone. 
And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced  ; 
Fit  type  of  him  Avho,  famishing  and  gaunt. 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  liis  soul. 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clnng  to  the  drifting  floes, 
By  want  beleaguered,  and  by  winter  chased, 
Seeking  the  brotiier  hjst  amid  that  frozen  waste. 

Not  many  mouths  ago  avc  greeted  him, 

Crowned  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North. 
Across  the  laud  Ids  hard-won  fatno  went  forth. 
And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb  by  limb. 
His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and  prim. 
Burst  from  its  decorous  quiet  as  ho  came. 
Hot  Southern  lips,  with  eloquence  aflame, 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Proft'ered  its  hmny  ]ia:i(l.     The  large-lunged  West, 

From  out  its  giant  breast 
Yelled  its  frank  welcome.     Ami  from  main  to  main. 
Jubilant  to  tho  sky, 
Thundered  the  mighty  cry. 
Honor  to  Kaxe. 


In  vaiu — in  vain  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
Tho  reddening  roses!     All  in  vain  we  poured 
The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining  board 
Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  tlie  feast! 
Scarce  tlie  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  cea.sed 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  Ids  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  Southern  skies. 

Faded  and  faded.     And  tlie  brave  young  heart 
That  tho  relentless  Arctic  winds  had  robbed 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  Captain,  now  within  his  breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbbed. 
His  was  the  victory  ;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp. 

Death  launched  a  whi.stling  dart; 
And  ere  the  tiiunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun  ! 
Too  late — too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  Science  and  of  Art ! 

Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  Tropic  zone, 
And  in  tho  burning  day 
Wastes  iieak  by  peak  away. 
Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it;   so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  Southern  sea. 
And  melted  into  Heaven  ! 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life  I 

We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well  ; 
But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and  tell 

Tho  story  of  his  strife. 

Such  homage  suits  him  well ; 
Better  than  fuueral  pomp  or  passing  bell ! 

What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice ! 
I'risoned  amid  the  fastncs-ses  of  ice. 

With  Hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of  snow  ! 
Night  leugthening  into  months ;  the  ravenous  flue 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white-bear 
Crunches  his  prey.     The  insuflficient  share 

Of  loaths<nne  food  ; 
The  lethargy  of  fandne  ;    the  despair 

Frging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued  ; 

Toil  done  with  skinnj'^  arms,  and  faces  lined 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmered  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind! 
That  awfid  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate  band 
Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  liand 

Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew. 

The  whi.spers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN.— CHABLES  G.  HALPINE.—FLOBUS  B.  PLIMPTON. 


833 


At  first,  but  deepeuing  ever  till  they  grew 
luto  black  thougbts  of  murder :  such  the  throng 
Of  horrors  round  the  Hero.     High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  ho  played ! 
Sinking  himself — yet  ministering  aid 

To  all  around  him.     By  a  mighty  will 

Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrades'  fate  ; 

Clieering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  Polar  winters,  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial — every  fate 

He  stands,  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 
Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 
And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world  once  more, 
To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral  shore. 
Bearing  their  dying  chief! 

Time  Avas  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of  gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  wooed  the  knightly  state  ; 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolled. 

And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-consecrate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemague, 
Than  that  long  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 

Faithfully  kept,  through  hunger  and  through  cold. 
By  the  good  Christian  knight,  Elisha  Kane  ! 


CljavUs  (!5raljam  Cjalpine. 

Hal  pine  (1829-1869)  was  a  native  of  Ireland.  Emi- 
grating to  America,  he  connected  himself  with  the  Press, 
and  won  distinction.  Under  the  assumed  name  of  Miles 
O'Reilly  he  wrote  some  of  the  most  effective  of  the  hu- 
morous poems  that  were  produced  during  the  Civil  War. 
A  major  iu  the  army  of  the  Union,  he  wrote  for  the  cause 
almost  as  well  as  he  fousrht. 


JANETTE'S  HAIR. 

'•  Oh,  loosen  the  snood  that  you  wear,  Janette, 
Let  me  tangle  a  hand  in  your  hair — my  pet ;" 
For  the  world  to  me  had  no  daintier  sight    [white. 
Thau    your   brown    hair   veiling   your    shoulder 

It  was  brown  with  a  golden  gloss,  Janette, 
It  was  liner  than  silk  of  the  floss — my  pet ; 
'Twas  a  beautiful  mist  falling  down  to  your  wrist, 
'Twas    a   tiling   to  be  braided,  and  jewelled,  and 
kissed — 
'Twas  the  loveliest  hair  in  the  world — my  pet. 

My  arm  was  the  arm  of  a  clown,  Janette, 
It  was  sinewy,  bristled,  and  brown — my  pet ; 
53 


But  warmly  and  softly  it  loved  to  caress 
Your  round  white  neck  and  your  wealth  of  tress, 
Your  beautiful  plenty  of  hair — mj'  pet. 

Your  eyes  had  a  swimming  glory,  Janette, 
Eevealing  the  old,  dear  story — my  pet ; 
They  were  gray  with  that  chastened  tinge  of  the  sky 
When  the  trout  leaps  quickest  to  snap  the  tly. 
And  they  matched  with  your  golden  hair — my  pet. 

Your  lips — but  I  have  no  words,  Janette  — 
They  were  fresh  as  the  twitter  of  birds — my  pet, 
When  the  spring  is  young,  and  roses  are  wet, 
With  the  dew-drops  in  each  red  bosom  set. 

And  they  suited  your  gold  brown  hair — my  pet. 

Oh,  you  tangled  my  life  in  your  hair,  Janette, 
'Twas  a  silken  and  golden  snare — my  pet ; 
But,  so  gentle  the  bondage,  my  soul  did  implore 
The  right  to  continue  your  slave  evermore. 

With  my  tiugers  enmeshed  in  your  hair — my  pet. 

Thus  ever  I  dream  what  you  were,  Janette, 
With  your  lips  and  your  eyes  and  your  hair — my  pet ; 
In  the  darkness  of  desolate  years  I  moan. 
And  my  tears  fall  bitterly  over  the  stone 
That  covers  your  golden  hair — my  pet. 


iFlorus  Bcarbslcti  |3limpton. 

AMERICAN. 
Plimpton  was  born  in  1830,  in  Palmyra,  Portage  Coun- 
ty, O.  He  was  educated  principally  at  Alleghany  Col- 
lege, Meadville,  Pa.,  and  in  18.51  connected  himself  edi- 
torially with  a  newspaper  at  Warren,  Trumbull  County. 
In  18.57  he  removed  to  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  and  edited  the 
Daily  Befpatch. 

TELL   HER. 

O  river  Beautiful !   the  breezy  hills 

That  slope  their  green  declivities  to  thee, 

III  purple  reaches  hide  my  Life  from  me  : — 

Go,  then,  beyond  the  thunder  of  the  mills, 

And  wheels  that  churn  thy  waters  into  foam, 

And  murmuring  softly  to  the  darling's  ear. 

And  murmuring  sweetly  when  my  love  shall  hear, 

Tell  how  I  miss  her  presence  in  our  home. 

Say  that  it  is  as  lonely  as  my  heart ; 

The  rooms  deserted ;    all  her  pet  birds  mute  ; 

The  sweet  geranium  odorless ;   the  flute. 

Its  stops  untouched,  while  wondrous  gems  of  art 

Lie  lustreless  as  diamonds  in  a  mine. 

To  kindle  in  her  smile  and  iu  her  radiance  shine. 


834 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


(Hljristina  (Scorgina  Uossctti. 

Miss  Rossetti,  a  sister  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossctti,  was 
born  in  London  in  1830.  Her  collected  poems  were  re- 
publislicd  in  Boston  by  Roberts  Brotliers  in  1875.  She 
has  written  several  boolis  for  children. 


CONSIDER. 
Cousider 
The  lilies  of  the  field  whose  bloom  is  brief: 

We  are  as  they  ; 

Like  them  we  fade  away, 
As  doth  a  leaf. 

Cousider 

The  sparrows  of  the  air  of  small  accoiiut ; 

Our  God  doth  view 
Whether  they  fall  or  mount : 

He  guards  us  too. 

Consider 

The  lilies  that  do  neither  spin  nor  toil, 

Yet  are  most  fair  : 

What  profits  all  this  care. 
And  all  this  coil  ? 

Consider 

The  birds  that  have  no  barn  nor  harvest- weeks ; 

God  gives  them  food  : — 
Much  more  our  Father  seeks 
To  do  us  good. 


BEAUTY  IS  VAIN. 

While  roses  are  so  red, 

While  lilies  are  so  wliite. 
Shall  a  woman  exalt  her  face 

Because  it  gives  delight  ? 
She's  not  so  sweet  as  a  rose, 

A  lily  is  straighter  than  she, 
And  if  she  were  as  red  or  white 

She'd  be  but  cue  of  three. 

Whether  she  Hush  in  sunmier. 

Or  in  its  winter  grow  pale. 
Whether  she  flaunt  her  beauty 

Or  hide  it  away  in  a  veil, — 
Be  she  red  or  white, 

And  stand  she  erect  or  bowed. 
Time  will  win  the  race  ho  runs  with  her, 

And  hide  her  away  in  a  shroud. 


iFtamcG   (J>oiui)rcr)  (Ulark. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Oswego  County,  N.  Y.,  Clark  was  born  in 
1830.  Ilis  residence  (1880)  was  in  Minneapolis,  Minn. 
A  musical  composer  and  singer,  as  well  as  a  natural 
poet,  lie  lias  given  popular  entertainments  with  great 
success  in  most  of  the  AVcstern  cities. 


LEONA. 


Leona,  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

The  hour  we've  waited  so  long. 
For  the  angel  to  open  a  door  through  the  sky, 
That  ray  spirit  may  break  from  its  prison  and  try 
Its  voice  in  an  iufinito  song. 

Ju.st  now,  as  the  slumbers  of  night 

Came  o'er  me  with  peace-giving  breath. 
The  curtain  half  lifted  revealed  to  my  sight 
Those  windows  which  look  on  the  kingdom  of  light, 
That  borders  the  river  of  death. 

And  a  vision  foil  solemn  and  sweet. 

Bringing  gleams  of  a  niorniug-lit  land  ; 
I  saw  the  white  shore  which  the  pale  waters  beat. 
And  I  heard  the  low  lull  as  they  broke  at  their  feet 
Who  walked  ou  the  beautiful  strand. 

And  I  wondered  why  spirits  could  cling 

To  their  clay  with  a  struggle  and  sigh. 
When  life's  purple  autumn  is  better  than  spring, 
And  the  soul  flies  away  like  a  sparrow,  to  sing 
In  a  climate  where  leaves  never  die. 

Leona,  come  close  to  my  bed, 

And  lay  your  dear  hand  ou  my  brow. 
The  same  touch  that  thrilled  me  in  days  that  are  fled, 
And  raised  the  lost  roses  of  youth  from  the  dead. 

Can  brighten  the  brief  moments  now. 

We  have  loved  from  the  cold  world  apart. 

And  your  trust  was  too  generous  and  true 
For  their  hato  to  o'erthrow;   when  the  slauderer's 

dart 
Was  rankling  deep  in  my  desolate  heart, 
I  was  dearer  tiian  ever  to  you. 

I  thank  the  Great  Father  for  tliis, 

That  our  love  is  not  lavished  in  vain  ; 
Each  germ  in  the  future  will  blossom  to  bliss, 
And  the  forms  that  we  love,  and  the  lips  that  we  kiss. 
Never  shrink  at  the  shadow  of  pain. 


JAMES  GOWDREY  CLARK.— ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


835 


By  the  light  of  this  faith  am  I  taught 

That  my  labor  is  ouly  begnu  ;  [fought 

In  the  strength  of  this  hope  have  I  struggled  ami 
With  the  legions  of  wrong,  till  my  armor  has  caught 
The  gleam  of  Eternity's  sun. 

Leona,  look  forth  and.  behold. 

From  headland,  from  hill-side,  and  deep, 
The  day-kiug  surrenders  his  banners  of  gold ; 
Tlie  twilight  advauces  through  woodland  and  wold, 

And  the  dews  are  beginning  to  weep. 

The  moon's  silver  hair  lies  uncurled, 

Down  the  broad-breasted  mountains  away ; 
Ere  sunset's  red  glories  again  shall  be  furled 
On  the  walls  of  the  west,  o'er  the  plains  of  the  world, 
I  shall  rise  in  a  limitless  day. 

O !   come  wnt  in  tears  to  my  tomb, 

Nor  plant  with  frail  flowers  the  sod  ; 
There  is  rest  among  roses  too  sweet  for  its  gloom. 
And  life  where  the  lilies  eternally  bloom 

In  the  balm-breathing  gardens  of  God. 

Yet  deeply  those  memories  burn 

^Yhich  bind  me  to  you  and  to  earth, 
And  I  sometimes  have  thought  that  my  being  would 

yearn, 
lu  the  bowers  of  its  beautiful  home,  to  return 
And  visit  the  home  of  its  birth. 

'Twould  even  be  pleasant  to  stay, 

And  walk  by  your  side  to  the  last ; 
]3ut  the  land-breeze  of  Heaven  is  beginning  to  play — 
Life's  shadows  are  meeting  Eternity's  day, 
And  its  tumult  is  hushed  in  the  past. 

Leona,  good-bye  :   should  the  grief 
That  is  gathering  now,  ever  be 
Too  dark  for  your  faith,  you  will  long  for  relief. 
And    remember,  the  journey,  though   lonesome,  is 
brief, 
Over  lowland  and  river  to  me. 


to  Mrs.  Browning,  she  said  it  was  exactly  her  impres- 
sion." Smith's  "Life,"  written  by  P.P.Alexander,  ap- 
pears in  an  edition  of  liis  "  Last  Leaves  "  (18G8). 


^la'anbcr  Smitlj. 


A  native  of  Kilmarnock,  Scotland  (18.30-1867),  Smith 
put  forth  in  18.53  a  vohime  of  poems,  of  which  the  prin- 
cipal was  entitled"  A  Life  Drama."  Two  more  volumes 
of  his  poetry  appeared;  one  in  1857,  the  other  in  1861. 
In  one  of  Miss  Mitford's  letters  we  read  :  "Mr.  Kingsley 
says  that  Alfred  Tennyson  says  that  Smith's  poems  show 
fancy,  but  not  imagination ;  and  on  my  repeating  this 


A    DAY    IN    SPRING. 

From  "A  Life  Drama." 

The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  vsky. 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bridegroom  sea 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride. 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 
Eetires  a  space,  to  see  how  fair  she  looks. 
Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  hex\     All  is  fair — 
All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun  ! 


A    DAY    IN    SUMMEE. 

P'noM  "A  Life  Drama." 

Each  leaf  upon  the  trees  doth  shake  with  joy, 
With  joy  the  white  clouds  navigate  the  blue, 
xVud  on  his  painted  wings,  the  butterfly, 
Most  splendid  masker  in  this  carnival. 
Floats  through  the  air  in  joy !     Better  for  man, 
W^ere  he  and  Nature  more  familiar  friends! 


HER   LAST   WORDS. 

The  callow  young  were  huddling  in  the  nests, 
The  marigold  was  burning  in  the  marsh. 
Like  a  tiling  dipped  in  sunset  when  he  came. 

My  blood  went  up  to  meet  him  on  my  face, 
Glad  as  a  child  that  hears  its  father's  step. 
And  runs  to  meet  him  at  the  open  porch. 

I  gave  him  all  my  being,  like  a  flower 
That  flings  its  perfume  on  a  vagrant  breeze ; 
A  breeze  that  wanders  on,  and  heeds  it  not. 

His  scorn  is  lying  on  ray  heart  like  snow. 
My  eyes  are  weary,  and  I  fain  would  sleep  ; 
The  quietest  sleep  is  underneath  the  ground. 

Are  ye  around  me,  friends  ?     I  cannot  see, 

I  cannot  hear  the  voices  that  I  love, 

I  lift  my  hands  to  you  from  out  the  night. 

Methought  I  felt  a  tear  upon  my  cheek ; 
Weep  not,  my  mother !     It  is  time  to  rest, 
And  I  am  very  weary  ;   so,  good-night ! 


836 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


CTccil  i^ranccs  ^levauiicr. 

Mrs.  Alcxaiuler,  born  about  1830,  is  the  wife  of  William 
Alcxaiuler,  D.I).,  Bishop  of  Dcrrj-,  etc.  She  is  the  author 
of  "  Moral  Songs,  Hymns  for  Children,"  and  "  Poems  on 
Old  Testament  Subjeets."  Slie  has  edited  the  "Cliildreu's 
Garland"  and  the  "Sunday  Book  of  Poetry  "  (1HG5). 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mouutaiu, 

On  this  side  Jordan'.s  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepnlebre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  npturued  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  ti'ampling 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth, — 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves  : . 
So  without  sonud  of  music. 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie, 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight: 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dictli, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  his  funeral  car : 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

"While  peals  the  minute-guu. 


Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet  choir  sings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword. 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  be  not  high  honor — 

The  hill-side  for  a  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall. 
And  the  dark  rock-pines,  like  tossing  plumes. 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name. 

Whence  his  uucoflined  clay 
Shall  break  again,  O  wondrous  thought! 

Before  the  Judgment-day. 
Anil  stand  with  glory  wrapped  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life, 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  bo  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace. 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
lie  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 


illarcjarct  3unl\in  fJrcston. 


Mrs.  Preston,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  George  Junkin,  is  a 
native  of  Lexington,  Va.  Slie  has  been  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  the  magazines,  and  is  the  author  of  three 
volumes  of  poems  wliich  have  been  well  received,  and 
give  evidence  of  high  poetical  gifts.     Her  "Cartoons" 


MARGARET  JVNEIN  PRESTON. 


837 


(published  in  Boston,  1876)  went  to  a  second  edition  a 
uioutli  after  its  appearance,  and  a  tliird  has  since  been 
put  forth.  She  was  for  years  the  literary  critic  of  the 
Baltimore  Southern  Review,  and  a  diligent  contributor  to 
several  Southern  journals.  Her  sister  was  the  wife  of 
Stonewall  Jackson  (Thomas  Jonathan  Jackson)  of  mil- 
itary renown,  and  Mrs.  Preston  lias  written  a  poem, 
worthy  of  the  subject,  on  his  death.  The  "  Dedication" 
in  her  "Old  Songs  and  New,"  published  in  Philadelphia 
(1870),  is  a  favorable  example  of  her  style. 


DEDICATION. 

Day-ilnty  done, — I've  idled  fortli  to  get 

An  hour's  light  pastime  iu  the  shady  lanes. 
And  here  and  tliere  have  i)lucked  with  careless 
pains 
These  wayside  waifs, — sweetbrier  and  violet, 
And  such  like  simple  things  tliat  seemed  indeed 
Flowers,  —  though,  jjerhaps,  I  knew  not   flower 
from  weed. 

^Yhat  shall  I  do  with  them? — They  find  no  place 
In  stately  vases  where  magnolias  give 
Out  sweets  iu  which  their  faintness  could  not  live  : 

Yet  tied  with  grasses,  posy-wise,  for  grace, 

I  have  no  heart  to  cast  them  quite  away,     [day. 
Though  their  brief  bloom  should  not  outlive  the 

Upon  the  open  pages  of  your  book, 

I  laj'^  them  down  : — And  if  within  your  eye 
A  little  tender  mist  I  may  descry. 
Or  a  sweet  sunshine  flicker  in  your  look, — 
Eight  happy  will  I  be,  though  all  declare 
No  eye  but  love's  could  find  a  violet  there. 


THE   TYEANNY  OF  MOOD. 
I.    JIOKNIXG. 

It  is  enough  :    I  feel,  this  golden  morn. 
As  if  a  royal  appanage  were  mine. 
Through  Nature's  queenly  warrant  of  divine 
Investiture.     What  princess,  palace  born. 
Hath  right  of  rapture  more,  when  skies  adorn 
Themselves  so  grandly ;  when  the  mountains  shine 
Transfigured;   Avheu  the  air  exalts  like  wine; 
When  pearly  purples  steep  the  yellowing  corn  ? 
So  satisfied  with  all  the  goodliness 
Of  God's  good  world, — my  being  to  its  brim 
Surcharged  with  utter  thankfulness  no  less 
Than  bliss  of  beauty,  passionately  glad       [dim, — 
Through  rush  of  tears  that  leaves   the  landscape 
"  Who  dares,"  I  cry,  "  in  such  a  world  be  sad  ?" 


I  iiress  my  cheek  against  the  window-pane. 
And  gaze  abroad  into  the  blank,  black  space 
Where  earth  and  sky  no  more  have  any  place. 
Wiped  from  existence  by  the  expunging  rain  ; 
And  as  I  hear  the  worried  winds  complain, 
A  darkness  darker  thau  the  murk  whose  trace 
Invades  the  curtained  room  is  on  my  face, 
Beneath  which  life  and  life's  best  ends  seem  vain. 
My  swelling  aspirations  viewless  sink 
As  yon  cloud-blotted  hills:  hopes  that  shone  bright 
As  planets  yester-eve,  like  them  to-night 
Are  gulfed,  the  impenetrable  mists  before : 
"O  weai-y  world,"  I  cry,  "how  dare  I  think 
Thou  hast  for  me  one  gleam  of  gladuess  more  ?" 


SAINT   CECILIA. 

Haven't  you  seen  her? — and  don't  you  know 

Why  I  dote  on  the  darliiig  so? 

Let  me  picture  her  as  she  stands 

There  with  the  music-book  in  her  hands, 

Looking  as  ravishing,  rapt,  and  bright 

As  a  baby  Saint  Cecilia  might, 

Lisping  her  bird-uotes, — that's  Belle  White. 

Watch  as  she  raises  her  eyes  to  you. 
Half-crushed  violets  dipped  in  dew, 
Brimming  with  timorous,  coy  surprise, — 
(Doves  have  just  such  glistening  eyes:) 
But,  let  a  dozen  of  years  have  flight. 
Will  there  be  then  such  harndess  light 
Warming  these  luminous  eyes, — Belle  White' 

Look  at  the  pretty,  feminine  grace, 
Even  now,  on  the  small,  young  face: 
Such  a  consciousness  as  she  speaks. 
Flushing  the  ivory  of  her  cheeks, — 
Such  a  maidenly,  arch  delight 
That  she  carries  me  captive  quite. 
Snared  with  her  daisy  chain, — Belle  White. 

Many  an  ambushed  smile  lies  hid 

Under  that  innocent,  downcast  lid  : 

Arrows  will  ily,  with  silvery  tips, 

Out  from  the  bow  of  those  arching  lips 

Parting  so  guilelessly,  as  she  stands 

There  with  the  music-book  in  her  hands, 

Chanting  her  bird-notes  soft  and  light, 

Even  as  Saint  Cecilia  might. 

Dove  with  the  folded  wings,— Belle  White  ! 


838 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


do\]\\  (!:5tcu  (Uookc. 

AMERICAN. 

Cooke,  a  brother  to  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke,  was  born 
in  Wiiiehester,  Va.,  in  1830.  His  family  removed  to  Ilieh- 
mond  in  18:39,  and,  after  a  good  education,  he  studied  law 
in  the  office  of  liis  father,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar. 
Literature  has,  however,  claimed  mucli  of  his  attention. 
lie  has  published  several  popular  novels,  amonij  which 
arc  "The  Virginia  Bohemians"  and  "Her  Majesty  the 
Queen." 

MAY. 

Has  the  old  glory  passed 

From  tender  May — 
That  never  the  echoing  blast 
Of  bngle-honis  merry,  and  fast 
Dying  away  like  the  past, 

Welcomes  the  day  ? 

Has  the  old  Beauty  gone 

From  golden  May — 
That  not  any  more  at  dawn 
Over  the  flowery  lawn, 
Or  knolls  of  the  forest  withdrawn, 

Maids  are  at  play  ? 

Is  the  old  freshness  dead 

Of  the  fairy  May  ?— 
Ah!   the  sad  tear-drops  unshed! 
Ah  !    the  young  maidens  unwed  ! 
Golden  locks — cheeks  rosy  red ! 

Ah  !  where  are  they  ? 


(Bhm  Dean  ^Jroctor. 


Miss  Proctor  was  born  in  the  interesting  old  town 
of  Ilcnniker,  N.  H.,  on  the  Contoocook  River.  Ou  com- 
pleting her  school  education,  she  made  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
her  home.  She  published  a  volume  of  poems,  national 
and  miscellaneous,  in  1807.  It  fixed  her  rank  among  the 
foremost  of  American  feminine  poets.  After  its  publica- 
tion she  made  an  extensive  European  tour,  visiting,  with 
a  party  of  friends,  all  the  countries  except  Portugal, 
ascending  the  Nile,  inspecting  the  noted  attractions  of 
Syria,  and  travelling  in  Russia  over  routes  rarely  fre- 
(jucntcd.  This  portion  of  her  trij)  she  has  described  in 
"A  Russian  Journey,"  published  in  187:5,  and  full  of  rare 
and  entertaining  information.  Miss  Proctor  has  been 
a  frequent  contributor  to  magazines  and  newspapers. 
Some  of  her  poems  seem  to  combine  a  masculine  vigor 
and  spirit  with  feminine  purity  and  grace.  As  remarka- 
ble for  jiersonal  attractions  as  for  her  graces  of  character, 
she  is  described  by  one  of  her  friends  as  "  a  true  poet  in 
deeds  as  well  as  in  words." 


FROM  "THE   RETURN   OF   THE   DEAD." 

Low  hung  the  moon,  the  wind  was  still, 
As  .slow  I  climbed  the  midnight  hill. 
And  passed  the  ruined  garden  o'er, 
And  gained  the  barred  and  silent  door. 
Sad  welcomed  by  the  lingering  rose 
That,  startled,  shed  its  ■waning  snow.s. 

The  l)(dt  flew  back  with  sudden  clang, 
I  entered,  wall  and  rafter  rang, 
Down  dropped  the  moon,  and  clear  and  liigh 
September's  wind  went  wailing  by  ; 
"Alas!"  I  sighed,  "the  love  and  glow 
That  lit  this  mansion  long  ago!" 

And  groping  up  the  threshold  stair. 
And  past  the  chambers  cold  and  bare, 
I  sought  the  room  ^Yhere,  glad  of  yore, 
We  sat  the  blazing  fire  before. 
And  heard  the  tales  a  father  told, 
Till  glow  was  gone  and  evening  old. 

Where  were  those  rosy  children  three  ? 
The  boj'  beneath  the  moaning  sea ; 
Sweet  Margaret,  down  where  violets  hide, 
Slept,  tranquil  by  that  father's  side. 
And  I,  alone,  a  pilgrim  still, 
Was  left  to  climb  the  midnight  hill. 

My  hand  was  on  the  latch,  when,  lo ! 
'Twas  lifted  from  within  !     I  know 
I  w  as  not  wild,  and  could  I  dream  ? 
Within,  I  saw  the  wood-fire  gleam. 
And  smiling,  waiting,  beckoning  there, 
My  father  in  his  ancient  chair! 

0  the  long  rapture,  perfect  rest. 

As  close  he  clasped  me  to  his  breast ! 
Put  back  the  braids  the  wind  had  blown. 
Said  I  had  like  my  mother  grown, 
And  bade  me  tell  him,  frank  as  she. 
All  the  long  years  had  brought  to  me. 

Tlien,  by  his  side,  his  hand  in  mine, 

1  tasted  joy  serene,  divine. 

And  saw  my  griefs  unfolding  fair 
As  flowers,  iu  June's  enchanted  air. 
So  warm  his  words,  so  soft  his  sighs, 
Such  tender  lovelight  in  his  eyes! 

''O  Death!"  I  cried,  "if  these  be  thine, 
For  me  the  asphodels  entwine, 


EDXA  DEAN  PROCTOE.— EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  JENKS. 


839 


Fold  me  withiu  thy  perfect  calm  ; 
Leave  ou  my  lips  the  bliss  of  balm, 
And  let  me  slumber,  pillowed  low, 
With  Margaret,  where  the  violets  blow." 

And  still  wo  talked.     O'er  cloudy  burs 
Oriou  bore  his  pomp  of  stars ; 
Within,  the  wood-fire  fainter  glowed, 
Weird  ou  the  wall  the  shadows  showed. 
Till,  in  the  east,  a  pallor  born. 
Told  midnight  melting  into  morn. 

'Tis  true,  his  rest  this  many  a  year 
Has  made  the  village  church-yard  dear ; 
'Tis  true,  his  stone  is  graven  fair. 
Here  lies,  remote  from  mortal  care." 
•aunot  tell  how  this  may  be, 

well  I  know  he  talked  with  me. 


\ 


TAKE  HEART. 

ormy  wind  has  blown 
dark  and  rainy  sea ; 
the  window  flown, 
■s  been  the  moan 
.  in  the  willow-tree. 

t's  burial-time ; 
ropped  the  earliest  leaves ; 
rosy  prime, 
in's  frosty  rime, — 
me  that  grieves, — 

,  sunny  seas 
for  April  skies  ; 
^est  trees 

in  fragrant  ease, 

Ir  azure  eyes. 

ef  o'erblown 
mmer's  bier, — 
are  only  flown, 
arful  sown, 
Imortal  year ! 


CANNOT  LOSE. 

^,ct  prime ! 
m  western  calms ; 
jmb  ; 
gled  balms. 


Nor  stream,  nor  bank  the  way-side  by, 
But  lilies  float  and  daisies  throng. 

Nor  space  of  blue  and  sunny  sky 
That  is  not  cleft  with  soaring  song. 

0  flowery  morns,  O  tuneful  eves. 
Fly  swift !   my  soul  ye  cannot  fill ! 

Bring  the  ripe  fruit,  the  garnered  sheaves. 

The  drifting  snows  on  plain  and  hill. 
Alike,  to  me,  fall  frosts  and  dews ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose! 

Warm  hands  to-day  are  clasped  in  mine ; 

Fond  hearts  my  mirth  or  mourning  share  ; 
And,  over  hope's  horizon  line. 

The  future  dawns,  serenely  fair. 
Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  denies, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay  ; 
Some  wind  of  grief  or  doubt  will  rise. 

And  turn  my  rosy  sky  to  gray. 

1  shall  awake,  in  rainy  morn. 

To  find  my  hearth  left  lone  and  drear ; 
Thus  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  burn  ou  as  clear, 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond  love  wooes  ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

In  golden  hours  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with  her  wings : 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release  ; 

I  mate  me  with  diviuest  things  ; 
When  shapes  of  guilt  and  gloom  arise. 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees, — 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs, 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees. 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine. 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin  ; 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  still  must  twine, 

Nor  braid  one  beauteous  lilj'  in. 
Ah  !   is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
But  Heaveu,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose ! 


(J:i)ttiari)  ^ucjustus  iJcuks. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Newport,  N.  II.,  Jenks  Wiis  born  Oct.  oOtli, 
1830.  He  was  educated  at  the  Thetford,  Vt.,  Academy  ; 
learned  to  set  type  before  he  was  seventeen,  and,  after 
some  experience  as  a  publisher  of  newspapers,  was  called 
in  1871  to  the  management  of  the  Republican  Press  As- 
sociation of  Concord,  N.  H.  Before  that  he  had  been  en- 
gaged in  various  enterprises  at  the  West,  and  was  at  one 
time  a  resident  of  Vicksburg,  Miss.  An  amateur  in  verse, 
he  is  not  unfrequeutly  the  true  artist. 


840 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


GOING  AND  COMING. 

Going — the  great  round  Sun, 

Dragging  tho  captive  Daj' 
Over  behind  tbo  frowning  hill, 

Over  beyond  tho  bay — 
Dying ! 
Coming — the  dusky  Night, 

Silently  stealing  in, 
Glooniil3'  draping  the  soft,  warm  couch 

Where  the  golden-haired  Day  had  been 
Lying. 

Going — the  bright,  blithe  Spring: 

Blossoms !  how  fiist  ye  fall, 
Shooting  out  of  your  starry  sky 

Into  the  darkness  all 
Blindly  ! 
Coming — the  mellow  days ; 

Crimson  and  yellow  leaves ; 
Languishing  purple  and  amber  fruits 

Kissing  the  bearded  sheaves 
Kindly ! 

Going — our  early  friends  ; 

Voices  we  loved  are  dumb ; 
Footsteps  grow  dim  in  the  morning  dew; 

Fainter  the  echoes  come 
Kinging ! 
Coming  to  join  our  march — 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  pressed ; 
Gray-haired  veterans  strike  their  tents 

For  the  far-off  purple  "West — 
Singing! 

Going — this  old,  old  life; 

Beautiful  world !  farewell ! 
Forest  and  meadow!  river  and  hill! 

Ring  ye  a  loving  knell 
O'er  us ! 
Coming — a  nobler  life; 

Coming — a  better  land  ; 
Coming — the  long,  long,  nightlcss  day. 

Coming — the  grand,  grand 
Chorus ! 


Utaw  iFugclotti. 


Miss  Ingclow,  a  native  of  Ipswich,  Engl.and,  born  about 
18J50,  put  forth  a  volume  of  poems  in  18G2,  which  ran 
through  fourteen  editions  in  live  years,  and  was  repub- 
lished in  Boston,  Mass.  She  has  written  several  novels, 
stories  for  children,  etc.,  and  contributed  largely  to  va- 


rious periodical  works.  In  the  course  of  eighteen  years 
lier  American  publishers  paid  lier  in  copyright  upward 
of  liftcen  thousaud  dollars. 


THE    HIGH    TIDE    ON    THE    COAST    OF    LIN- 
COLNSHIRE.    (157L) 

Tho  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower. 
The  ringers  rang  by  two,  by  three ; 

"  Pull,  if  yo  never  pulled  before ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he. 

"Play  nppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells! 

Play  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells. 
Play  uppe  'The  Brides  of  Enderby.'" 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it,  Ho  knows 

But  in  niyne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let 

And  there  was  naught  of  stran 

The  flight  of  mews  and  peew' 
V>y  millions  crouched  on  t' 

I  sat  and  spun  within  tlir 

My  thread  brake  off,  I 
The  level  sun,  like  rudd- 

Lay  sinking  in  tho  b 
And  dark  against  day'' 
.'^iie  moved  wliere  Lin 
ily  Sonne's  faire  wif< 

"Cusha!   Cusha!   C 
Ere  the  early  dew 
Farro  away  I  boa 
"Cnsha!   Cusha!" 
Where  tho  reedy 
Floweth 
From  the  meads 
Faintly  came  he 

"Cusha!  Cusha 
"  For  tho  dews 
Leave  your  me; 

Mellov 
Quit  your  co%m 
Come  uppe  Wl 
Quit  the  st.alk 

HolU 
Come  nppe  J< 
From  the  clo 
Come  nppo  \ 
Come  uppe  J 
Jetty,  to  the 


JEAN  INGELOW. 


841 


If  it  be  long — ay,  loug  ago, — 

When  I  Legiinie  to  thiuk  Lowe  loug, 

Agaiue  I  hear  the  Liudis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharp  and  strong ; 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  meo 

Bin  full  of  iloatiug  bells  (sayth  shee). 

That  I'iug  the  tune  of  Euderby. 

Alio  fresh  tlie  level  pasture  lay, 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene. 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene  ; 
A.ud  lo  I   the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
'''as  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
at  Saturday  at  even-tide. 

wannerds  where  their  sedges  are 
^d  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
>herde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
V  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
g  o'er  the  grassy  sea   ' 
1  that  kyudly  message  free, 
of  Mavis  Enderby." 

ed  uppe  into  the  skj', 
where  Lindis  flows 
'dly  vessels  lie, 
lordly  steeple  shows, 
why  should  this  thing  be  ■ 
s  by  land  or  sea  ? 
of  Enderby ! 

Mablethorpe, 
varping  downe ; 
yond  the  scorpe, 
^d  to  wake  the  towne : 
1  red  to  see, 
d  py rates  flee, 
.f  Enderby?'" 

!   my  Sonne 

h  might  and  main  ; 

Irew  on, 

•  again  : 

•ew  breath 
ibeth.) 

)  is  downe, 
ipace, 
owne 
/-place." 
a  death : 


"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he  sayth  ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?" 

"Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  awaj-. 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  loug ; 

And  ere  you  bells  beganue  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking-song." 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 

To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho,  Enderby !" 

They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Euderby  !" 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast, 

For,  lo !   along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis,  backward  pressed, 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine. 
Then  madly  at  the  ej'gre's  breast 

Flung  u^ipe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout— 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat. 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet: 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sat  that  niglit : 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high — 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee. 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "Euderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  I — my  soune  was  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  Oh  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

Oh  lost !   my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And   didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare ; 


842 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETRT. 


Tlje  waters  laid  tliee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  y(!t  tiic  early  dawn  was  clear, 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  sbouo  on  thy  face, 
Dowiie  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  many©  more  than  niyne  and  mee  : 

But  each  will  mouru  his  own  (she  sayth), 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cnsha!"  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha!   Cusha!"   all  along 
^Yhere  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  nielick  groweth. 
When  the  water,  winding  down. 
Onward  lloweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver  ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  tho  sandy,  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow-grasses  mellow, 

JIell(»w,  mellow  ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowsliits  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  your  jiipes  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow  ; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  ri.se  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot. 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jettv,  to  the  milking-shed  !" 


Pocins  under  tlic  pcn-nanic  of  "  Speranza".  appeared 
in  the  DuhJin  yatiou  in  its  palmy  days.  They  proved  to 
be  by  Lady  Wilde,  author  of"  Ugo  Bassi,"  a  talc  in  verse 
(18.57),  and  other  works.  A  collection  of  her  poems  and 
translations  was  published  in  Dublin  (18G4)  by  James 


Duffy.  Most  of  the  })ocms  liavc  a  political  bearing,  and 
arc  alive  with  patriotic  fire.  A  native  of  Ireland,  slie 
was  born  about  1830.  Ilcr  present  residence,  wc  believe, 
is  London,  whither  she  removed  some  years  ago  for  the 
better  education  of  her  sons. 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   POOR. 

Was  ever  sorrow  like  to  our  sorrow? 

O  (iod  above ! 
Will  our  night  never  change  into  a  morrow 

Of  .joy  and  love  ? 
A  deadly  gloom  is  on  us  waking,  sleeping 

Like  the  darkness  at  noontide 
That  fell  upon  the  pallid  nuither,  weep 

By  the  Crucified. 

Before  us  die  onr  brothers,  of  starv? 

Around  are  cries  of  famine  an< 
Where  is  hope  for  us,  or  comfort, 

Where — oh !   where  ? 
If  the  angels  ever  hearken,  dow 

They  are  weeping,  we  are 
xVt  the  litanies  of  human  gro; 

From  the  crushed  heart 

When  the  human  rests  in 

All  grief  is  light ; 
But  who  bends  one  kim" 

Our  life-long  night 
The  air  around  is  rinj" 

Cod  lias  only  m.' 
But  we — in  our  rag.' 
low  after, 

Weeping  the  w 

And  the  laughter  f 

When,  oh  !   wl 
Will  fall  the  froze 

From  other  n 
Will  ignorance  fo 

Will  misery 
All  are  eager  mm 

None,  uoue 

We  never  knew 

Nor  till'  pr 
Oh,adeath-lik( 

Is  life's  w 
Day  by  day  \ 

Till  the 
Falls  crushet" 

Of  pove 


LADY  WILDE.— HELEN  FISKE  JACKSOX. 


843 


So  we  toil  on,  on  with  fever  burning 

In  heart  iuul  brain  ; 
So  we  toil  on,  ou  through  bitter  scorning, 

Want,  woe,  and  pain. 
We  (hire  not  raise  our  eyes  to  the  blue  heaven, 

Or  the  toil  must  cease — 
We  dare  not  breathe  the  fresh  air  God  has  giveu 

One  hour  in  peace. 

We  must  toil  though  the  light  of  life  is  burning. 

Oh,  how  dim  ! 
\''e  must  toil,  on  our  sick-bed  feebly  turning 
Our  eyes  to  Him 

o  aloue  can  hear  the  pale  lip  faintly  saying, 
With  scarce  moved  breath, 

the  paler  hands,  uplifted,  aid  the  in\ayiug : 
ord,  graut  us  Death  .'" 


^)t\t\\  J^iskc  jJackson. 

AMERICAN. 

daughter  of  Professor  N.  W.  Fiske,  was 
Mass.,  in  1S31.     She  was  mavried  to 
\., — who  was  killed  in  1SC3  while  ex- 
submarine  battery, — and  by  a  subse- 
,me  Mrs.  Jackson.      Her  residence 
\.     She  has  published  "  Verses  by 
'.ollcctiou  of  foreign  sketches,  en- 
'  (1873).     Her  poetry  unites  medi- 
iweetness  of  expression.     To  the 
lur  best  female  poet?"  Emerson 
the  word /cma^e.^" 


Y  TO  SING. 

»w.     WHio  wisely  sings 
s  they, 
generous  wings : 
their  way. 

before, 

?e,  or  hour, 

•und  betrays 

w  delays, 
ear. 

\ 
»e  song  is  good." 

isky  wood 


Then,  late  at  night,  when  l>y  his  lire 

The  traveller  sits. 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher. 

The  sweet  song  Hits, 
By  snatches,  through  his  weary  brain. 

To  help  him  rest : 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again, 

An  empty  nest 
Ou  leafless  bough  will  make  him  sigh  : 

"Ah  me!   last  spring. 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  iiassing  by. 

That  rare  bird  sing." 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air ;   and  other  men, 

With  weary  feet. 
On  other  roads,  the  simiile  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 

The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they. 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings  : 

Songs  make  their  way. 


MARCH. 

Beneath  the  sheltering  walls  the  thin  snow  clings; 

Dead  winter's  skeleton,  left  bleaching,  white. 

Disjointed,  crumbling,  on  the  friendly  fields. 

The  inky  pools  surrender  tardily 

At  noon,  to  patient  herds,  a  frosty  drink 

From  jagged  rims  of  Ice  ;   a  subtle  red 

Of  life  is  kindling  everj'  twig  and  stalk 

Of  lowly  meadow  growths ;   the  willows  weep. 

Their  stems  in  furry  white;  the  pines  grow  gray 

A  little,  in  the  ])iting  wind;   mid-day 

Brings  tiny  burrowed  creatures,  peeping  out 

Alert  for  sun.     Ah,  March  !     We  know  thou  art 

Kind-hearted,  spite  of  ugly  looks  and  threats. 

And,  out  of  sight,  art  nursing  April's  violets! 


THOUGHT. 

O  messenger,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  ? 

Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 

Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 

And  heavy  dews  ;   the  morn's  bright,  scornful  eye 


844 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Rciniiuls  tliec  ;   tliou  in  subtle  mockery 
Tlion  sinilest  at  the  window  whore  I  wait, 
Who  l):i(h)  thee  ride  for  life.     In  empty  state 
^ly  days  go  on,  while  false  honrs  prophesy 
Thy  <inick  return  ;   at  last,  in  sad  despair, 
I  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air. 
When  lo !  thou  stand'st  before  me  glad  and  licet, 
And  l.ay'st  uudreamed-of  treasures  at  my  feet. 
Ah,  messenger !   thy  royal  blood  to  buy, 
I  am  too  poor.     Thou  art  the  king,  not  I. 


OCTOBER. 

O  snns  and  skies  and  clouds  of  June, 

And  llowers  of  June  together, 
Ye  cannot  rival  for  one  hour 

October's  bright  blue  weather; 

■When  lond  the  bumblebee  makes  haste. 

Belated,  thriftless  vagrant, 
And  golden-rod  is  dying  fast. 

And  lanes  with  grapes  are  fragrant ; 

When  gentians  roll  their  fringes  tight, 
To  save  them  for  the  morning, 

And  chestnuts  fixll  from  satin  burrs 
Without  a  sonnd  of  warning; 

When  on  the  ground  red  apples  lie 

In  piles,  like  jewels  shining, 
And  redder  still  on  old  stone  walls 

Are  leaves  of  woodbine  twining ; 

Wiicn  all  the  lovelj''  Avay-sido  things 
Their  white-winged  seeds  are  sowing, 

And  in  the  fields,  still  green  and  fair, 
Late  after-maths  are  growing  ; 

When  springs  run  low,  and  on  the  brooks, 

In  idle  gidden  freighting. 
Bright  leaves  sink  noiseless  in  the  hush 

Of  woods,  for  winter  waiting; 

When  comrades  seek  sweet  country  haunts, 

By  twos  and  twos  together, 
And  count  like  misers,  hour  by  hour, 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 

0  snns  and  skies  and  ilowers  of  June, 
Count  all  your  boasts  together, 

Love  loveth  best  of  iiU  the  year 
October's  bright  blue  weather. 


(Hljarlcs   Stuart  CalocrUij. 

Comic  poet,  liynin  writer,  and  translator,  Calverlcy 
(born  1831)  lias  publislied  unilcr  the  initials  "C.S.  C," 
In  London,  "Verses  and  Translations,"  "Translations 
into  English  and  Latin,"  and  "Fly  Leaves"  (1872),  re- 
published in  New  York.  As  a  writer  of  vers  de  socicte, 
lie  ditfers  both  from  Praed  and  Holmes,  and  there  is  a 
decidedly  original  vein  in  his  productions. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  FOURTEENTH 
FEBRUARY. 

Ere  the  morn  the  East  has  crimsoned, 

Wlieu  the  stars  are  twinkling  there 
(As  they  did  in  Watts's  Hymns,'  anc^ 

Made  him  wonder  what  they  we 
When  the  forest  uymphs  are  beat* 

Feru  and  flower  with  silvery  ( 
My  infallible  proceeding 

Is  to  wake,  and  think  of  j'ou 

Wlien  the  hunter's  ringing  hv 

Sounds  farewell  to  field  ar 
And  I  sit  before  my  frngal 

jMeal  of  gravy-sonji  and 
When  (as  Gray  remarks)  ' 

Owl  doth  to  the  moon 
And  the  hour  suggests  e' 

Fly  my  thoughts  to  y 

May  my  dreams  bo  gr 

Must  I  aye  endure 
Rarely  realized,  if  ev 

In  our  wildest  wf 
Madly  Romeo  lovci 

Coppcrtleld  begf 
When  he  hadn't  1 

But  their  love' 

Give  me  hope,  t' 

Ere  I  drain  tl 
Tell  me  I  may 

Not  to  make 
Else  the  heart 

This  my  bre: 
Hushed,  men  a 

They'll  be  t- 


'  An  allusion  probab 
tie  poem  for  children, 


'  Twill  1- 
How 


ISABELLA   (CRAIG)  EXOX.— EDWARD  ROBERT  BULWER-LTTTOX. 


8A^^ 


ilsabclla  ((Eraig)   iinox. 

Mrs.  Knox  lirst  acquired  distinction  in  literature  as 
Miss  Craig,  iu  1859,  by  gaining  the  £50  prize  offered  by 
tlie  Crystal  Palace  Company  for  the  best  ode  on  the  cen- 
tenary celebration  of  the  birth  of  Burns.  She  was  born 
in  ISol,  in  Edinburgh,  and  published  a  volume  of  poems 
in  1850.  

THE   BRIDES   OF   QUAIR. 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house, 

At  evenfall,  iu  nooutide  glare  ; 
Upon  the  silent  hills  looked  forth 

The  mauy-wiudowed  house  of  Quair. 

peacock  ou  the  terrace  screamed  ; 
wsed  ou  the  lawn  the  timid  hare ; 
"^at  trees  grew  i'  the  avenue, 
by  the  sheltered  house  of  Quair. 

'as  still ;   around  its  brim 
I  sickened  all  the  air ; 
o  murmur  from  the  streams, 
"  flowed  Leitheu,  Tweed,  aud  Quair. 

\  their  wonted  pace, 
rt  aud  camp  repair, 
f  good  or  ill, 
',p  the  house  of  Quail*. 

vidow's  weeds, 
-like  aud  fair, 
seek  the  paths 
Ids  of  Quair. 

u  the  streams, 
iflected.  there, 
iden  dreams 
veed  aud  Quair. 

'ct  clad, 
a  chair — 
name — 
•  of  Quair. 

ler  side, 
leu  hair, 
plaint— 
ome  to  Quair. 

ed  in  piue, 
ed  of  care, 
Y  siuned, 
^uair. 


"Alas!   aud  ere  thy  father  died, 

I  had  not  iu  his  heart  a  share; 
Aud  now — may  God  forefeud  her  ill — 

Thy  brother  brings  his  bride  to  Quair!" 

She  came  ;   they  kissed  her  iu  the  hall, 
They  kissed  her  ou  the  winding  stair ; 

They  led  her  to  her  chamber  high — 
The  fairest  iu  the  house  of  Quair. 

'"Tis  fair,"  she  said,  on  looking  forth; 

"But  what  although  'twere  bleak  aud  bare?" 
She  looked  the  love  she  did  uot  speak, 

Aud  broke  the  ancient  curse  of  Quair. 

"  Where'er  he  dwells,  where'er  he  goes. 
His  dangers  aud  his  toils  I  share." 

What  need  be  said,  she  was  not  one 
Of  the  ill-fated  brides  of  Quair ! 


(J:^llmrll  Uobcrt  I3uliucr.£jitton. 

Under  the  name  of  "  Owen  Meredith,"  Lord  Lytton 
the  younger,  born  in  1831,  has  published  sevei-al  volumes 
of  verse,  among  them  a  rhymed  romance  (I860),  entitled 
"Lucille."  He  is  the  only  son  of  the  first  Lord  Lytton, 
better  known  as  Bulwer,  the  novelist,  and  inherits  much 
of  his  father's  talent.  For  about  twenty  years  he  was 
engaged  in  diplomatic  service,  aud  in  1876  was  appoint- 
ed Viceroy  of  India;  a  post  from  which  lie  withdrew  in 
1880.  He  has  written  fluently  and  well,  tliough  there  is 
a  lack  of  concentration  and  care  manifest  in  several  of 
his  poems.  Republished  iu  Boston,  they  liave  passed 
through  several  editions. 


LEOLINE. 

In  the  molten-golden  moonlight, 

In  the  deep  grass  warm  and  dry. 
We  watched  the  fire-fly  rise  and  swim 

Iu  floating  sparkles  by. 
All  night  the  hearts  of  nightingales. 

Song-steeping  slumberous  leaves, 
Flowed  to  us  in  the  shadow  there 

Below  the  cottage  eaves. 

We  sang  our  songs  together 

Till  the  stars  shook  in  the  skies. 
We  spoke — we  spoke  of  common  things. 

Yet  the  tears  were  in  our  eyes. 
And  mj'  hand — I  know  it  trembled 

To  each  light,  warm  touch  of  thine  ; 
But  we  were  friends,  aud  only  friends, 

My  sweet  friend,  Leoline  ! 


846 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


How  large  the  wbite  moon  looked,  dear! 

There  has  not  ever  been, 
Since  those  old  nights,  the  same  great  light 

In  the  moons  whicli  I  have  seen. 
I  often  wonder  when  I  think, 

If  you  have  thongbt  so  too, 
And  the  moonlight  lias  grown  dimmer,  dear. 

Than  it  used  to  bo  to  you. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  warm  west  wind 

Comes  faint  across  the  sea. 
It  seems  that  you  bave  breathed  on  it, 

So  sweet  it  comes  to  me. 
And  sometimes,  when  the  long  light  wanes 

In  one  deep  crimsou  line, 
I  muse,  "And  does  she  watch  it  too. 

Far  off,  sweet  Leoliue  ?" 

And  often,  leaning  all  day  long 

My  head  upon  my  hands, 
My  heart  aches  for  the  vanished  time 

In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands  ; 
Thinking  sadly — "  Is  she  happy  ? 

Has  she  tears  for  those  old  hours  ? 
And  the  cottage  in  the  starlight  ? 

And  the  songs  among  the  flowers  ?" 

One  night  we  sat  below  the  porch. 

And  out  in  that  warm  air 
A  fire-fly,  like  a  dying  star, 

Fell  tangled  in  her  hair ; 
But  I  kissed  him  lightly  ofl"  again, 

And  he  glittered  up  the  vine. 
And  died  into  the  darkness 

For  the  love  of  Leoline  ! 

Between  two  songs  of  Petrarch 

I've  a  purple  rose-leaf  pressed, 
More  sweet  than  common  rose-leaves, 

For  it  once  lay  in  her  breast. 
When  she  gave  me  that,  her  eyes  were  wet ; 

The  rose  was  full  of  dew. 
The  rose  is  withered  long  ago ! 

The  page  is  blistered,  too. 

There's  a  blue  flower  in  my  garden. 

The  bee  loves  more  tlian  ail ; 
The  bee  and  I,  we  love  it  both. 

Though  it  is  frail  and  small. 
She  loved  it,  too — long,  long  ago  ; 

Her  love  was  less  tlian  mine. 
Still  we  were  friends,  but  only  friends, 

My  lost  love,  Leoline! 


(!:lbrii)qc  iJcffcrson  Cutler. 


Cutler  (1831-1870)  was  a  native  of  Holliston,  Mass.,  and 
a  graduate  of  Harvard  (1853).     In  1863  a  volume  of  lii.- 
poeins  was  published  in  Boston.     They  were  mostly  o 
tlienies  sugi^ested  by  the  war,  and  had  the  true  Tyrtse 
ring.    He  seems  to  have  been  unaffected  by  the  influe 
of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  and  the  school  wliich  • 
initiated.     Ills  style  resembles  more  that  of  Macr 
of  whom,  however,  he  was  by  no  means  an  iniitat 


A  POEM  FOR  THE  HOUR.     (18P 
From  "  Liberty  and  Law." 

O  Law,  fair  form  of  Liberty  !     God's  lig 

brow, 
O  Liberty,  the  soul  of  Law  !     God's 
One  the  clear  river's  sparkling  flood  * 

bank  with  green, 
And  one  the  lino  of  stubborn  roc" 

waters  in  ; 
Friends  whom  we  cannot  think 

other's  foe ; — 
Twin  flowers  upon  a  single  st 

that  grow ; — 
O  fair  ideas !  we  write  you 

ner's  fold ; 
For  you  the  sluggard's  br; 

ard  bold. 
O  daughter   of  the  bl 

Prophets  saw ! 
(iod  give  us  Law  in 

Full  many  a  heart  if 

pain 
For  those  Avho  go  f 

come  again. 
And  many  a  heart 

behind, 
As  a  thousand  ten 

mind. 
The  old  men  bless 

bearing  hif 
The  women  in  t^ 

bravely  b 
One  threw  her  aJ 

bye,  my 
God  help  thee  < 

have  d« 
One  held  up  f 
And  said,  "  I 

and  t 


ELBBIDGE  JEFFERSON  CUTLER. 


847 


And  ono,  ;i  rose-bud  iu  ber  baud,  leaned  at  a  sol- 
dier's side ; — 

"  Thy  country  weds  thee  first,"  she  said ;  **  be  I  tby 
second  bride  I" 

O  raotbers !   when  around  your  hearths  ye   count 

your  cherished  ones, 
And  miss  from  the  enchanted  ring  the  flower  of  all 

your  sons ; 
O  wives!   when  o'er  the  cradled  child  ye  bend  at 

evening's  fall, 
And  voices   which  the  heart  can  hear  across  the 

distance  call; 
O  maids!   when  iu  the  sleepless  nights  ye  ope  the 

little  case, 
And  look  till  ye  can  look  no  more  upon  the  proud 

young  face  ; — 
Xot  only  pray  the  Lord  of  life,  who  measures  mor- 
tal breath, 
To  bring  the  absent  back  unscathed  out  of  the  fire 

of  death, — 
Oil!    pray  with  that  divine  content  which  God's 

best  favor  draws. 
That,  whosoever  lives  or  dies, he  save  His  holy  cause! 

So  out  of  shop  and  farm-house,  from  shore  and  in- 
land glen, 

Thick  as  the  bees  iu  clover -time  are  swarming 
arm(5d  men  ; 

Along  the  dusty  roads  iu  baste  the  eager  columns 
come. 

With  flash  of  sword  and  musket's  gleam,  tlie  bugle 
and  the  drum. 

Ho !  comrades,  see  the  starry  flag,  broad-waving  at 
our  head ! 

Ho !  comrades,  mark  the  tender  light  on  the  dear 
.    emblems  spread! 

Our  fathers'  blood  has  hallowed  it ;  'tis  part  of 
their  renown ; 

And  palsied  be  the  caitiff-hand  would  pluck  its  glo- 
ries down ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  it  is  our  home  where'er  thy  col- 
ors fly  : 

We  win  with  thee  the  victory,  or  iu  thy  shadow  die. 

O  women  !  drive  the  rattling  loom,  and  gather  in 
the  hay  ; 

For  all  the  youth  worth  love  and  truth  are  mar- 
shalled for  the  fray : 

Southward  the  hosts  are  hurrying  with  banners  wide 
unfurled, 

From  where  the  stately  Hudson  floats  the  Avealth 
of  half  the  world ; 


Fi-oin  where  amid  his  clustered  isles  Lake  Huron's 

waters  gleam  ; 
From  Avhere   the  Mississippi  pours   an   unpolluted 

stream  ; 
From  where  Kentucky's  fields  of  corn  bend  in  the 

Southern  air ; 
From   broad   Ohio's  luscious  vines ;    from  Jersey's 

orchards  fair ; 
From  where  between  his  fertile  slopes  Nebraska's 

rivers  run  ; 
From  Pennsylvania's  irou  hills  ;   from  woody  Ore- 
gon ; 
And  Massachusetts  led  the  van,  as  in  the  days  of 

yore. 
And  gave  her  reddest  blood  to  cleanse  the  stones 

of  Baltimore. 

O  mothers,  sisters,  daughters !  spare  the  tears  ye 

fain  would  shed  : 
Who  seem  to  die  iu  such  a  cause,  ye  cannot  call 

them  dead ; 
They  live  upon  the  lips  of  men,  in  picture,  bust, 

and  song ; 
And  nature  folds  them  in  her  heart  and  keeps  them 

safe  from  wrong. 
Oh !   length  of  days  is  not  a  boon  the  brave  man 

prayeth  for; 
There  are  a  thousand  evils  worse  thau  death  or  any 

war, — 
Oppression  with  his  iron  strength,  fed  on  the  souls 

of  meu  ; 
And  license  with  the  hungry  brood  that  haunt  his 

ghastly  den. 
But  like  bright  stars  ye  fill  the  eye, — adoring  hearts 

ye  draw, 
O  sacred  grace  of  Liberty!  O  majesty  of  Law! 

Hurrah!  the  drums  are  beating;  the  fife  is  calling 

shrill ; 
Ten  thousand  starry  banners  flame  on  town,  and 

bay,  and  hill  ; 
The  thunders  of  the  rising  war  drown  Labor's  peace- 
ful hum  ; 
Thank  God  that  wo  have  lived  to  see  the  saffron 

morning  come ! 
The  morning  of  the   battle -call,  to   every  soldier 

dear, — 
O  joy!  the  cry  is  "Forward!"     O  joy!  the  foe  is 

near ! 
For  all  the  crafty  men  of  peace  have  failed  to  purge 

the  land  ; 
Hurrah !  the  ranks  of  battle  close ;   God  takes  his 

cause  in  hand ! 


848 


CYCLOPMDIA   OF  BlilTISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


illattljias  Barr 


Barr,  born  in  Edinburgh  in  18:il,  was  the  son  of  a 
German  watch-maker.  Removing'  to  London,  he  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  "Poems"  in  1805,  and  the  followinji^ 
year  issued  the  "Child's  Garland,"  which  was  well  re- 
ceived. A  revised  and  enlarged  edition  of  his  "  Poems  " 
appeared  in  1870.  His  songs  and  rliymes  for  the  young 
liavc  earned  him  the  title  of  "  Tlie  Children's  Poet- 
laureate." 

GOD'S  FLOWERS. 

Look  up,  sweet  wife,  tlirongh  happy  tears. 
And  sec  our  tiny  buds  ablow, 
With  yearning  souls  that  strive  to  show, 

And  burst  tbo  tender  green  of  years. 

So  sweet  tbey  hang  upon  life's  stem, 
Their  beauty  stills  our  very  breath, 
As,  thinking  of  the  spoiler,  Death, 

We  bend  in  silence  over  them, — 

And  slied  our  dew  of  praise  and  prayer 
On  hearts  that  turn  toward  tbo  sun, 
And  watch  the  leaflets,  one  by  one, 

That  scent  for  us  the  coninion  air. 

And  she,  our  latest  blossom  given. 

That  source  bath  lost  the  diniple-toucb 
Of  God's  own  fingers,  and,  as  snch. 

Still  pulses  to  tbo  throb  of  heaven  ; 

And  blind  with  brightness  of  bis  face. 
Lies  dreaming  in  a  nest  of  love, 
With  ears  that  catch  the  sounds  that  move 

And  swell  around  the  Throne  of  Grace ! — 

All!   bow  for  her  our  hearts  will  peer 

And  look,  with  faith,  through  swimming  oy(;s, 
For  balmy  winds  and  summer  skies, 

And  tremble  when  a  cloud  is  near. 

Dear  flowers  of  God!   bow  n)uch  wo  owe 
To  what  yon  give  us,  all  unsought — 
The  grandeur  and  the  glory^  caught 

From  bills  where  truth  and  wisdom  grow. 

ISCC. 


ONLY  A   BABY   SJL\LL. 

Only  a  baby  small, 

Dropped  from  tbo  skies ; 
Only  a  laughing  face, 

Two  sunny  eyes  ; 


Only  two  cherry  lips. 
One  chubby  nose  ; 

Only  two  little  bauds, 
Ten  little  toes. 

Only  a  golden  bead. 

Curly  and  soft ; 
Only  a  tongue  that  wags 

Loudly  and  oft ; 
Onlj^  a  little  brain. 

Empty  of  thought ; 
Only  a  little  heart, 

Troubled  with  naught. 

Only  a  tender  flower 

Scut  us  to  rear; 
Only  a  life  to  love, 

While  we  are  here  ; 
Only  a  baby  small. 

Never  at  rest ; 
Small,  but  bow-  dear  to  us, 

God  kuoweth  best. 


^o,\\\  C)amilton  fjaijnc. 

AMERICAN. 

Hayne  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  in  1831.  He  pub- 
lished volumes  of  poems  as  early  as  1855  and  1857;  and 
in  1859  appeared  his  "  Avolio :  a  Legend  of  the  Island  of 
Cos,  with  otlicr  Poems,  Lyrical,  Miscellaneous,  and  Dra- 
matic." He  has  since  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
leading  magazines.  He  is  the  author  of  an  excellent  me- 
moir of  Henry  Timrod,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  Ameri- 
can poets ;  and  Hayne  himself  Avritcs  as  if  he  too  had 
been  "in  Arcadia  born." 


FROM  THE  WOODS. 

Why  should  T,  with  a  mournful,  morbid  spleen, 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  balf-dcsert  scene. 

My  lot  is  placed? 
At  least  the  poct-wiuds  arc  bold  and  loud, — • 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud, 
And  forests  old  and  jiroud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the  waste. 

Percbanco  'tis  best  that  I,  whoso  Fate's  eclipse 
Seems  final, — I,  whose  sluggish  life-wave  slips 

Languid  away, — 
Should  here,  within  these  lowly  Avalks,  apart 
From  the  fierce  tbi'obbings  of  the  populous  mart, 
Commune  with  mine  own  heart, 
While  Wisdom  blooms  from  buried  Hope's  decay. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE.— ELIZABETH  AEEBS  ALLEN. 


849 


Nature,  though  wild  her  forms,  sustains  me  still ; 
The  founts  arc  musical, — the  baneu  hill 

Glows  with  strange  lights  ; 
Through  soloum  piue-groves  the  small  rivulets 

Ih'ct, 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  Naiad's  silvery  feet, 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat, 
Glanced  through  the  star-gleams  ou  calm  summer 
nights; 

And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven  above, 
Darkens  with  storms  or  melts  in  hues  of  love; 

While  fiir  remote, 
Just  where  the  sunlight  smites  the  woods  with 

fire. 
Wakens  the  multitudinous  sylvan  choir ; 
Their  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  harmonious  throat. 

My  walls  are  crumbling,  but  immortal  looks 
Smile  on  me  here  from  faces  of  rare  books : 

Shakspeare  consoles 
My  heart  with  true  philosophies  ;   a  balm 
Of  spiritual  dews  from  humbler  song  or  psalm 
Fills  me  with  tender  calm, 
Or  through  hushed  heavens  of  soul  Milton's  deep 
thunder  rolls! 

And  more  than  all,  o'er  shattered  wrecks  of  Fate, 
The  relics  of  a  happier  time  and  state, 

My  nobler  life 
Shines  on  unquenched !    O  deathless  love  that  lies 
In  the  clear  midnight  of  those  passionate  eyes ! 

Joy  waneth  !     Fortune  flies  ! 
What  then  ?     Thou  still  art  here,  soul  of  ray  soul, 

my  Wife! 


LYKIC   OF  ACTION. 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood 

O'er  the  past  that  is  withered  and  dead  : 

What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  and  dust  ? 
What  though  the  heart's  music  be  fled  ? 
Still  shine  the  grand  heavens  o'erhead, 

Whence  the  voice  of  an  angel  thrills  clear  on  the 
soul, 

"  Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press  on  to  the  goal !" 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy  youth 

Are  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear. 
What  hope  can  rebloom  on  the  desolate  waste 

Of  a  jealous  and  craven  despair  ? 

Down,  down  with  the  fetters  of  fear  I 
54 


In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  manhood  arise, 
With  the  faith  that  ilhuncs  and  the  will  that  defies. 

^' Too  late!"  through  God's  infinite  world, 
From  His  throne  to  life's  nethermost  fires — 

"  I'oo  late!"  is  a  phantom  that  flies  at  the  dawn 
Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  aspires. 
If  pure  thou  hast  made  thy  desires, 

There's  no  height  the  strong  wings  of  immortals 
may  gain 

Which  in  striving  to  reach  thoti  shalt  strive  for  in 


Then  up  to  the  contest  with  fate. 

Unbound  by  the  past,  which  is  dead ! 

What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  aud  dust  ? 
W^hat  though  the  heart's  music  be  fled  ? 
Still  shine  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead ; 

And  sublime  as  the  angel  who  rules  in  the  sun 

Beams  the  promise  of  peace  when  the  conflict  is  won ! 


SONNET. 

Day  follows  day ;   years  perish  ;   still  mine  eyes 

Are  opened  on  the  self-same  round  of  space  ; 

You  fadeless  forests  in  their  Titan  grace, 

And  the  large  splendors  of  those  opulent  skies. 

I  watch,  unwearied,  the  miraculous  dyes 

Of  dawn  or  sunset ;   the  soft  boughs  which  lace 

Eouud  some  coy  Dryad  in  a  lonely  place, 

Thrilled  with  low  whispering  and  strange  sylvan 

sighs : 
Weary  ?     The  poet's  mind  is  fresh  as  dew. 
And  oft  refilled  as  fountains  of  the  light. 
His  clear  child's  soul  finds  something  sweet  and  new 
Even  in  a  weed's  heart,  the  carved  leaves  of  corn, 
The  spear-like  grass,  the  silvery  rime  of  morn, 
A  cloud  rose-edged,  and  fleeting  stars  at  night ! 


(gli^abctl)  ^Tlltcrs  ailcn. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Allen,  a  native  of  Strong,  Franklin  County,  Me., 
was  born  October  i^tli,  1832,  and  married  in  1860  to  Paul 
Aker?,  the  sculptor,  wlio  died  in  1861.  Slie  subsequently 
became  the  wife  of  Mr.  E.  M.  Allen,  of  New  York.  Her 
early  poems  appeared  under  the  tiom  de  2^lwne  of  Flor- 
ence Percy.  An  edition  of  her  works  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1867.  Her  popular  poem  of  "Rock  Me  to 
Sleep"  has  had  many  claimants,  whose  persistency  can 
be  explained  only  by  the  theory  of  kleptomania.     There 


850 


CTCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMEIilCAN  POETRY. 


is  a  peculiar  charni  in  nearly  all  lier  lyrical  productions  : 
they  are  as  rcinaikuble  for  tenderness  and  i)allios  as  for 
tlieir  artistic  construction.  Her  residence  is  Greenville, 
N.J. 


ROCK   ME   TO   SLEEP. 

backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  tli;;iit, 
Make  nic  ji  child  a^ain,just  for  to-night; 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  ccholcss  shore  ; 
Take  nie  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore  ; 
Kiss  from  iny  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  tlie  few  silver  tlireads  out  of  my  hair; 
Over  my  shimbers  your  loving  watch  keep — 
Rock  mo  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Backward,  How  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears — 

Toil  without  recompense — tears  all  in  vain — 

Take  them  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay — 

Weary  of  Hinging  my  soul-wealth  away; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap — 

Rock  mo  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue. 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you. 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green. 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between  ; 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence,  so  long  and  so  deep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  ilown, 
No  love  like  mother-lovo  ever  lias  shone; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours; 
None  like  a  mother  can  charni  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again,  as  of  old  ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep. 

Mother,  dear  nu»ther,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song ; 


Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace. 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  .sleep. 


TILL  DEATH. 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  friend — 

To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole  life  long, 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall  end — 
Nay — it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so ; 

I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet  grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose  to  go — 
Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 

My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk  serene 

In  clearer  light  than  gilds  these  earthlj-  morns, 
Above  the  jealousies  and  envies  keen 

Which  sow  this  life  Avith  thorns. 

Thou  wouldst  not  feel  my  shadowy  caress. 

If,  after  death,  ray  soul  should  linger  here  ; 
Men's  hearts  crave  tangible,  close  tenderness, 
Love's  presence  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peacefully 
That  thou  wert  wasting  all  thy  life  in  woe 
For  my  poor  sake ;   what  love  thou  hast  for  me. 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go. 

Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  am  dead 

Tlie  praises  which  remorseful  mourners  give 
To  women's  graves — a  tardy  recompense — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my  head, 

To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  tlie  dew  ; 
Let  small  blooms  grow  there,  and  the  grasses  wave, 
And  rain-drops  tilter  through. 

Thou  wilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more  gay 

Tlian  I — but,  trust  me,  thou  canst  never  find 
One  who  will  love  and  servo  thee,  night  and  day, 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Forget  me  when  I  die  ;   the  violets 

Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  as  blue, 
Nor  miss  thy  teafs  ;   ev'u  Nature's  self  forgets ; 
But  while  I  live  be  true. 


EDWIN  ARNOLD. 


Hoi 


Bora  iu  London  in  1S3'2,  Arnold  was  educated  at  Ox- 
ford, and  in  1852  obtained  tlie  Newdigate  prize  for  a 
poem  on  Belsliazzar's  feast.  A  profieient  in  Sanscrit 
and  Arabic,  he  is  a  member  of  tlie  Order  of  the  Star  of 
India.  He  Las  written  "Griselda,"  a  drama;  "Poems, 
Narrative  and  Lj-rical ;"  "Education  in  India;"  "  Tliu 
Poets  of  Greece"  (1SG9),  besides  several  translations  and 
contributions  to  tlie  magazines.  His  longest  poem,  "  The 
Light  of  Asia"  (1880),  is  founded  on  the  history  of 
Prince  Gautama,  who  became  the  Buddlia  of  Oriental 
worship,  and  who  flourished  about  543  B.C.  In  regard 
to  the  doctrine  of  "  Nirvana,"  Arnold  has  "a  firm  con- 
viction that  a  third  of  mankind  would  never  have  been 
brought  to  believe  in  blank  abstraction,  or  in  nothing- 
ness as  the  issue  and  crown  of  Being."  Still,  he  leaves 
the  question  obscure,  for  he  saj-s  : 

"  If  auy  teach  Nirvana  is  to  cease, 

Say  iiuto  snch  they  lie. 
If  auy  teach  Nirvana  is  to  live, 

Say  unto  such  they  err;  not  knowing  this, 
Nor  what  light  shines  beyond  their  broken  lumps, 

Nor  lifeless,  timeless  bliss." 

The  original  American  publishers  of  this  noble  epic  are 
Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  who  share  their  profits  with 
the  author.  It  passed  through  nineteen  editions  in  less 
than  a  year.  Arnold  became  connected  with  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  the  Daihj  Telegraph,  London,  in  18G1.  In 
1879  he  travelled  in  Egypt,  and  in  1880  withdrew  from 
his  connection  with  the  Press. 


AFTER  DEATH   IN  ARABIA.' 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  Lis  friends. 

Faithful  friends !     It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow  ; 
And  ye  say,  "Abdullah's  dead!" 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  bead. 
1  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers ; 
Yet  I  smile,  and  whisper  this  : — 
"  I  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss ; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie  ; 
It  lias  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

'  This  remarkable  poem  has  been  often  reciied  at  funerals  in 
America.  An  Aiabic  poet  of  the  twelfth  century  sceras  to  have 
sufTgested  it  in  lines  which  liave  l)eeu  thus  translated: 

"  When  I  am  robed  in  the  habiliments  of  the  giave,  my  friends 
will  weep  for  me.  Say  to  them  that  this  insensible  corpse  is 
not  I.  It  is  my  body,  l)ut  I  no  lonijer  dwell  in  it.  I  am  now 
a  life  that  is  inextinguishable.  Tlie  remains  they  contemplate 
have  been  my  temporary  abode,  my  clothing  for  a  day.  I  am  a 
bird  ;  the  corpse  was  my  cage.  I  have  unfolded  my  wings,  and 
fled  my  prison.  I  am  the  pearl  ;  it  was  the  shell,  now  of  no 
value.  *  *  *  Aly  voyage  is  terminated.  I  leave  you  in  exile.  Let 
the  shell  perish  with  the  illusions  of  earth.  i)o  not  say  of  the 
dead,  this  is  death,  for  it  is  iu  reality  the  veritable  life." 

We  are  indebted  to  the  author  for  a  corrected  copy  of  the 
poem,  into  which  had  crept  several  errors.  The  word  Azan  re- 
fers to  the  hour  of  Moslem  prayer. 


Sweet  friends!    what  the  women  lave, 

For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 

Is  a  hut  which  I  am  quitting, 

Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 

Is  a  cage,  from  Avhich  at  last, 

Like  a  hawk,  my  soul  hath  passed. 

Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room — • 

The  wearer,  not  the  garb — the  jiliune 

Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 

Wliich  kept  him  from  the  splendid  stars. 

Loving  friends!     Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightw^ay  every  Aveeping  eye; 
Wiiat  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear, 
'Tis  an  empty  sea-shcU — one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  lias  gone ; 
The  shell  is  hroken — it  lies  there; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 
'Tis  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  loved  him  :   let  it  lie ! 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  His  store ! 

Allah  glorious  !     Allah  good  ! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood  ; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ! 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
^Vhile  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead. 
Lives  and  loves  you  ;   lost,  'tis  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you; 
But  in  the  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  nufulfilled  felicity — ■ 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends!     Yet  not  farewell; 
Where  I  am,  ye  too  shall  dwell, 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space  ; 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepped. 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept ; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain  — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  ; 
Only  not  at  death — for  death, 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 


852 


CYCLOPMDIA    OF  BRlTISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


lie  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 

Viewed  fioin  Allah's  throne  above ; 

Be  ye  stont  of  heart,  and  come 

Bravely  onward  to  yoirr  home ! 

La  Allah  ilia  Allah!  yea! 

Thon  Love  divine!     Thou  Love  alwny! 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  liis  grave. 


A  MA  FUTUKE. 

Where  waitest  thou, 
Lady  I  am  to  love  ?     Thou  comcst  not, 
Thou  knowest  of  n)y  sad  and  lonely  lot — 

I  looked  for  thee  ere  now. 

It  is  the  May, 
And  each  sweet  sister  soul  hath  found  its  brother; 
Only  we  two  seek  fondly  each  the  other, 

And  seeking,  still  delay. 

Where  art  thou,  sweet  ? 
I  long  for  thee  as  thirsty  lips  for  streams ; 
O  gentle  promised  angel  of  my  dreams, 

Why  do  we  never  meet  ? 

Thou  art  as  I — 
Thy  soul  doth  wait  for  mine,  as  mine  for  thee : 
We  cannot  live  apart — must  meeting  be 

Never  before  we  die  ? 

Dear  soul,  not  so! 
For  time  doth  keep  for  us  some  happy  years, 
And  God  hath  portioned  ns  our  smiles  and  tears, 

Thou  knowest,  and  I  know. 

Yes,  we  shall  meet ; 
And  therefore  let  our  searching  be  the  stronger; 
Dark  ways  of  life  shall  not  divide  us  longer, 

Nor  doubt,  nor  danger,  sweet. 

Therefore  I  bear 
This  winter-tide  as  bravely  as  I  may, 
Patiently  waiting  for  the  bright  spring  day 

Tliat  Cometh  witli  thee,  dear. 

.    'Tis  the  May  light 
That  crimsons  all  the  quiet  college  gloom ; 
May  it  shine  softly  in  thy  sleeping-room — 
And  so,  dear  wife,  good-night ! 


3amcs  K.  Dombarb. 

AMERICAN. 

Born  January  l.otli,  1833,  in  Burlington,  N.  Y.,  Lom- 
bard moved  to  Springfield,  Mass.,  with  his  parents.  It 
had  been  the  liomc  of  liis  ancestors  since  1040,  and  there 
he  was  educated.  He  studied  for  the  niinistrj',  and  was 
settled  over  a  congregation  in  Fairfield,  Coini. 


"NOT  AS  THOUGH  I  HAD  ALREADY  AT- 
TAINED." 

Not,  my  soul,  what  thou  hast  done. 

But  what  thou  art  doing ; 
Not  the  course  which  thou  hast  run, 

But  which  thou'rt  pursuing ; 
Not  the  prize  already  won. 

But  that  thon  art  wooing. 

Thy  progression,  not  thy  rest, — 

Striving,  not  attaining, — 
Is  the  measure  and  the  test 

Of  thy  hope  remaining ; 
Not  in  gain  thou'rt  half  so  blessed 

As  in  conscious  gaining. 

If  thou  to  the  Past  wilt  go, 

Of  Experience  learning, 
Faults  and  follies  it  can  show, — 

Wisdom  dearly  earning ; 
But  the  path  once  trodden,  know, 

Hath  no  more  returning. 

Let  not  thy  good  hope  depart, 

Sit  not  down  bewailing; 
Rouse  thy  strength  anew,  brave  heart! 

'Neath  despair's  assailing  : 
Tliis  will  give  thee  fairer  start, — 

Knowledge  of  thy  failing. 

Y'et  shall  every  rampant  wrong 

In  the  dust  be  lying, — 
Soon  thy  foes,  though  proud  and  strong. 

In  defeat  be  flying  ; 
Then  shall  a  triumphant  soug 

Take  the  place  of  sighing. 


ilVilliam  lUallacc  C)arncji. 

AMERICAN. 

Harney  was  born  in  18.32  at  Bloomington,  Ind.,  where 
his  father  was  professor  of  mathematics  in  the  Universi- 
ty.   His  parents  moved  to  Kentucky  when  William  was 


WILLIAM  WALLACE  HARNEY.— LEWIS  MOEIilS. 


853 


yet  a  child,  and  he  entered  Louisville  College.  At  the 
close  of  his  educational  course  he  taug'ht  school  for 
awhile,  then  studied  law,  but  in  1859  became  connected 
as  editor  with  the  Louisville  Daily  Democrat,  since  which 
his  labors  have  left  him  but  brief  opi^ortunities  for  the 
cultivation  of  poetry. 


JIMMY'S   WOOING. 

The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
The  wind  came  blowing-  out  of  the  West : 
It  stirred  the  green  leaves  out  of  tlieir  rest, 
And  rocked  the  bluebird  up  in  his  uest, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  bay. 

The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 
And  rustling  leaves  made  a  pleasant  sound, 
Like  children  babbling  all  around — 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  haj'. 

Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 
With  wee  light  foot,  so  trim  and  sly. 
And  sunburnt  cheek  and  laughing  eye — 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

A  rustic  Ruth  in  liuscy  gown — 

And  Jimmj"  mowed  the  haj' ; 
A  rustic  Ruth  in  liusey  gown. 
He  watched  her  .soft  cheeks'  changing  brown, 
And  the  long  dark  lash  that  trembled  down, 

Whenever  he  looked  that  way. 

Oh !   Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold. 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay; 
Oh !   Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold  ; 
But  Jimmy  thought  her  shy  and  cold. 
And  more  he  thought  than  e'er  he  told, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain. 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
Tlie  rain  came  pattering  down  amain  ; 
And  under  the  thatch  of  the  laden  wain, 
Jimmy  and  Milly,  a  cunning  twain, 

Sat  sheltered  by  the  hay. 

The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay  ; 
The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in, 


And  laughed  and  prattled  in  a  din, 
Over  that  which  they  saw  within, 
Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast. 
Under  the  thatch  of  hay  ; 

For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast. 

Like  a  wild  bird  fluttering  to  its  uest ; 

And  then  I'll  swear  she  looked  her  best 
Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out 

Over  the  ruined  hay — 
And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 
Milly  had  ceased  to  pet  and  pout, 
And  twittering  birds  began  to  shout, 

As  if  for  a  wedding-day. 


£cu)i5  illoriis. 

Morris,  born  at  Carmarthen,  South  Wales,  Jan.  23d, 
1833,  graduated  at  Oxford  with  the  highest  classical 
honors  in  1855;  studied  law^,  and  practised  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  till  1873.  His  "Songs  of  Two  Worlds"  appeared  in 
three  series  iu  1872, 1874,  and  1875.  His  "  Epic  of  Hades," 
which  was  not  published  in  its  completed  form  till  1878, 
has  passed  through  ten  editions  iu  England,  and  been  re- 
published by  Koberts  Brothers,  Boston.  In'1878  appear- 
ed "Gwen;"  and  in  1880  "The  Ode  of  Life."  Morris  is 
the  representative  of  an  old  Welsh  family,  and  is  a  great- 
grandson  of  Lewis  Morris  (1702-1705),  the  Welsh  anti- 
quary and  poet. 


IT   SHALL   BE   WELL. 

If  thou  shalt  be  in  heart  a  child, 
Forgiving,  tender,  meek,  and  mild. 
Though  with  light  stains  of  earth  defiled, 
O  soul,  it  shall  be  well. 

It  shall  be  well  with  thee  indeed, 
Whate'er  thy  race,  thy  tongue,  thy  creed. 
Thou  shalt  not  lose  thy  fitting  meed  ; 
It  shall  he  surely  well. 

Not  where,  nor  how,  nor  when  we  know, 
Nor  by  what  stages  thou  shalt  grow ; 
We  may  but  whisper  faint  and  low. 
It  shall  bo  surely  well. 

It  shall  be  well  with  thee,  oh,  soul, 
Though  the  heavens  wither  like  a  scroll, 
Though  sun  and  nu)on  forget  to  roll, — 
O  soul,  it  shall  be  well. 


854 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


DEAR  LITTLE  HAND. 

Di'.ir  little  hand  that  clasps  my  own, 

Embrowned  with  toil  and  soamod  with  strife; 

Pink  little  fingers  not  yet  grown 
To  tlio  poor  strength  of  after-life, — 
Dear  little  hand! 

Di'ar  little  eyes  which  smile  on  mine, 
With  the  first  peep  of  luoruiug  light; 

Now  April-wet  with  tears,  or  fine 

With  dews  of  pity,  or  laughing  bright. 
Dear  little  eyes  I 

Dear  little  voice,  whose  broken  speech 
All  eloquent  utterance  can  transcend ; 

Sweet  childish  wisdom  strong  to  reach 
A  holier  deep  than  love  or  friend  : 
Dear  little  voice  ! 

Dear  little  life !  my  care  to  keep 
From  every  spot  and  stain  of  sin  ; 

Sweet  soul  foredoomed,  for  joy  or  pain, 
To  struggle  and — which?   to  fall  or  win? 
Dread  mystical  life  I 


THE  TREASURE  OF  HOPE. 

O  fair  bird,  singing  in  the  woods, 

To  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun, 
Does  ever  any  throb  of  pain 

Thrill  through  thee  ere  thy  song  be  done: 
Because  the  summer  fleets  so  fast  ; 

IJecause  the  autumn  fades  so  soon  ; 
Because  the  deadly  winter  treads 

So  closely  on  tlic  steps  of  June  ? 

O  sweet  maid,  opening  like  a  rose 

In  Love's  mysterious,  honeyed  air. 
Dost  think  sometimes  the  day  will  come 

When  thou  shalt  be  no  longer  fair : 
When  Love  will  leave  thco  and  pass  on 

To  younger  and  to  brighter  eyes  ; 
And  thon  shalt  live  unloved,  alone, 

A  dull  life,  only  dowered  with  sighs? 

O  brave  youth,  panting  for  the  fight, 
To  conquer  wrong  and  win  thee  fame, 

Dost  see  thyself  grown  old  and  spent, 
And  thine  a  still  unhonored  name  : 

When  all  thy  hopes  have  come  to  naught. 
And  all  thy  fair  schemes  droop  and  pine  ; 


And  Wrong  still  lifts  her  hydra  heads 
To  fall  to  stronger  arms  than  thine  ? 

Nay ;   song  and  love  and  lofty  aims 

May  never  be  where  faith  is  not ; 
Sfrong  souls  within  the  present  live; 

Tlie  future  veiled, — the  past  forgot : 
Grasping  what  is,  with  hands  of  steel, 

They  bend  what  shall  be,  to  their  will  ; 
And,  blind  alike  to  doubt  and  dread. 

The  End,  for  which  they  are,  fuliil. 


(!:bmunb  (Ularciuc  Stetimau. 


Born  in  Iliiitford,  Conn.,  in  183.3,  Stedman  was  edu- 
cated at  Yale  College,  but  did  not  graduate.  His  raotli- 
cr,  whose  maiden  name  was  Dodge,  was  first  married  to 
Mr.  Stedman,  of  Ilurtfoi-d,  but  after  his  death  became  the 
wife  of  William  B.  Kinney  of  the  Newark  Advertiser,  sub- 
sequently United  States  Minister  to  Sardinia.  Edmund 
inherited  his  mother's  poetical  tastes.  He  has  publish- 
ed "The  Diamond  Wedding:  Poems  Lyric  and  Idyllic" 
(18G0) ;  "  The  Blameless  Prince,  and  other  Poems  "  (1864); 
also  a  poem  on  Hawthorne  ;  and  "  The  Victorian  Poets  " 
(1879),  a  series  of  careful  critical  sketches.  Not  wisliing 
to  trust  wliolly  to  literature  for  a  support,  he  became  a 
member  of  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange,  and  was  suc- 
cessful in  bis  operations.  The  British  Quarterly  Review 
refers  to  him  as  "  one  of  the  most  versatile,  as  well  as  one 
of  tiie  most  refined  and  artistic  of  American  poets."  As 
a  critic,  too,  he  has  won  distinction. 


PKOVENQAL    LOVERS. 

AUC.VSSIN  AXD   NICOLETTE. 

Within  the  garden  of  Beancaire 
He  nu^t  her  by  ti  secret  stair; — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
T'nless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle  ;" — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolctte. 

"Now.  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-donce  mie  ? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met  ;- 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring ;" — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolctte. 


EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


855 


"  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  f'liars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briers, 
Tlie  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine  : 
I  like  them  not — a  starveling  set ! 
Who'd  care  with  folks  like  these  to  dine? 
The  other  road  'twere  jnst  as  well 
Tiiat  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle !" 
Said  Aueassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  To  Purgatory  I  wonld  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights, 
True  men  of  valor  and  degree : 
We'll  join  that  gallant  company," — 
Said  Aueassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette, 
And  L.ave  a  friend  or  two  besides, — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
W^ith  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray," — 
Sftid  Aucassiu  to  Nicolette. 

"  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings. 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free ! 
Pardie!    I'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie  I 
The  joys  of  Heaven  I'd  forego 
To  have  yon  with  me  there  below," — 
Said  Aueassin  to  Nicolette. 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY. 

.John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yan- 
kee farmer,  [of  might ; 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  freedom,  and  the  Border- 
strife  grew  warmer,                  [in  the  night ; 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence. 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to  find  his  house 
burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle,  and  boldly  fought 

for  freedom  ;  [iug  baud  ; 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  iuvad- 


And  ho  and  his  brave  boys  vowed — so  might  Heav- 
en help  and  speed  'em  ! — 
They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from 
the  curse  tiiat  blights  tlie  laiul : 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us !"  and  he  shoved 
his  ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  anil  they  labored 
day  and  even. 
Saving   Kansas  from  its   peril ;    and   their   very 
lives  seemed  charmed. 
Till  the  rufiSans  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  liglit 
of  Heaven, — ■ 
In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  jour- 
neyed all  unarmed. 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth,  and  frowned  a 
terrible  frown. 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy, — not  amid  the 
heat  of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare, — and  thej'' 
loaded  him  with  chains. 
Ami  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they 
goad  their  cattle. 
Drove  him  cruelly,  for  tlieir  sport,  and  at  last  blew 
out  his  brains: 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heav- 
en's A'engeance  down. 

And  ho  swore   a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the 
Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed 
and  torn  him  so  ; 
He  wonld  seize  it  by  the  vitals;    he   would  crush 
it  day  ajid  niglit;   he  [for  blow, 

Wonld  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow 
Tiiat  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown,  [town. 

Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and  his  wild 
blue  eye  grew  wilder. 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose,  snuff- 
ing battle  from  afar ; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the  Kansas 
strife  waxed  milder,  [ilcr  War, 

Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody  Bor- 


856 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  rOETRY. 


And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomio  IJrowii, 
Had  gone  crazy,  as  tliey  reckoned  by   liis   fearful 
glare  and  fro\yu. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes 
behind  him. 
Slipped  oft"  into  Virginia,  ■where  the  statesmen  all 
are  born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one  knew 
where  to  find  him, 
Or  ■whethex  he'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed 
and  shorn  ; 

For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a  par- 
son's gown. 

He  bought  no  x^longhs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shov- 
els, and  such  trifles ;  [ti-aiu. 
But  quietly  to  his  raucho  there  came,  by  every 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  Avell- be- 
loved Sharp's  rifles ; 
And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader 
there  again. 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"Boys!  we've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march 
and  take  the  town, — 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  nniskets,  free  the 
negroes,  and  then  arm  them; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay!  and  all  the 
potent  South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  vic- 
tims rise  to  harm  them — 
These  Virginians!  who  believed  not,  nor  would 
heed  the  warning  mouth!" 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"The  world  shall  see  a  Republic, or  ray  name  is  not 
John  Brown !" 

'Twas  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of 
a  Sunday : 
"  This  good  work  " — declared  tlio  Captain — "  shall 
be  on  a  lioly  night!" — 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  Captain  Stephens, 
fifteen  privates — black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked 
the  sentry  down ; 


Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets 

an<l  the  cannon ; 

Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  tlie  colonels, 

one  by  one ;  [ran  on. 

Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they 

And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed 

was  done, 

Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in   and 
took  the  town. 

Verj-  little  Jioise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder 
made  he  ; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emper- 
or's coup  (Vctfif, 
"Cut   the  wires!      Stop  the  rail -cars!      Hold  the 
streets  and  bridges!"  said  he; 
Then  declared  the  new  Kepublie,  with  himself  for 
guiding  star ; — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left 
the  town. 

There  was  riding  and  railroading,  and  expressing 
here  and  thither ; 
And    the    Martinsbnrg    Sharpshooters,  and    the 
Charlcstown  Volunteers, 
And    the    Shepherdstown    and    Winchester    Militia 
hastened  whither 
Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten  thousand 
grenadiers. 

General  Brown  ! 
Osawatomie  Brown  !  ! 
Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was 
pouring  down. 

But  at  last,  'tis  said,  some   prisoners  escaped  from 

Old  Brown's  durance,  ['"it. 

And  the  eftorvescent  A'alor  of  the  Chivalry  broke 

When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the 

marvellous  assurance — 

Only  nineteen — thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive 

them  straight  about ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped  around 
the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned, 

was  too  risky;  [nicnt  Marines, 

So  they  hurried  ott"  to  Richmond  for  the  Govern- 


EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN.— HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL. 


857 


Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their 
souls  with  Bourhou  whiskey, 
Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with  their 
ladders  and  machines  ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Keceived  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  bravo 
old  crown. 

Tally-ho!    the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the 
baying!  •  [ilyaway; 

In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lust- 
Aud  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too 
late  for  slaying,  [his  clay; 

Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown,  " 
Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them 
laid  him  down. 

How  the  con(|nerors  wore  their  laurels ;   how  they 
hastened  on  the  trial ; 
How  old  Brown   was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the 
Charlestowu  court-house  floor; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all 
denial ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them — these  are 
known  the  country  o'er. 
Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown  ! — 
Said  the  jiulge — "and  all  such   rebels!"  with  his 
most  judicial  frown. 

But,  Virginians!  don't  do  it!  for  I  tell  you  that  the 
flagon. 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  oftspring,  was 
first  poured  by  Southern  hands ; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life- veins,  like  the 
red  gore  of  the  dragon, 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fnry,  hissing  through 
your  slave-worn  lands ! 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you've  nailed 
his  coffin  down. 
November,  1859. 


fjarrict  inc(!;tticn  Kimball. 


Miss  Kimball  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  II.,  in  1834. 
Her  studies,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  years  at  school, 
were  pursued  at  home.    Her  first  little  book  of  "Hymns" 


was  published  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York,  in  1807, 
and  gave  her  at  once  a  reputation ;  the  second,  "  Swal- 
low Flights  of  Song,"  by  the  same  publishers  in  1874. 
The  third  and  last,  "  Tiie  Blessed  Company  of  all  Faith- 
ful People,"  appeared  in  1879,  from  the  press  of  A.  D.  F. 
Randolph  &  Co.  IMiss  Kimball's  hymns  are  remarkable 
not  only  as  devotional  productions,  but  for  their  lucid 
poetical  quality  and  artistic  finish. 


THE   GUEST. 

"Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door,  aud  knock:  if  any  man  hear 
my  voice,  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him,  and  will 
sup  with  him,  and  he  with  me." — Rev.  iii.  20. 

Speechless  Sorrow  sat  with  me, 
I  was  sighing  heavily  ; 
Lamp  and  fire  were  out ;   the  raia 
AVildly  beat  the  window-pane. 
In  the  dark  we  heard  a  knock. 
And  a  hand  was  on  the  lock ; 
One  in  waiting  spake  to  me. 

Saying  sweetly, 
"  I  am  come  to  sup  with  thee." 

All  my  room  was  dark  aud  damp : 
"  Sorrow,"  said  I,  "  trim  the  lamp  ; 
Light  the  fire,  and  cheer  thy  face  ; 
Set  *tho  guest-chair  in  its  place." 
And  again  I  heard  the  knock : 
In  the  dark  I  found  the  lock : — 
"  Enter  !  I  have  turned  the  key  ! — 

Enter,  Stranger ! 
Who  art  come  to  sup  with  me." 

Opening  wide  the  door,  he  came  ; 
But  I  could  not  speak  his  uame : 
In  the  guest-chair  took  his  place ; 
But  I  could  not  see  his  face ! — 
When  uiy  cheerful  fire  was  beaming, 
W^hen  my  little  lamp  was  gleaming. 
And  the  feast  was  spread  for  three — 

Lo !   my  Master 
Was  the  Guest  that  supped  with  me ! 


THE  CRICKETS. 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year. 

In  gentle  concert  pipe! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons  ;   the  mellow  harvest  near 

The  apples  dropping  ripe  ; 

The  tempered  sunshine  aud  the  softened  shade ; 
The  trill  of  lonely  bird  ; 


858 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Tlic  sweet  sad  litish  on  Nature's  gladness  laid 
The  sonnds  tbrough  silence  heard  ! 

ripe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year; 

The  Snninier's  brief  reprieve  ; 
The  dry  hnsk  rnstling  ronnd  the  yellow  ear; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve  ! 

Pipe  the  nntroubled  tronblc  of  the  year; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain  ; 
Pipe  yonr  unceasing  melancholy  cheer; 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 


LONGING  FOR  RAIN. 

Earth  swoons,  o'erwhelmed  with  weight  of  bloom; 

The  scanty  dews  seem  dropped  in  vain  ; 
Athirst  she  lies,  while  garish  skies 

Burn  with  their  brassy  hints  of  rain. 

Morn  after  morn  the  llamiiig  sun 

Smites  the  bare  hills  with  tiery  rod  ; 

Night  after  night  with  blood-red  light 
Glares  like  a  slow-avenging  god. 

Oh  for  a  cloudy  curtain  drawn  t 

To  screen  ns  from  the  scorching  sky  ! 

Oh  for  the  rain  to  lay  again 

Tbe  smothering  dust-clouds  passing  by ! 

To  wash  the  hedges,  white  Avith  dust, 
Freshen  the  grass,  and  fill  the  pool  ; 

Wiiile  in  the  breeze  the  odorous  trees 
Dri]>  softly,  swaying  dark  and  cool ! 


ALL'S   WELL. 

The  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep 

My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  Tiiine: 
Father!   forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine. 

With  loving  kindness  curtain  Tiion  my  bed  ; 
And  cool  in  rest  my  bnining  pilgrim-feet ; 
Tliy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head, — 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord,  and  Thee, 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith  can  shake; 
All's  well !    whichever  side  the  grave  for  me 
The  morning  light  may  break ! 


(i^corgc  ^rnolli. 


Arnold  (18.34-180.5)  was  a  native  ofNew  York,  and  early 
in  lil'e  applied  liiinself  to  literary  pursuits.  His  "  Drift, 
and  other  Poems,"  edited  by  William  Winter,  appeared 
in  18<iG.  Dying  at  an  early  age,  Arnold  left  evidences 
of  a  rcmurkable  gift  for  lyrical  expression.  Ilis  literary 
career  extended  over  a  period  of  twelve  years;  "and  in 
that  time,"  says  Winter,  "he  wrote,  with  equal  fluency 
and  versatility,  stories,  poems,  criticisms  —  in  short,  ev- 
erything for  which  there  is  a  demand  in  the  literary 
magazines  and  in  New  York  journalism." 


IN  THE   DARK. 

Ilis  last  poem;  Avritten  a  few  days  before  his  death. 

All  moveless  sta-nd  the  ancient  cedar-trees 

Along  the  drifted  sand-hills  where  tlu'y  grow  ; 

And  from  the  dark  west  comes  a  Avandering  breeze, 
And  waves  them  to  and  fro. 

A  murky  darkness  lies  along  the  saml. 

Where  bright  the  sunbeams  of  the  morning  shone, 

And  the  eye  vainly  seeks  by  sea  and  laud 
Some  light  to  rest  upon. 

No  large  pale  star  its  glimmering  vigil  keeps; 

An  inky  sea  reflects  an  inky  sky  ; 
And  the  dark  river,  like  a  serpent,  creeps 

To  where  its  black  piers  lie. 

Strange  salty  odors  through  the  darkness  steal, 
And  through  the  dark  the  ocean-thunders  r(dl : 

Thick  darkness  gathers,  stifling,  till  I  feel 
Its  weight  upon  my  soul. 

I  stretch  my  hands  out  in  the  empty  air ; 

I  straiu  my  eyes  into  the  heavy  night; 
Blackness  of  darkness! — Father,  hear  my  prayer! 

Grant  mo  to  see  the  light ! 


GUI   BONO? 

A  harmless  fellow,  wasting  useless  days, 
Am  I :   I  love  my  comfort  and  my  leisure : 

Let  those  who  wish  them  toil  for  gold  and  praise; 
To  me  this  summer-day  brings  more  of  pleasure. 

So,  here  upon  the  grass  I  lie  at  case, 

While  solemn  voices  from  the  Past  are  calling. 

Mingled  with  rustling  whispers  in  the  trees, 
Aud  pleasant  sounds  of  water  idly  falling. 


GEORGE  ARNOLD.— BIG  HARD  REALF. 


859 


There  was  a  time  when  I  had  biglier  aima 

Thau  thus  to  lie  auioug  tlie  flowers  aud  listen 

To  lisping  birds,  or  Avatcli  the  sunset's  flames 
Ou  tlie  broad  river's  surface  glow  and  glisten. 

Tliere  -was  a  time,  perhaps,  -when  I  had  thought 
To  make  a  name,  a  home,  a  bright  existence : 

But   time   has   shown    me   that   my   dreams   were 
naught 
Save  a  mirage  that  Aanished  with  the  distance. 

Well,  it  is  gone :    I  care  no  louger  now 

For  fame,  for  fortune,  or  for  empty  praises; 

Eather  than  wear  a  crown  ui)on  my  brow, 
I'd  lie  forever  here  among  the  daisies. 

So  you,  who  wish  for  fame,  good  friend,  pass  by ; 

With  you  I  surely  cannot  think  to  quarrel : 
Give  me  peace,  rest,  this  bank  whereon  I  lie. 

And  spare  me  both  the  labor  and  the  laurel! 


A  SUMMER  LONGING. 

I  must  away  to  wooded  hills  and  vales, 

Where  broad,  slow  streams  flow  cool  and  silently, 

And  idle  barges  flap  their  listless  sails. 

For  me  the  summer  sunset  glows  and  pales, 
And  green  fields  wait  for  me. 

I  long  for  shadowy  forests,  where  the  birds 
Twitter  and  chirii  at  noon  from  every  tree; 

I  long  for  blossomed  leaves  and  lowing  herds ; 

And  nature's  voices  say.  in  mystic  words, 
"The  green  fields  wait  for  thee." 

I  dream  of  uplands  where  the  primrose  shines, 
And  waves  her  yellow  lamps  above  the  lea ; 

Of  tangled  copses  swung  with  trailing  vines; 

Of  open  vistas,  skirted  with  tall  pines. 
Where  green  fields  wait  for  me. 

I  think  of  long,  sweet  afternoons,  when  I 

May  lie  and  listen  to  the  distant  sea. 
Or  hear  the  breezes  in  the  reeds  that  sigh, 
Or  insect  voices  chirping  shrill  and  dry. 
In  fields  that  wait  for  me. 

These  dreams  of  summer  come  to  bid  me  liu<l 

The  forest's  shade,  the  wild-bird's  melody. 
While  summer's  rosj'  wreaths  for  me  are  twined, 
While  summer's  fragrance  lingers  ou  the  wind. 
And  green  fields  wait  for  me. 


Uicljari)  Ucalf. 


The  life  of  Realf(  1834-1878),  that  "  most  uiihappj'  man 
of  men,"  had  in  it  the  elements  of  the  most  direful  trag- 
edy. A  native  of  Uckfield,  Sussex,  England,  his  first  vol- 
ume of  verses,  "Guesses  at  the  Beautiful,"  was  publish- 
ed while  he  was  yet  a  youth  (1852),  in  Brighton,  England, 
and  won  high  praise  from  Thackeray  and  Lytton.  The 
poor  lad  was  of  humble  parentage,  his  father  being  a  day- 
laborer  in  the  fields,  and  his  sister  a  domestic  servant. 
He  came  to  the  United  States  about  the  year  18.55,  and 
took  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  Kansas  aud  other  border 
troubles.  lie  subsequently  served  in  the  brigade  of  Gen. 
John  F.  Miller  in  the  Civil  War,  aud  became  a  colonel. 
For  a  time  he  was  associated  with  John  Brown,  "  Osa- 
watomie  Brown,"  in  Kansas.  He  was  twice  married,  and 
became  the  father  of  twins  by  his  second  wife  ;  but  was 
made  frantic  by  the  persecutions  of  his  first  wife,  from 
whom  he  had  been  separated  since  1873.  She  followed 
hina  to  Oakland,  California,  where,  to  escape  the  misery 
of  her  presence,  he  took  laudanum  and  died. 

Realf  gives  tokens  of  intense,  though  unchastened  pow- 
er, as  a  poet.  Had  he  been  as  well  educated  as  Shelley, 
he  might  have  been  his  peer.  Among  his  early  patron- 
esses was  Lady  Byron.  In  the  "Life  and  Letters"  of 
Frederick  W.  Robertson,  the  famous  Brighton  preacher, 
we  find  this  reference  to  Realf:  "One  day,"  writes  Mr. 
A.J.Ross,  "as  we  were  speaking  together  of  the  rich 
endowments  of  a  youth  in  whom  we  were  mutually  in- 
terested, he  (Robertson)  said  with  emphasis,  '  How  un- 
happy he  will  be  !'  "  With  what  a  sad  accuracy  was  the 
prophesy  fulfiled ! 


MY   SLAIN. 

This  sweet  child  which  hath  climbed  upon  vay  knee, 
This  amber-haired,  four-summered  little  maid, 

AVith  her  unconscious  beauty  troubleth  me. 
With  her  low  prattle  maketh  me  afraid. 

Ah,  darling!   when  you  cling  and  nestle  so 
You  hurt  me,  though  you  do  not  see  me  cry, 
Nor  hear  the  weariness  with  wliich  I  sigh, 

For  the  dear  babe  I  killed  so  long  ago. 
I  tremble  at  the  touch  of  j'our  caress : 

I  am  not  worthy  of  your  innocent  faith  ; 
I,  who  with  whetted  knives  of  worldliucss. 

Did  put  my  own  childhearteducss  to  death, 
licside  whose  grave  I  pace  for  evermore, 
Like  desolation  on  a  shipwrecked  shore. 

There  is  no  little  child  within  me  now. 

To  sing  back  to  the  thrushes,  to  leap  up 
When  June  wiiuls  kiss  me,  when  an  apple-bough 

Laughs  into  blossoms,  or  a  buttercup 
Plays  with  the  sunshine,  or  a  violet 

Dances  in  the  glad  dew.     Alas!   alas! 

The  meaning  of  the  daisies  in  the  grass 
I  have  forgotten  ;   and  if  my  cheeks  are  wet, 


860 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


It  is  not  with  the  blitheness  of  the  child, 
But  with  tho  bitter  sorrow  of  sad  years. 

Oh,  tuoauing  life,  with  life  irreconcilcd  ; 
Oh,  backward  looking  thought,  O  pain,  O  tears, 

For  ns  there  is  not  any  silver  sound 

Of  rhythmic  wonders  springing  from  tlu^  ground. 

Woe  worth  the  knowledge  and  the  bookish  lore 
Which  makes  men   munnnics,  weighs  out  every 
grain 

Of  that  wliich  was  miratulous  before. 

And  sneers  the  heart  down  with  the  scoffiug  brain  ; 

Woo  worth  the  peering,  analytic  days 
That  dry  tho  tender  juices  iu  the  breast, 
And  put  the  thunders  of  the  Lord  to  test, 

So  tiiat  no  marvel  must  be,  and  no  praise, 
Xor  any  God  except  Necessity. 

What  can  ye  give  my  poor,  starved  life  iu  lieu 
Of  tliis  dead  cherub  which  I  slew  for  ye  ? 

Take  back  your  doubtful  wisdom,  and  renew 
M3'  early  foolish  freshuess  of  the  dilnce, 
Whoso  simple  instincts  guessed  tho  heavens  at 
ouce. 


SYMBOLISMS. 

All  round  ns  lie  the  awful  sucrednesscs 

Of  babes  and  cradles,  graves  and  hoary  hairs ; 

Of  girlish  laughters  and  of  manly  cares  ; 
Of  moaning  sighs  and  passionate  caresses ; 

Of  infinite  ascensions  of  the  soul, 
And  wild  hyena-hungers  of  the  flesh  ; 

Of  cottage  virtues  and  the  solemn  roll 
Of  popuhuis  cities'  thuiulcr,  and  the  frcsli. 

Warm  faith  of  childhood,  sweet  as  mignonette 
Amid  Doubt's  bitter  herbage,  and  tho  dear 

Re-glimpses  of  the  early  star  which  set 
Down  the  blue  skies  of  our  lost  hemisphere, 

And  all  tlie  consecrations  and  delights 

Woven  in  the  texture  of  the  days  and  nights. 

The  daily  miracle  of  Life  goes  ou 

Within  our  chambers,  at  our  household  hearths. 

In  sober  duties  and  in  jocund  mirths  ; 
In  all  the  nnquiet  hopes  and  fears  that  run 

Out  of  our  hearts  along  the  edges  of 
The  terrible  abysses  ;   iu  the  calms 

Of  friendship,  in  the  ecstasies  of  love: 
In  burial-dirges  and  in  marriage-psalms ; 

In  all  the  far  weird  voices  that  wo  hear; 
In  all  the  mystic  visions  we  behold  : 

In  our  souls'  summers  when  the  days  are  clear; 
And  iu  our  winters  when  the  nights  are  cold. 


And  iu  tho  subtle  secrets  of  our  breath, 
And  that  Annunciation  iiam6d  death. 

O  Earth!   thou  hast  not  anj'  wind  that  blows 
Which  is  not  music:    every  weed  of  thine 
Pressed  rightly  Hows  in  aromatic  w  iue  ; 

And  every  humble  hedge-row  flower  that  grows, 
And  every  little  brown  bird  that  doth  sing, 

Hath  something  greater  than  itself,  and  bears 
A  living  Word  to  every  living  thing. 

Albeit  it  hold  the  Message  unawares. 

All  shapes  and  sounds  have  something  which  is  not 

Of  them :  a  Spirit  broods  amid  the  grass ; 
Vague  outlines  of  the  Everlasting  Thought 

Lie  in  the  melting  shadows  as  they  pass; 
The  touch  of  an  Eternal  Presence  thrills 
The  fringes  of  the  sunsets  and  the  hills. 

Forever,  through  the  world's  material  forms, 

Heaven  shoots  its  immaterial ;  night  and  day 

Apocalyptic  intimations  stray 
Across  the  rifts  of  matter;   viewless  arms 

Lean  lovingly  toward  ns  from  tho  air; 
There  is  a  breathing  marvel  in  the  sea  ; 

The  sapphire  foreheads  of  the  mountains  wear 
A  light  within  light  which  eusyml)ols  the 

Unutterable  Beauty  and  Perfection 
That,  with  immeasurable  strivings,  strives 

Through  bodied  form  and  sensuous  indirection 
To  hiut  unto  our  dull  and  hardened  lives 

(Poor  lives,  that  cannot  see  nor  hear  aright !) 

Tho  bodiless  glories  which  are  out  of  sight. 

Sometimes  (we  know  not  how,  nor  why,  nor  whence) 
The  twitter  of  the  swallows  'neath  tho  eaves. 
The  shimmer  of  tho  light  among  tho  leaves. 
Will  strike  np  through  the  thick  roofs  of  our  sense, 
And  show  us  things  which  seers  and  sages  saw- 
In  the  gray  earth's  green  dawn :  something  doth  stir 

Like  organ-hymns  within  ns,  and  doth  awo 
Our  pulses  into  listeuing,  and  coufer 

Burdens  of  Being  on  us ;   and  we  ache 
Willi  weights  of  Revelation,  and  our  ears 
Hear  voices  from  the  Intinito  that  take 
The  hushed  soul  captive,  and  the  saddening  years 
Seem  built  ou  pillared  joys,  and  overhead 
Vast   dove-like  wings  that  arch   the  world  are 
spread. 

Hk,  by  such  raptnesses  and  intuitions. 
Doth  pledge  His  utmost  immortality 
Unto  our  mortal  iusutliciency, 

Fettered  in  grossuess,  that  these  sensual  prisons. 


RICHABD   BEALF.— NANCY  PRIEST  WAKEFIELD. 


861 


Agaiust  whose  bars  we  beat  so  tired  wings, 
Avail  not  to  ward  oft"  the  clear  access 

Of  His  high  heralds  and  iuterpretings ; 
Wherefore,  albeit  we  may  not  fully  gness 

The  meaning  of  the  wonder,  let  us  keep 
Clean  channels  for  the  instincts  which  respond 

To  the  Unutterable  Sanctities  that  sweep 
Down  the  far  reaches  of  the  strange  Beyond, 

Whose  mystery  strikes  the  spirit  into  fever, 

And  haunts,  and  hurts,  and  blesses  us  forever. 


^aiuj}  Priest  llKakcfieli). 


Nancy  Amelia  Woodbury  Priest  (1834-1870),  a  native 
of  Royalstou,  Mass.,  was  married  in  1865  to  Lieut.  A.  C. 
Waketielcl.  Her  "Over  the  River"  has  had  a  wide  cir- 
culation, and  is  still  one  of  the  pieces  that  illustrate  the 
doctrine  of  the  "  survival  of  the  fittest."  In  the  Rev.  A. 
P.  Marviu's  History  of  Winchcudon  is  this  note:  "Mrs. 
Wakefield,  though  born  in  the  edge  of  Royalston,  be- 
lougs  to  Winchendon.  Her  family  have  resided  here 
from  the  begiuuing  through  five  or  six  generations.  Her 
father  moved  into  Ro}-alston  a  little  wliile  before  her 
birth,  and  returned  while  she  was  quite  young."  It 
illustrates  the  rare  power  of  genius  to  find  two  towns 
contending  for  the  honor  of  having  given  birth  to  the 
author  of  a  poem  of  forty-eight  lines.  But  Mrs.  Wake- 
field did  not  fail  to  ofi"er  other  assurance  than  this  of 
the  poetical  gift  she  has  displayed  so  felicitously. 


OVEE   THE   EIYER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  other  side ; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drowned  in  the  rushing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold. 

And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  Heaven's  own  blue : 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold. 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view ; 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there. 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see  ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another, — the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale, — 

Darling  Minnie !   I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark : 
We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark, 


We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  fiirthcr  side, 
Where  all  tlie  ransomed  and  angels  be; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

We  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, 
And  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  heart ; 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye ! 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day, 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  over  Life's  stormy  sea : 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  nuseen  shore, 

They  watch  and  beckou  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  wath  the  boatman  pale 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  laud. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before; 

Aud  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


FROM  "HEAVEN." 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision  ; 
For  Death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  the  gates  elysian. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky 

A  fiery  sun.set  lingers. 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  briglitly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

O  land  unknown  !     O  land  of  love  divine ! 

Father,  all-wise,  eternal ! 
O  guide  these  wandering,  way-worn  feet  of  mine 

Into  these  pastures  vernal ! 


862 


CYCLOI'.EDIA    OF  JililTISH  AM)   .IMFJUCAX  rOETllY. 


lllilliam  iUorris. 

Morris  was  boru  in  London  in  18:34,  and  educnted  at 
Oxford.  His  lirst  publication  (1853)  was  "Tlic  Defence 
of  Giicnevere,  and  other  Poems."  In  1807  appeared  liis 
"Life  and  Death  of  Jason,"  and  in  1808-1871,  at  inter- 
vals, "  The  Earthly  Paradise,"  in  four  parts.  In  his  sliill 
as  a  poetical  narrator  Morris  has  been  compared  by  Swin- 
burne to  Chaucer.  His  long  poems,  if  delicient  in  ele- 
ments of  popularity,  because  of  their  remoteness  from 
modern  tliemcs,  sliow  remarliable  case  and  fluency  of 
versitication,  with  beauty  of  narrative  diction. 


MARCH. 

Slayer  of  the  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
O  welcome  thou  that  brlui^'st  the  summer  nigh  ! 
Tlie  hitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory  vain, 
Nor  will  we  mock  theo  for  thy  faint  blue  sky. 
Welcome,  O  March !   whose  kindly  days  and  dry 
Make  Ai)ril  ready  for  the  throstle's  song, 
Thou  lirst  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong! 

Yea,  welcome  March  !  and  tliough  I  die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise. 
Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds  raise, 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  days ; 
Who  sing:  "O  joy!   a  new  year  is  begun: 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun  !" 

All,  what  bcgetteth  all  this  storm  of  bliss 

But  Death  himself,  who,  crying  solemnly. 

Even  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetfulness, 

Bids  us  "  Rejoice,  lest  pleasureless  ye  die. 

Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 

Stretch  forth  j'onr  open  hands,  and  while  ye  live. 

Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Lite  may  give." 


Cclia  (tljaftcr. 


AIVIERICAN. 

Mrs.  Tliaxter,  daiiirhter  of  Mr.  Laii;iiton,  once  propri- 
etor of  Api)lcdore,  Isles  of  Slioals,  was  born  in  Ports- 
mouth, N.  11.,  in  1835.  She  passed  the  early  part  of  her 
life,  and  much  of  the  later,  at  Appledorc,  one  of  a  rocky 
group  of  small  islands  al)out  ten  miles  from  the  nniin- 
land.  She  has  been  no  idle  observer  of  the  moods  and 
colors  of  the  ocean,  the  liabits  of  the  sea-birds,  and  all 
the  poetical  aspects  of  the  rugged  scenes  amidst  which 
she  was  bred.  The  fidelity  of  her  marine  descriptions 
is  remarkable.  She  has  published  (1808)  an  excellent 
account,  historical  and  descriptive,  of  the  Isles.  Her 
poems  are  vivid  with  touches  that  show  the  intimacy 
of  her  study  of  external  nature. 


SONG. 

We  sail  toward  evening's  lonely  star, 

That  trembles  in  the  tender  blue  ; 
One  single  cloud,  a  dusky  bar 

Burnt  with  dull  carmine  through  and  through, 
Slow  smouldering  in  the  summer  sky, 

Lies  low  along  the  fading  west ; 
How  sweet  to  watch  its  sjdendors  die. 

Wave-cradled  thus,  and  wind-caressed  ! 

The  soft  breeze  freshens ;  leaps  the  spray 

To  kiss  our  cheeks  with  sudden  cheer. 
Upon  the  dark  edge  of  the  bay 

Light-houses  kindle  far  and  near, 
And  through  the  warm  deeps  of  the  sky 

Steal  faint  star-clusters,  while  wo  rest 
In  deep  refreshment,  thou  and  I, 

Wave-cradled  thns,  and  wind-caressed. 

How  like  a  dream  are  earth  and  heaven, 

Star-beam  and  darkness,  skj^  and  sea  ; 
Thy  face,  pale  in  the  shadowy  even. 

Thy  quiet  eyes  that  gaze  ou  me ! 
O  realize  the  moment's  charm, 

Thou  dearest !     We  are  at  life's  best, 
Folded  in  God's  encircling  arm, 

Wave-cradled  thus,  and  wind-caressed! 


THE  SAND-PIPER. 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sand-piper  and  I ; 
And  fiist  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

Tlie  scattered  drift-wood,  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high. 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  Hit — 

One  little  sand-piper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky  ; 
Like  silent  ghosts,  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  light-houses  nigh. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach, 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly. 
As  fast  wo  flit  along  the  beach — 

One  little  sand-piper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along. 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry  ; 

He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 
Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery  : 


CELIA   TffAXTER.— HARRIET  P.  SPOFFORD.— ELLEN  LOUISE  MOULTOX. 


863 


He  has  uo  tbougbt  of  auy  wrong, 
He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye ; 

Stauncli  friends  are  we.  well-tried  and  strong, 
Tbis  little  siuul-piper  and  I. 

Comrade,  wbere  wilt  tbou  be  to-nigbt, 

When  tbe  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 
My  drift-wood  fire  will  burn  so  brigbt ! 

To  wbat  warm  sbelter  canst  tbou  tly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  tbee,  tbougb  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  tbe  sky  ; 
For  are  we  not  God's  childreu  both, 

Thou  little  sand-piper  and  I  ? 


Harriet  JJrcscctt  Spofforb. 

AMERICAN. 

Harriet  Elizabeth  Prescott,  born  in  Calais,  Me.,  in  1835, 
was  married  in  1805  to  Kichard  S.  Spofford,  Esq.,  a  law- 
yer, of  Newburyport,  Mass.  She  early  gave  promise  of 
literary  ability  in  a  series  of  remarlvable  prose  tales  :  "  Sir 
Roland's  Ghost"  (1860);  "The  Amber  Gods,  and  other 
Stories;"  "Azarian;"  "New  England  Legends;"  "A 
Thief  in  the  Night,"  etc.  She  has  been  a  liberal  contrib- 
utor to  the  magazines,  and  there  have  been  several  pub- 
lished collections  of  her  prose  writings.  Tiiere  is  a  fine 
enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  lovely  in  nature,  flashing  out  in 
many  of  her  poems. 

A  FOUR-O'CLOCK. 

All,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go : 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ' 
Forever  in  mid-afternoon, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June  .' 
Pour  out  tby  sunshine  on  the  bill, 
Tbe  piny  wood  with  perfume  fill. 
And  breathe  across  the  singing  sea 
Land-scented  breezes,  that  shall  be 
Sweet  as  tbe  gardens  that  they  pass, 
Where  childreu  tumble  in  the  grass .' 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! 
Hang  iu  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
And  long  not  for  thy  blushing  rest 
Iu  the  soft  bosom  of  the  west, 
But  bid  gray  evening  get  her  back 
With  all  the  stars  upon  her  track  ! 
Forget  tbe  dark,  forget  the  dew. 
The  mystery  of  the  midnight  blue. 
And  only  spread  tby  wide  warm  wings 
Wliile  summer  her  enchantment  flings ! 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go! 
Hang  iu  tbe  heavens  forever  so ! 


Forever  let  tby  tender  mist 

Lie  like  dissolving  amethyst 

Deep  in  the  distant  dales,  and  shed 

Tby  mellow  glory  overhead ! 

Yet  wilt  thou  wander,— call  tbe  thiiisb, 

And  have  the  wilds  and  waters  bush 

To  bear  his  passion-broken  tune, 

Ab,  happy  day  of  happy  June ! 


(!5llm  Couisc  iHoulton. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Moulton,  whose  maiden  name  was  Chandler,  was 
born  in  1835  at  Pomfret,  Conn.,  and  educated  at  Mrs.  Wil- 
lard's  famed  seminary.  She  began  writing  for  the  maga- 
zines at  an  early  age,  and  when  eighteen  published  a  vol- 
ura6  entitled  "This,  That,  and  the  Other,"  of  which  ten 
thousand  copies  were  sold.  She  contributed  largely  to 
the  principal  American  magazines,  and  was  a  correspond- 
ent of  the  New  York  Tribune.  She  married  Mr.  Moulton, 
a  well-known  newspaper  publisher  of  Boston.  A  volume 
of  her  poems  was  published  in  London,  and  one  iu  Bos- 
ton (1878). 


ALONE   BY  THE   BAY. 

He  is  gone,  O  my  heart,  he  is  gone ; 

And  the  sea  remains,  and  the  sky ; 
And  tbe  .skiffs  flit  in  and  out. 

And  tbe  white-winged  yachts  go  by. 

And  the  Avaves  run  purple  and  green. 
And  the  sunshine  glints  and  glows, 

And  freshly  across  the  Bay 

The  breath  of  tbe  morning  blows. 

I  liked  it  better  last  night, 

When  tiie  dark  shut  down  on  tbe  main. 
And  the  phantom  fleet  lay  still. 

And  I  heard  the  waves  complain. 

For  the  sadness  that  dwells  in  my  heart. 
And  the  rune  of  their  endless  woe, 

Their  longing  and  void  and  despair, 
Kept  time  in  their  ebb  and  flow. 


IN  TIME   TO   COME. 

The  time  will  come  full  soon,  I  sliall  be  gone, 
And  you  sit  silent  in  the  silent  place. 
With  the  sad  Autunni  sunlight  on  your  face  : 
Remembering  tbe  loves  that  were  your  own. 
Haunted  perchance  by  some  familiar  tone, — 


864 


CYCLOPJiDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


You  will  firow  Avcary  then  for  tlio  <lead  days, 
And  iiiiiKUul  of  tlicir  swct't  :iml  l)i(tt;r  ways, 
Though  i)as.si(in  into  lucmory  shall  have  grown. 
Then  shall  I  with  your  other  ghosts  draw  nigh, 
And  whisper,  as  I  pass,  some  former  word. 
Some  old  endearnicut  known  in  days  gone  by. 
Some  tenderness  that  ouce  your  i)ulses  stirred, — • 
Which  Avas  it  spoke  to  you,  the  wind  or  I, 
I  think  you,  musing,  scarcely  will  have  heard. 


(Lljcoliorc  (tUton. 


AMERICAN. 

Tilton  was  horn  in  1835  in  the  city  of  New  York.  He 
received  a  good  education,  and  became  early  in  life  con- 
nected with  the  Independent,  a  widely  circulated  weekly 
paper.  The  connection  lasted  fifteen  years.  In  ISTl  lie 
started  a  new  weekly,  The  Golden  Acje,  which  did  not  meet 
the  success  it  deserved.  He  is  the  author  of  "The  Sex- 
ton's Talc,  and  other  Poems,"  and  has  shown  much  ver- 
satility as  a  spirited  writer  both  of  prose  and  verse. 


SIR  MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS. 

I  won  a  noble  fame ; 

But,  with  a  sudden  frown. 
The  people  snatched  my  crown. 
And  in  the  mire  trod  down 

My  lofty  name. 

I  boro  a  bounteous  purse, 
And  beggars  by  the  way 
Then  blessed  mo  day  bj'  day; 
Ibit  I,  grown  poor  us  they. 

Have  now  their  curse. 

I  gained  wliat  tucu  call  friends; 
Ihit  now  their  love  is  hate. 
And  I  have  learned  too  late 
How  mated  minds  unmate, 

And  friendship  ends. 

I  clasped  a  woman's  breast, 
As  if  her  heart  I  knew, 
Or  fancied  would  bo  true  : 
Who  jiroved,  alas  !   she,  too, 

Fal.se  like  the  rest. 

I  am  now  all  bereft, — 

As  when  some  tower  doth  fall. 
With  battlements  and  Avail, 
And  gate  and  bridge  and  all, — 

And  nothing  left. 


But  I  account  it  Avorth 

All  pangs  of  fair  hopes  crossed- 
All  loves  and  lionors  lost — 
To  gain  the  heavens  at  cost 

Of  losing  earth. 

So,  lest  I  be  inclined 
To  render  ill  for  ill — 
Henceforth  in  me  instill, 
O  (jlod  !   a  sweet  good  avIU 

To  all  mankind. 


iJolju  iJaincs  }3icitt. 

AMERICAN. 

Piatt,  born  in  Milton,  Ind.,  March  1st,  183.5,  was  edu- 
cated at  Kenyon  College.  He  Avrote  verses  for  the 
Louisville  Journal,  also  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  before  he 
Avas  twenty-five.  lu  conjunction  Avith  Mr.  W.  D.  How- 
ells,  he  published,  in  18G0,  "Poems  of  Two  Friends;"  in 
1804,  "Nests,  and  other  Poems,"  part  of  which  Averc  by 
his  wife,  Mrs.  Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt.  In  1809  he  published 
"  Western  WindoAVS,  and  other  Poems,"  dedicated  to 
George  D.  Prentice;  and  in  1871,  "  Landmarks,  and  oth- 
er Poems."  His  style  is  Avell  iiulividualized,  and  formed 
on  no  i)i\rticular  model.  Mrs.  Piatt  has  Avrittcn  several 
admirable  little  poems,  generally  conveying  some  pithy 
nujral. 


THE   ITKST  TRYST. 

She  pulls  a  rose  from  her  rose-tree, 
Kissing  its  soul  to  him, — 

Far  oA'cr  years,  far  over  dreams 
And  tides  of  chances  dim. 

He  plucks  from  his  heart  a  poem, 
A  llower-SAveet  messenger, — 

Far  over  years,  far  over  dreams, 
Flutters  its  soul  to  her. 

These  are  the  Avorld-old  lovers. 
Clasped  in  one  twilight's  gleam  j 

Yet  ho  is  but  a  dream  to  her, 
And  slio  a  poet's  dream. 


THE  MORNING  STREET. 

From  "Western  AVindows." 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street, 
Filled  Avitli  the  silence  vague  and  sweet; 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if  UDuuQibered  years  had  fled. 


JOHX  JAMES  riATT.— FRANCES  LAUGHTON  MACE. 


865 


Lettiug  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky  ; 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me  alono 
Where  the  hot  day  tlanie-like  was  blown, 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was  beat  ; 
The  dew  is  in  the  morning  street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines  ? — the  hurrying  crowd 

Wliose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud, — 

The  myriad  faces, — hearts  that  beat 

No  more  in  the  deserted  street  ? 

Those  footsteps  in  their  dreaming  maze 

Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days  ; 

Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 

In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears  ; 

Those  hearts, — far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 

Uuheard  withiu  the  morniug  street. 

A  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  aud  dew, — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  hannted  plan. 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art, — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  quiet,  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
Witii  human  waves  the  morning  street. 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morniug  flood 

Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude  : 

This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 

Shall  murnuir  to  the  rising  sun  ; 

The  busy  i)lace,  iu  dust  and  heat, 

Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with  feet ; 

Tlie  Arachue-threads  of  Purpose  stream 

Unseen  within  the  moruiug  gleam  ; 

The  life  shall  move,  the  death  bo  plain; 

The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 

Together,  face  to  face,  shall  meet, 

And  pass  within  the  morniug  street. 


THE   GIFT   OF  EMPTY  HANDS. 
Mrs.  Piatt. 
They  were  two  princes  doomed  to  death, 
Each  loved  his  beauty  aud  his  breath  ; 
55 


"  Leave  us  our  life,  aud  we  will  bring. 
Fair  gifts  unto  our  lord,  the  king." 

They  went  together.     In  the  dew 
A  charmed  bird  before  them  llew. 
Through  sun  aud  thoru  oue  followed  it ; 
Upon  the  other's  arm  it  lit. 

A  rose,  whose  faintest  blirsh  was  worth 
All  buds  that  ever  blew  ou  earth, 
Oue  climbed  the  rocks  to  reach  :    ah,  well, 
Into  the  other's  breast  it  fell. 

Weird  jewels,  such  as  fairies  wear. 
When  moons  go  out,  to  light  their  hair. 
One  tried  to  touch  on  ghostly  ground  ; 
Gems  of  quick  fire  the  other  found. 

One  witli  the  dragou  fought  to  gain 
The  enchanted  fruit,  and  fought  in  vain  ; 
The  other  breatlied  the  garden's  air, 
And  gathered  precious  apples  there. 

Backward  to  the  imperial  gate 

One  took;  his  fortune,  one  his  fate : 

Oue  .showed  sweet  gifts  from  sweetest  lands 

The  other  torn  and  empty  hands. 

At  bird,  and  rose,  and  gem,  and  fruit. 
The  king  was  sad,  the  king  was  mute  ; 
At  last  he  slowly  said,  "  My  son. 
True  treasure  is  not  lightlj-^  won. 

"  Your  brother's  hands,  wherein  you  see 
Only  these  scars,  show  more  to  me 
Tlian  if  a  kingdom's  price  I  found 
Iu  place  of  each  forgotten  wound." 


i'ranccs  Caugljtou  illarc. 


Miss  Laughton,  wlio  bj'  marriage  (18.55)  became  Mrs. 
Mace,  was  born  in  the  village  of  Orono,  near  Bangor,  Me., 
Jan.  15th,  1836,  where  licr  father  commenced  practice  as 
a  physician,  but  soon  removed  to  Bangor.  She  has  writ- 
ten for  Harper^ s  Magazine,  tiic  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  other 
well-known  i)eriodicals.  Her  little  poem  of"  Only  Wait- 
ing" was  written  when  she  was  eighteen,  and  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Watcrville  (Me. )  Mail  of  Sept.  7th,  1854.  It 
was  introduced  by  the  Rev.  James  Martincau,  of  England, 
into  his  collection  of  "Hymns,"  and  he  took  pains  to 
have  the  fact  of  its  authorship  thoroughly  investigated. 
The  poem  had  passed  into  several  collections,  British 
and  American,  as  anonymous. 


866 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


EASTER  MORNING. 
I. 
Ostcia !   spirit  of  spiing-time, 

Awake  from  tby  elumbers  deep ! 
Arise!  aud  with  bauds  that  are  glowiug, 

Put  off  tbe  white  garuieuts  of  sleep ! 
Make  thyself  fair,  O  goddess  ! 

lu  new  aud  respleudeut  array, 
For  tbe  footsteps  of  Him  who  has  risen 

Shall  be  heard  iu  the  dawu  of  day. 

Flushes  the  trailing  arbutus 

Low  under  tbe  forest  leaves — 
A  sign  that  tbe  drowsy  goddess 

Tbe  breath  of  her  Lord  perceives. 
While  He  suffered,  her  pulse  beat  numbly ; 

Wbile  He  slept,  she  was  still  with  pain  ; 
But  uow  He  awakes — He  has  risen — 

Her  beauty  shall  bloom  again. 

Oh  hark  !   iu  the  budding  woodlands. 

Now  far,  now  near,  is  beard 
Tbe  first  prelusive  warble 

Of  rivulet  aud  of  bird. 
Oh  listen !  the  Jubilate 

From  every  bough  is  poured, 
Aud  earth  in  tbe  smile  of  spring-time 

Arises  to  greet  her  Lord ! 


Radiant  goddess,  Aurora ! 

Open  the  cbambers  of  dawn  ; 
Let  the  Hours  like  a  garland  of  graces 

Encircle  the  chariot  of  morn. 
Thou  dost  herald  no  longer  Apollo, 

The  god  of  the  sunbeam  aud  lyre  ; 
The  pride  of  his  empire  is  ended. 

And  pale  is  bis  armor  of  fire. 

From  a  loftier  height  than  Olympus 

Light  flows,  from  the  Temple  above, 
And  the  mists  of  old  legends  are  scattered 

In  tbe  dawn  of  the  Kingdom  of  Love. 
Come  forth  fnom  the  cloud-land  of  fable, 

For  day  in  full  spleiulor  make  room — 
For  a  triumph  tbat  lost  not  its  glory 

As  it  paused  in  the  sepulchre's  gloom. 

Sbe  comes !   the  bright  goddess  of  morning. 

In  crimson  and  purple  array ; 
Far  down  on  the  hill-tops  she  tosses 

Tbe  first  golden  lilies  of  day. 


On  the  mountains  her  sandals  are  glowing, 
O'er  tbe  valleys  sbe  speeds  on  the  wing, 

Till  earth  is  all  rosy  and  radiant 
For  the  feet  of  the  new-risen  King. 


Open  tbe  gates  of  the  Temple  ; 

Spread  branches  of  palm  and  of  bay ; 
Let  not  the  spirits  of  nature 

Alone  deck  the  Conqueror's  way. 
While  Spring  from  her  death-sleep  arises, 

And  joyous  His  presence  awaits, 
While  Morning's  smile  lights  \\\}  the  heavens, 

Open  the  Beautiful  Gates. 

He  is  here !     The  long  watches  ^ro  over. 

The  stone  from  the  grave  rolled  away. 
"  We  .shall  sleep,"  was  the  sigh  of  the  midnight ; 

"Wc  shall  rise  !"  is  the  song  of  to-day, 
O  Music !   no  longer  lamenting. 

On  pinions  of  tremulous  flame 
Go  soaring  to  meet  the  Beloved, 

Aud  swell  the  new  song  of  His  fame ! 

The  altar  is  snowy  with  blossoms, 

The  font  is  a  vase  of  perfume, 
On  i>illar  aud  chancel  are  twining 

Fresh  garlands  of  eloquent  bloom. 
Christ  is  risen!  with  glad  lips  we  utter, 

And  far  up  the  infinite  height 
Archangels  the  prean  re-echo, 

And  crown  Him  with  Lilies  of  Light ! 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

When  the  hunter's  moon  is  waning 

Aud  hangs  like  a  crimson  bow. 
And  tbe  frosty  fields  of  morning 

Are  white  with  a  phantom  snow, 
Who  then  is  the  beautiful  spirit 

That  wandering  smiles  aud  grieves 
Along  the  desolate  bill-sides, 

Aud  over  the  drifted  leaves  ? 

She  has  strayed  from  the  far-off  dwelling 

Of  forgotten  Indian  braves, 
And  stolen  wistfully  earthward 

Over  the  path  of  graves  ; 
She  has  left  the  cloudy  gate-way 

Of  tbe  hunting-grounds  ajar, 
To  follow  the  trail  of  tbe  summer 

Toward  the  moruiug-star ! 


FEAXCES  LAUGUTON  MACE.— THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


8(m 


There's  a  rustle  of  soft,  slow  footsteps, 

The  toss  of  a  purple  plume, 
And  the  glimmer  of  gokleu  arrows 

Athwart  the  hazy  gloom. 
'Tis  the  smoke  of  the  happy  wigwams 

That  recUleus  our  wintry  sky, 
The  scent  of  unfading  forests 

That  is  dreamily  floating  by. 

O  shadow-sister  of  summer ! 

Astray  from  the  world  of  dreams. 
Thou  wraith  of  the  bloom  departed. 

Thou  echo  of  spring-tide  streams, 
Thou  moonlight  aud  starlight  vision 

Of  a  day  that  will  come  no  more. 
Would  that  our  love  might  win  thee 

To  dwell  on  this  stormy  shore ! 

But  the  roaming  Indian  goddess 

Stays  not  for  our  tender  sighs — ■ 
She  has  heard  the  call  of  her  hunters 

Beyond  the  sunset  skies ! 
By  her  beaming  arrows  stricken, 

The  last  leaves  fluttering  fall, 
With  a  sigh  and  smile  she  has  vanished- 

And  darkness  is  over  all. 


ONLY  WAITING. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  this  heart  once  full  of  day, 
Till  the  dawn  of  Heaven  is  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  aud  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home. 
For  the  summer-time  hath  faded, 

Aud  the  autumn  winds  are  come. 
Quickly,  reapers  !   gather  quickly, 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart. 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  witliered. 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  augels 
Open  wide  the  mystic  gate. 

At  whose  feet  I  long  have  lingered, 
Weary,  poor,  aud  desolate. 


Even  now  I  hear  their  footsteps 
And  their  voices  far  away — 

If  they  call  me,  I  am  waiting. 
Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown — 

Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 
Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flowu. 

When  from  out  the  folded  darkuess 
Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 

By  whose  light  my  soul  will  gladly 
Wing  her  passage  to  the  skies. 


(Lljomae  Sailcii  ^lliriclj. 


Aldrich  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  1836.  After 
trying  mercantile  pursuits  in  a  New  York  counting- 
room,  he  gave  his  attention  to  literature;  was  connected 
with  the  Home  Journal,  and  other  periodicals,  and  be- 
came a  frequent  contributor  to  the  leading  magazines. 
He  begau  to  publisli  j^oems  in  1854.  His  "Baby  Bell" 
(1858)  showed  that  he  had  not  mistaken  his  vocation. 
Removing  to  Boston,  lie  pnblished  a  series  of  talcs 
wliich  attracted  much  attention,  and  were  translated 
into  French.  They  appeared  originally  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthli/.  Mr.  Aldrich  has  made  two  visits  to  Europe 
with  his  wife,  and  given  evidence  that  they  were  not 
unprofitable  in  literary  respects.  His  poetical  vein  is 
rich,  delicate,  and  tender;  and  the  cultivated  circle  he 
addresses  is  always  enlarging.  He  published  in  1880 
"The  Stillwater  Tragedy,"  a  novel,  in  which,  in  spite 
of  its  name,  wit  aud  humor  prevail. 


PISCATAQUA  EIVER. 

Thou  singest  by  tlie  gleaming  isles. 
By  woods  aud  fields  of  corn 

Thou  singest,  aud  tlio  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

Bnt  I,  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest. 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lio 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast ; 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
Aud,  wrai)ped  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip  aud  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy. 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 
To  rest  upon  the  oars, 


868 


CYCLOrJiDIA   OF  BRITISH  A\D  AMEIUCAX  POETRY. 


And  catch  tlio  heavy  earthy  Rceiits 
That  blow  from  Buniiiicr  shores ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  lires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town, 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires. 

And  then  to  liear  tlio  niulillt'd  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white. 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River!   llowing  to  the  main 

Through  Avoods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hoar  tliou  my  longing  and  my  paiu 
Tills  sunny  birthday  morn  : 

And  take  this  song,  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  clifits  and  capes 

And  craiis  where  I  am  known. 


BEFORE  THE  RAIN. 

Wo  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  flie  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes,  and  swamps,  and  dismal  fens, — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  pojtlars  showed 
Tiie  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Sluunk  in  (he  wind, — and  the  liglitiiing  now 
Is  laiinlcd  in  IrciMMJons  skeins  of  rain! 


And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  gh)l)e  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck  ; 

And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  i)urple  ripples  ou  her  ueck. 


A  ITER  TIIE   RAIX. 

The  rain  lias  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  Hood  ; 

And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 

The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivj*  leaves. 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  hxdvs 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 


UNSUNG. 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  tliat  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose. 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights. 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air, 
Is  the  song  I  have  never  sung. 

lu  slumber,  a  hundred  times 

I've  said  the  enchanted  rhymes, 

I>ut  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  tlies  ; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains: 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 

By  an  nnreuiembercd  word  I 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain. 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Pevhaps  it  will  come  and  stay  ; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


SONNET. 

Euaiiioied  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt;  heed  not  Avhat  each  man  says. 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  ways. 

Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time  : 

Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  their 

days  ; 
But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  bo  all  in  all : 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame. 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  the  gods  have  given : 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 
Dissolve,  and  vanish, — take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striveu. 


WILLIAM  WINTER. 


8Gy 


liniliam  llliutcv. 


A  native  of  Gloucester,  Mass.,  Winter  was  born  July 
loth,  183(5.  lie  ])ubllslicd  a  volume  of  poems  before  lie 
was  twenty -one.  For  several  years  ho  has  been  con- 
nected with  the  New  York  Tribune  as  dramatic  critic.  An 
edition  of  his  poems  was  republished  in  London  in  1877. 
In  the  spring  of  1879  he  read  a  poem  called  "  The  Pledge 
and  the  Deed"  before  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  at  Albany,  which  was  received  with  great  en- 
thusiasm. Of  his  "Orgia"  he  writes:  "It  is  thorough- 
ly sincere— honestly  expressive  of  my  feelings  about  life 
at  the  time  it  was  written,  but  wild  as  a  white  squall. 
All  sorts  of  names  have  been  signed  to  it  in  the  newspa- 
pers; all  sorts  of  misprints  have  been  perpetrated  on  its 
text."  A  new  and  complete  edition  of  Winter's  poems 
in  one  volume  M-as  to  appear  in  1881. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   CONSTANCE. 

With  diamond  dew  the  grass  was  wet, 
'Twas  iu  the  spring  and  gentlest  weather, 

And  all  the  birds  of  morning  met, 
And  carolled  iu  ber  heart  together. 

The  wind  blew  softly  o'er  the  land, 
And  softly  kissed  the  joyous  ocean  ; 

He  walked  beside  ber  ou  the  sand. 
And  gave  and  won  a  heart's  devotion. 

The  tliLstle-dowu  was  iu  the  breeze, 

With  birds  of  passage  homeward  flying ; 

His  fortune  called  liim  o'er  the  seas, 
And  ou  the  shore  he  left  her  sighiug. 

She  saw  his  bark  glide  down  the  bay, 

Through  tears  and  fears  she  could  not  banish  ; 

She  saw  his  white  sails  melt  away  ; 

She  saw  them  fade  ;   she  saw  them  vauish. 

And  "  Go,"  she  said,  "  for  winds  are  fair. 
And  love  and  blessing  round  you  hover ; 

When  yon  sail  backward  through  the  air, 
Theu  I  will  trust  the  word  of  lover." 

Still  ebbed,  still  flowed  the  tide  of  years, 

Now  chilled  with  snows,  now  bright  with  roses. 

And  mauy  smiles  were  turned  to  tears, 
Aud  sombre  morns  to  radiant  closes. 

And  many  ships  came  gliding  by, 

With  many  a  golden  promise  freighted  ; 

But  nevermore  from  sea  or  .sky 

Came  love  to  bless  her  heart  that  waited. 


Yet  ou,  by  tender  patience  led, 

Her  sacred  footsteps  walked,  unbidden. 

Wherever  sorrow  bows  its  head, 

Or  want  and  care  and  shame  are  hidden. 

And  they  who  saw  her  snow-white  hair. 
And  dark,  sad  eyes,  so  deep  with  feeling, 

Breathed  all  at  once  the  chancel  air, 
And  seemed  to  hear  the  organ  pealing. 

Till  once,  at  shut  of  autumn  day. 

In  marble  chill  she  pau.sed  and  barkened. 

With  startled  gaze,  where  far  away 
The  waste  of  sky  and  ocean  darkened. 

There,  for  a  moment,  faint  and  wan, 
High  np  iu  air,  aud  landward  striving. 

Stern-fore,  a  spectral  bark  came  ou. 
Across  the  purple  sunset  driving. 

Then  somethiug  out  of  night  she  knew. 

Some  whisper  heard,  from  heaven  descended, 

Aud  peacefully  as  falls  the  dew 
Her  long  aud  lonely  vigil  ended. 

The  violet  and  the  bramble  rose 

Make  glad  the  grass  that  dreams  above  her ; 
Aud  freed  from  time  and  all  its  woes. 

She  trusts  again  the  word  of  lover. 


ORGL\. 

THE   SONG   OF   A   lUJINED   MAN. 

Who  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free, — ■ 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  aud  drink  with  me. 

W^ith  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye. 

He  Avill  laugh  at  the  world  as  the  world  goes  oy. 

He  laughs  at  power  and  wealth  and  fame  ; 
He  laughs  at  virtue,  ho  laughs  at  shame ; 

Ho  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear, 
Aud  at  memory's  dead  leaves,  crisp  aud  sere : 

He  laughs  at  the  future,  cold  and  dim, — 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

Oh,  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me  : 
He  cares  for  nothing,  his  soul  is  free; 

Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine : 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  my  heart  is  thine. 


870 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


For  I  Leod  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law  ; 
I  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 

Ill  every  city  my  cups  I  quail', 

And  over  my  liiiuor  I  riot  and  laugh. 

1  laugh  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave; 

I  laugh  at  the  chureli,  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 

I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe. 

I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sueer. 
When  I  think  tliat  the  hour  of  death  is  near. 

For  I  know  that  Death  is  a  guest  divine. 

Who  shall  drink  my  blood  as  I  driuk  this  wiuo. 

And  Ho  cares  for  nothing!   a  king  is  He! 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  Avitli  me ! 

With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solenm  Past, 
Though  the  cup  that  I  drain  should  bo  my  last. 

I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  love  and  truth  ; 
To  ruined  manhood  and  wasted  youth. 

I  will  driuk  to  the  woman  who  wrought  my  woe, 
lu  the  diamond  morning  of  Long  Ago ; 

To  a  heavenly  face,  in  sweet  repose ; 

To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  l)lood  of  the  rose ; 

To  the  splendor,  caught  from  orient  skies, 
Tliat  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eyes — 

Her  largo  eyes,  wild  with  the  lire  of  the  south — 
And  the  dewy  wiuo  of  her  warm,  red  mouth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  thought  of  a  better  time  ; 
To  innocence,  gone  like  a  death-bell  chime. 

I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom  ; 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb. 

I  will  drink  to  my  s(ml  iu  its  terrible  mood. 
Dimly  and  solemnly  understood. 

And,  last  of  all,  to  the  Monarch  of  Sin, 

Who  has  conquered  that  fortress  and  reigns  within. 

My  sight  is  fading, — it  dies  away, — 
I  cannot  tell — is  it  night  or  day. 


My  heart  is  burnt  and  blackened  with  pain, 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushes  my  brain. 

I  cannot  see  you.     The  end  is  nigh  ; 
But — we'll  laugh  together  before  I  die. 

Through  awful  chasms  I  plunge  and  fall ! 
Your  hand,  good  fellow  !     I  die, — that's  all. 


THE  GOLDEN  SILENCE. 

AVhat  though  I  sing  no  other  song? 

What  though  I  siteak  no  other  word  ? — - 
Is  silence  shame  ?     Is  patience  wrong  ? — 

At  least,  one  song  of  mine  was  heard: 

One  echo  from  the  mountain  air. 
One  ocean  murnini",  glad  and  free — 

One  sign  that  nothing  grand  or  fair 
In  all  this  world  was  lost  to  me. 

I  will  not  wake  the  sleeping  lyre ; 

I  will  not  strain  the  chords  of  thought: 
The  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 

Comes  its  own  way,  and  comes  unsought. 

•Though  all  the  bards  of  earth  were  dead, 
And  all  their  music  passed  away, 

Wliat  Nature  wishes  should  be  said 
She'll  lind  the  rightful  voice  to  say ! 

Iler  heart  is  in  the  shimmering  leaf. 
The  drifting  cloud,  the  lonely  sky, 

And  all  we  know  of  bliss  or  grief 
She  speaks  in  forms  that  cannot  die. 

The  mountain-peaks  that  shine  afar. 
The  silent  star,  the  pathless  sea, 

Arc  living  signs  of  all  we  are. 
And  types  of  all  wo  hope  to  be. 


lllilliam  Scl)iuciul\  (JMlbcrt. 

Gilbert,  born  in  London,  I80G,  won  celebrity  by  his 
participation  in  the  burlesque  musical  drama  of  "Pina- 
fore" (1878),  the  libretto  of  which  was  his  own  concep- 
tion. The  success  of  the  piece  at  the  principal  theatres 
of  the  United  States  was  something  quite  unexampled. 
It  was  followed  by  "The  Pirates  of  Penzance"  (1879), 
another  profitable  hit.  He  published  in  1877  a  volume 
of  humorous  poetry.  Before  that  lie  had  produced 
"  Original  Plays,"   republished  iu  New  York ;   among 


WILLIAM  SCHWENCK  GILBERT.— WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS. 


871 


them  "The  Wicked  AVorld,  an  Original  Fairy  Comedy," 
and  "  Pygmalion  and  Galatea,  an  Original  Mythological 
Comedy."  He  produces  his  comic  effects  by  a  grotesque 
extravagance,  or  by  humorous  nonsense,  unmarred  by 
coarseness. 


TO   THE   TERRESTRIAL   GLOBE. 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  pathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on  ! 
What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case  ? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills  ? 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on ! 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on ! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on ! 
It's  true  I've  got  no  shirts  to  wear  ; 
It's  true  ray  butcher's  bill  is  due  ; 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  very  blue ; 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you ! 
Never  you  mind ! 
Roll  on  ! 

It  rolls  on. 


MORTAL  LOVE. 

From  "  The  Wicked  AVobld." 

Selene,  a  Fairy  Queen,  is  the  supposed  speaker. 

With  all  their  misery,  with  all  their  sin, 
With  all  the  elements  of  wretchedness 
That  teem  on  that  unholy  world  of  theirs, 
They  have  one  great  and  ever-glorious  gift. 
That  compensates  for  all  they  have  to  bear — 
The  gift  of  Love !     Not  as  we  use  the  word. 
To  signify  mere  tranquil  brotherhood ; 
But  in  some  sense  that  is  unknown  to  us. 
Their  love  bears  like  relation  to  our  own 
That  the  fierce  beauty  of  the  noonday  sun 
Bears  to  the  calm  of  a  soft  summer's  eve. 
It  nerves  the  wearied  mortals  with  hot  life. 
And  bathes  his  soul  in  hazy  happiness. 
The  richest  man  is  poor  who  hath  it  not. 
And  he  who  hath  it  laughs  at  poverty. 
It  hath  no  conqueror.     When  Death  himself 
Has  worked  his  very  worst,  this  love  of  theirs 
Lives  still  upon  the  loved  one's  memory. 
It  is  a  strange  enchantment,  which  invests 
The  most  unlovely  things  with  loveliness. 


The  maiden,  fascinated  by  this  spell, 
Sees  everything  as  she  would  have  it  be : 
Her  squalid  cot  becomes  a  princely  home ; 
Its  stunted  shrubs  are  groves  of  stately  elms ; 
The  weedy  brook  that  trickles  past  her  door 
Is  a  broad  river  fringed  with  drooping  trees: 
And  of  all  marvels  the  most  marvellous. 
The  coarse  unholy  man  who  rules  her  love 
Is  a  bright  being — pure  as  we  are  pure ; 
Wise  in  his  folly — blameless  in  his  sin ; 
The  incarnation  of  a  perfect  soul ; 
A  great  and  ever-glorious  demi-god. 


lllilliam  Pcan  i^o^jrlU. 


Born  in  Martinsville,  Belmont  County,  0.,in  1837,  the 
son  of  a  printer,  Howells  learned  the  business,  and  be- 
came editorially  connected  with  several  Ohio  newspa- 
pers. In  1860  he  published,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  J.  J. 
Piatt,  a  volume  entitled  "Poems  of  Two  Friends."  In 
1861  he  was  Consul  at  Venice,  where  he  resided  till  1865. 
He  published  "Venetian  Life"  (1866);  "Italian  Jour- 
neys" (1867);  "No  Love  Lost:  a  Poem  "  (1868) ;  "Sub- 
urban Sketches"  (1871);  "Their  Wedding  Journey" 
(1872);  "The  Undiscovered  Country"  (1880).  In  1870 
he  became  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  He  has  gained 
a  wide  reputation  for  the  grace  and  purity  of  his  prose 
style ;  and  has  shown,  in  some  of  his  shorter  poems,  high 
lyrical  capacities  and  an  artist-like  care. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought : 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still : 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  thanksgiving  accept. 

For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer: 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement : 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


THE  MYSTERIES. 

Once  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child,  I  crept, 

Holding  my  breath  ; 
There,  safe  and  sad,  lay  shuddering,  and  wept 

At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 


872 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BllITlSlI  AM)  AMKRICAX  I'OKTRY. 


Weary  ami  weak,  and  worti  with  all  unrest, 

Spent  witb  the  strife,— 
O  mother,  let  mo  weej)  iipon  thy  breast 

At  the  sad  mystery  of  Life  I 


iJolju  Uurrouciljs. 

AMERICAN. 

Burroughs  was  born  April  3d,  1837,  at  Roxbury,  N.  Y. 
He  has  distinguished  himself  as  a  genial  observer  of  nat- 
ural phenomena,  and  liis  books  about  birds,  flowers,  and 
out-of  door  life  have  a  distinctive  value,  as  coming  from 
one  at  once  a  poet  and  a  naturalist.  He  is  the  author 
of  "  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person  "  (1867) ;  "Wake 
Robin"  (ll^~l);  "Winter  Sunshine"  (1875);  "Birds  and 
Poets  "  (1877) ;  "  Locusts  and  Wild  Iloney  "  (1879). 


WAITING. 

Sereue  I  fold  my  arms  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea: 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays. 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace  ? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways. 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  hy  night  or  day, 

The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me  ; 

No  wind  eau  drive  my  bark  astray. 
Nor  cliango  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone  ? 

I  wait  witb  joy  the  coming  years  ; 
My  heart  sliall  reap  where  it  lias  sown. 

And  garner  np  its  fruit  of  tears. 


Algernon  Cljarlcs  Stuinburuc. 

Ssvinburnc,  son  of  an  English  admiral,  was  born  at 
Hohnwood,  near  Henley-on-Thames,  in  1837.  His  early 
education,  begun  in  France,  was  continued  at  Eton.  In 
18.57  he  entered  a  commoner  of  Baliol  College,  Oxford, 
but  left  without  taking  a  degree.  In  his  twenty-third 
year  he  published  two  plays,  "The  Queen  Mother"  and 
"Rosamund."  In  18(3.5  appeared  his  dramatic  poem  of 
"  Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  thoroughly  Grecian  in  form  and 
spirit.  The  Edinburgh  Hevicw  pronounced  it  "  the  prod- 
uce of  an  afHucnt  apprehensive  genius  which,  with  or- 
dinary care  and  fair  fortune,  will  take  a  foremost  place 
in  English  literature."  In  1800  appeared  a  volume  of 
"Poems  and  Ballads,"  which  was  considered  so  objec- 
tionable in  its  free  and  sensuous  expressions,  that,  in 
obedience  to  the  critical  outcry  against  it,  the  edition 
was  suppressed  by  the  English  publishers.  Since  then 
Swinburne  has  published  "A  Song  of  Italy"  (1867) ;  "Si- 
ena, a  Poem  "  (1868) ;  "  Ode  on  the  Proclamation  of  the 
French  Republic  "  (1870) ;  "  Songs  before  Sunrise"  (1871) ; 
"Bothwell,  a  Tragedy"  (1874);  "Songs  of  the  Spring- 
tides" (1880).  He  is  a  genuine  poet,  both  in  tempera- 
ment and  original  vivacity  of  thought  and  expression. 
At  times  there  is  a  marvellous  charm,  peculiarly  his  own, 
in  his  diction,  which  is  at  once  mellifluous  and  vigorous. 
It  will  be  noticed  that  lie  hasi  revived  the  old  fashion 
of  alliteration  in  many  of  his  lines.  Sometimes  this  is 
a  defect,  but  not  unfrequently  it  helps  to  sweeten  the 
versification. 


AN   INTERLUDE. 

In  the  greenest  growth  of  the  May-time, 

I  rode  where  the  woods  were  wet, 
Between  the  dawn  and  the  daytime  ; 

The  spring  was  glad  that  we  met. 

There  was  something  the  season  wanted. 

Though  the  ways  and  the  woods  smelled  sweet ; 

The  breath  at  your  lips  that  panted. 
The  pnLse  of  tlie  grass  at  your  feet. 


The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height : 

So  Hows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  lloweret  nodding  in  the  wind 

Is  ready  plighted  to  the  bee ; 
And,  maiden,  why  that  look  unkind? 

For  lo !   thy  lover  seeketh  thee. 

Tlie  stars  come  nightly  to  the  skj- ; 

Tile  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea  ; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


Yon  came,  and  the  sun  came  after. 
And  the  green  grew  golden  above  ; 

And  the  llag-flowers  lightened  with  laughter, 
And  the  meadow-sweet  shook  with  love. 

Your  feet  in  the  full-grown  grasses 
Moved  soft  as  a  weak  wind  blows ; 

You  passed  me  as  April  passes. 
With  face  made  out  of  a  rose. 

By  the  stream  where  the  stems  were  slender, 
Your  bright  foot  paused  at  the  sedge; 

It  might  be  to  watch  the  tender 

Light  leaves  iu  the  spring-time  hedge, 


ALGi:EXOy  CHARLES  SWINBUENE. 


873 


Ou  l)onghs  that  the  sweet  imnith  blanches 

With  flowery  frost  of  May  : 
It  might  be  a  bird  in  tlio  brauehes, 

It  might  be  a  thorn  in  the  way. 

I  waited  to  watch  you  linger 

\Yith  foot  drawn  back  from  the  dew, 

Till  a  sunbeam  straight  like  a  iiuger 
Struck  sharp  through  the  leaves  at  you. 

And  a  bird  overhead  sang  Folloiv, 
And  a  bird  to  the  right  sang  Here; 

And  the  arch  of  the  leaves  was  hollow, 
And  the  meaning  of  May  was  clear. 

I  saw  where  the  sun's  hand  pointed, 
I  knew  what  the  bird's  note  said ; 

By  the  dawn  and  the  dewfall  anointed, 

You  were  queen  by  the  gold  ou  your  head. 

As  the  glimpse  of  a  burnt-out  ember 

Recalls  a  regret  of  the  sun, 
I  remember,  forget,  and  remember 

What  Love  saw  done  and  undone. 

I  remember  the  way  we  parted, 

The  day  and  the  way  we  met  ; 
You  hoped  we  were  both  broken-hearted, 

And  knew  we  should  both  forget. 

And  May  with  her  world  in  flower 
Seemed  still  to  murmur  and  smile 

As  you  murmured  and  smiled  for  an  hour  ; 
I  saw  you  turn  at  the  stile. 

A  hand  like  a  Avhite  wood-blossom 
You  lifted,  and  waved,  and  passed. 

With  head  hung  down  to  the  bosom, 
And  pale,  as  it  seemed,  at  last. 

And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  this  is, 

That  neither  is  most  to  blame. 
If  you've  forgotten  my  kisses 

And  I've  forgotten  vonr  name. 


LOVE   AND   DEATH. 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair ;  thou  art 

goodly,  O  Love  ; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as' the  wings  of 

a  dove. 


Thy  feet  are  as  wimls   that  divide  the  stream  of 

the  sea ; 
Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  garment  of 

thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a  flame  of 

fire ; 
Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the  tears  of 

desire ; 
And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with  a  maid ; 
Her  eyes  are  the  ej-es  of  a  bride  whom  delight  makes 

afraid ;  [breath  : 

As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her  bridal 
But   Fate   is   the   name   of  her;   and   his  name   is 

Death. 


A  MATCH. 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather. 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I,  your  love,  were  death. 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling. 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  ; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I,  your  love,  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons. 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons. 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow. 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


874 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


If  you  were  April's  lady, 

Aiul  I  -were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady, 

And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady. 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together. 
Pluck  out  his  llyiug-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


iTorrcjitljc  lllillson. 

AMERICAN. 

Willson  (1837-1867)  was  a  native  of  Little  Genesee,  N.  Y. 
"The  Old  Sergeant,  and  oilier  Poems,"  was  the  title  of  a 
volume  from  his  pen,  published  in  Boston  in  1807.  "  The 
Old  Sergeant"  has  in  it  more  of  the  narrative  and  dra- 
matic element  than  of  the  poetic,  but  its  pathos  is  gen- 
uine, and  Willson  fully  believed  in  the  possibility  of  the 
occurrence  he  describes.  He  was  himself  an  intuitional- 
ist,  and  the  spirit-world  seemed  to  him  more  real  than 
this.  In  his  poem  of  "The  Voice"  he  describes  himself 
as  listening  to  the  words  of  his  deceased  wife,  and  adds  : 

"They  fell  and  died  upon  my  ear, 
As  dew  dies  on  the  atmosphere; 
And  then  an  intense  yearning  thrilled 
My  Soul,  that  all  niiKht  be  fulfllled : 
'Where  art  thou.  Blessed  Spirit,  where? 
Whose  Voice  is  dew  upon  the  air?' 
I  looked  iironnd  me  and  above, 
And  died  aloud,  'Where  art  thou.  Love? 

0  let  me  sec  thy  living  eye. 

And  clasp  thy  living  hand,  or  die  !' 

Again,  upon  the  atmosphere. 

The  self-same  words  fell :  '  /  am  here  !' 

"'Here?    Thou  art  here,  Love  I'    'i  am  here:' 
The  echo  died  upou  my  ear: 

1  looked  around  me— everywhere; 
But,  ah  !   there  was  no  mortal  there  ! 
The  moonlight  was  upon  the  mart, 
And  Awe  and  Wonder  in  my  heart! 
I  saw  no  form !— I  only  felt 
Heaven's  Peace  upon  me  as  I  knelt; 
And  knew  a  Soul  Beatitied 

Was  at  that  moment  by  my  side! 
And  there  was  Silence  in  my  ear, 
And  Silence  iu  the  atmosphere!"' 

Like  Oberlin,  he  was  firm  in  the  belief  here  poetically 
expressed,  and  claimed  to  have  had  frequent  interviews 
with  the  partner  so  dear  to  him  in  life. 


THE   OLD   SERGEANT. 

"  Coino  a  little  nearer,  Doctor — Thank  you!   let  mo 

take  the  cup! 
Draw  your  chair  up — draw  it  closer — ^just  another 

little  sup ! 
Maybe  you  may  think  I'm  better,  but  I'm  pretty 

well  used  up — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I'm  just 

agoing  up. 

"Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  yoti  want  to;  but  it  is  no 
use  to  try." 

"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smoth- 
ered down  a  sigh ; 

"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say 
die!" 

"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference.  Doctor, 
when  you  come  to  die. 

"  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?"     "  You  were 

very  faint,  they  say  ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."    "  Doctor,  have 

I  been  away  ?" 
"No,  my  venerable  comrade."      "Doctor,  will  you 

please  to  stay  ? 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't 

have  long  to  stay ! 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  am  ready  now 

to  go ; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ? — but  it  couldn't  have 

been  so — 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I've  this  verj'  night  been  back  there — on  the  old 

field  of  Shiloh ! 

"  You  may  think  it  all  delusion — all  the  sickness 

of  the  brain — 
If  you  do,  you  are  mistaken,  and  mistaken  to  my 

pain ; 
For  upon  my  dying  honor,  as  I  hope  to  live  again, 
I  have  just  been  back  to  Shiloh,  ami  all  over  it  again. 

"This  is  all  that  I  remember;  the  last  time  the 
Lighter  came, 

And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises 
much  the  same. 

He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  some- 
thing called  my  name — 

'  OnDERLY-SERGEANT-ROBERT-BUKTON  !'— jUSt    that 

waj-  it  called  my  name. 


FORCEYTHE  WILLSON. 


875 


"  Then  I  thought  who  could  have  called  mo  so  dis- 
tinctly aud  so  slow  : 

It  cau't  bo  tho  Lighter,  surely,  ho  could  not  have 
spokeu  so ; 

Aud  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir !'  but  I  couldn't 
make  it  go, 

For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  couldn't  make 
it  go! 

"Then  I  thought  it  all  a  nightmare — all  a  humbug 
aud  a  bore ! 

It  is  just  another  grape-vine,  aud  it  won't  come  any 
more  ; 

But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same 
words  as  before, 

'  Orderly-Sergeant-Robert-Burton  !'— more  dis- 
tinctly than  before! 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember  till  a  sudden  burst 
of  light. 

And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that 
Saturday  night 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  tho  dark  bluffs  op- 
liosite, 

Wheu  tho  river  seemed  perdition,  and  all  hell  seem- 
ed opposite ! 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  with  all 

its  power. 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding  as  from  heaven  or 

a  tower ; 
Aud  the  same  mysterious  voice  said:  'It  is — the 

eleventh  hour ! 
Orderly -Sergeant -Robert -Burton — it  is  the 

eleventh  hour  !' 

"Dr. Austin! — what  day  is  this?" — "It  is  Wednes- 
day night,  you  know." 

"Yes!  To-morrow  will  be  IS^ew-year's,  aud  a  right 
good  time  below ! 

What  time  is  it.  Dr. Austiu  ?"  —  "Nearly  twelve;" 
— "  Then  don't  you  go  ! 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened — all  this — not  an 
hour  ago ! 

"  There  was  where  the  gun-boats  opened  on  the  dark, 

rebellious  host, 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  all  his  guns  npon 

the  coast — 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same, 

or  else  their  ghost — 
Aud  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over 

— or  its  ghost ! 


"  And  the  whole  field  lay  before  me,  all  deserted  far 

aud  wide — 
There    was   Avhere    they   fell    on    Prentiss  —  there 

McCleruaud  met  tho  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where 

Hurlburt's  heroes  died — 
Lower  down,  where  Wallace  charged  them,  and  kept 

charging  till  he  died! 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he 

was  of  the  canuio  kin — 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where 

Rousseau  waded  in — 
There  McCook  '  sent  them  to  breakfiist,'  and  we  all 

began  to  win — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me  just  as  we 

began  to  win. 

"Now  a  shroud  of  suow  and  sileuce  over  everything 

was  spread  ; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle,  and  the  old  hat 

on  my  head, 
I  should  not  have  eveu  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I 

was  dead  ; 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  suow  upon 

the  dead! 

"  Death  and  silence  !  Death  aud  silence  !  Starry 
silence  overhead ! 

And  behold  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the 
dead. 

To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty 
head ! 

Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  heaven  all  seemed  wav- 
ing from  its  head ! 

"Round  and  mighty-based,  it  towered — up  into  the 

infinite ! 
Aud  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a 

shaft  so  bright ; 
For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine;   aud  a  winding 

stair  of  light 
Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear 

out  of  sight ! 

"  And  behold,  as  I  approached  it  with  a  rapt  and 

dazzled  stare — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascendiug 

the  great  st.air^ 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of 'Halt!  aud 

who  goes  there !' 
'  I'm  a  friend,'  I  said, '  if  you  are ' — '  Then  advance, 

sir,  to  the  stair!' 


876 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AXD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"I  ailvancetl — that  sentry,  Doctor,  was  Elijah  IJal- 

lantyne — 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday  after  we  had  formed 

the  line! 
'  Welcome,  my  oUl  Sergeant,  welcome !    Welcome  by 

that  countersign  !' 
And  ho  ])oiiited  to  that  scar  there  under  this  old 

cloak  of  mine ! 

"As  he  jj;rasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered  — thinking 

only  of  the  grave — 
But  be  smiled  and  pointed  upward,  with  a  bright 

and  bloodless  glave — 
'  That's  the  way,  sir,  to  head-quarters ' — '  What  head- 

(inartcrs?'— 'Of  the  brave!' 
'But  the  great  tower?' — 'That  was  builded  of  the 

great  deeds  of  the  brave!' 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  bis  uniform 

of  light— 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new 

and  bright ; 
'Ah!'  said  he,  'you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform 

to-night ! 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve 

o'clock  to-uight!' 

"And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting 
TiiEUK,  and  I — 

Doctor,  it  is  hard  to  leave  you — Hark !  God  bless 
you  all !     Good-bye ! 

Doctor!  please,  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knap- 
sack, when  I  die. 

To  my  son — my  son  that's  coming — he  won't  get 
hero  till  I  die! 

"Tell  him  Ids  old  father  blessed  him  as  he  never 

did  before — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket — Hark !  a  knock  is 

at  the  door! 
Till  the  Union — sec!   it  opens!" — "Father!  father! 

speak  once  more !" 
'•  Bless  you !"  gasped  the  old  gray  Sergeaut,  and  he 

lay  and  said  no  more! 

When  the  Surgeon  gave  the  heir-son  the  old  Ser- 
geant's last  advice — 

And  his  musket  and  his  knajisack — how  the  fire 
Hashed  in  his  eyes! — 

He  is  on  the  niarch  this  morning,  and  will  march 
on  till  he  dies —  [until  he  dies! 

He  will  save  this  bleediug  country,  or  will  fight 
18G6. 


£uni  Cjamilton  tjoopcr. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Plilladelpliia,  daiiiclitcr  of  B.  M.  Jones,  Esq., 
a  well-known  merchant,  Lucy  gave  her  attention  early 
to  liteiatuic.  Married  to  Robert  M.  Hooper,  Esq.,  she 
IHiblislied  in  18(34  a  volume  entitled  "  Poems,  with  Trans- 
lations from  the  German  of  Geibel  and  Otliers;"  and  for 
two  years  assisted  in  editing  Lippincotrs  Magazine.  A  sec- 
ond voUiine  of  her  poems,  containing  some  eighty  pieces, 
appeared  in  1871. 

OX  AN  OLD  PORTRAIT. 

Eyes  that  outsmiled  the  mom, 

Behind  your  golden  lashes, 
What  aro  your  tires  now  ? 
Ashes ! 

Cheeks  that  outblushed  the  rose, 

White  arms  and  snowy  bust, 
What  is  your  beauty  now  ? 
Dust ! 


IN  VAIN. 

Clasp  closer,  arms  ;  press  closer,  lips, 

In  last  and  vain  caressing ; 
For  nevermore  that  pallid  cheek 

Will  crimson  'ueath  your  pressing. 
For  these  vain  words  and  vainer  tears 

She  waited  yester-even  : 
She  waits  you  now, — but  in  the  far 

Resplendent  halls  of  heaven. 

With  patient  eyes  fixed  on  the  door. 

She  waited,  ho^jiug  ever. 
Till  death's  dark  wall  rose  cold  between 

Her  gaze  and  you  forever. 
She  heard  your  footsteps  in  the  breeze, 

And  in  the  wild-bee's  humming  : 
The  last  breath  that  she  shaped  to  words 

Said  softly,  "Is  he  coming?" 

Now  silenced  lies  the  gentlest  heart 

That  ever  beat  'neatli  cover; 
Safe,  never  to  be  wrung  again 

By  you,  a  fickle  lover ! 
Your  wrong  to  her  knew  never  end 

Till  earth's  last  bonds  were  riven; 
Your  memory  rose  cold  between 

Her  parting  soul  and  heaven. 

Now  vain  your  false  and  tardy  grief, 
Vain  your  remorseful  weeping ; 


LUCY  HAMILTON  nOOPER.—BEET  HAUTE. 


877 


For  she,  whom  only  you  deceived, 
Lies  linsbed  in  dreamless  sleeping. 

Go  :   not  beside  that  peaceful  form, 
Should  lying  words  bo  spoken  ! 

Go,  pray  to  God,  "  Be  merciful, 
As  she  whose  heart  I've  broken." 


THE   KING'S   RIDE. 

Above  the  city  of  Berlin 

Shines  soft  the  summer  day, 
And  near  the  royal  palace  shout 

The  school-boys  at  their  play. 

Sadden  the  mighty  palace  gates 

Unclasp  their  portals  wide. 
And  forth  into  the  sunshine  see 

A  single  horseman  ride. 

A  bent  old  man  in  plain  attire  ; 

No  glittering  courtiers  wait, 
No  arm^d  guard  attend  the  steps 

Of  Frederick  the  Great ! 

The  boys  have  spied  him,  and  with  shouts 

The  summer  bi-eezes  ring : 
The  merry  urchins  haste  to  greet 

Their  well-belovdd  king. 

Impeding  e'en  his  horse's  tread. 

Presses  the  joyous  train  ; 
And  Prussia's  despot  frowns  his  best. 

And  shakes  his  stick  in  vain. 

The  frowning  look,  the  angry  tone 
Are  feigned,  full  well  tliey  know  ; 

They  do  not  fear  his  stick — that  hand 
Ne'er  struck  a  coward  blow. 

"  Be  off  to  school,  you  boys  !"  he  cries. 

"  Ho  !   ho !"  the  laughers  saj^, 
"A  pretty  king  you  not  to  know 

We've  holiday  to-day !" 

And  so  upon  that  summer  day. 

These  children  at  his  side, 
The  symbol  of  his  nation's  love, 

Did  royal  Frederick  ride. 

O  Kings !   your  thrones  are  tottering  now  ! 

Dark  frowns  the  brow  of  Fate ! 
When  did  you  ride  as  rode  that  day 

Kinjr  Frederick  the  Great  ? 


Bret  tjartc. 


Francis  Bret  Harte,  born  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  in  1837,  was 
the  sou  of  a  school-master,  and  partly  of  Dutch  origin. 
When  seventeen  years  old,  he  went  with  his  widowed 
mother  to  California.  Here  he  opened  a  school  at  the 
mines  of  Sonora,  but,  not  prospering  in  it,  qualified  him- 
self as  a  setter  of  types.  In  San  Francisco  he  got  a  place 
on  the  Golden  Era;  then  engaged  in  The  CaUfornian, 
which  was  not  a  success.  In  it  appeared  his  "  Condensed 
Novels."  He  made  his  first  decided  hit  in  the  Overland 
3Io7ithbj,  in  his  "Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James," 
a  delectable  bit  of  original  humor.  Returning  to  the  At- 
lantic States,  he  published  bis  "  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp, 
and  other  Tales,"  in  1809;  his  "Poems  "and  "Condensed 
Novels,"  in  1870;  his  "East  and  West  Poems,"  in  1872. 
He  has  since  written  a  novel  for  Scribner''s  Magazine,  and 
several  articles  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  In  1879  he  was 
appoiuted  to  the  important  Consulate  at  Glasgow.  His 
various  writings  have  won  for  him  quite  a  reputation  in 
England  and  Germany  as  well  as  in  his  own  country. 


DOW'S   FLAT. 

Dow's  Flat.     That's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  yon 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same. 
Well,  I  thought  it  was  true. 
For  thar  isn't  a  niau  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the 
place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass ; 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  came  to  pass, — 
Jest  tie  up  your  horse  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye 
down  here  in  the  grass. 

You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,  ef  he'd  a-straddled  that  fence-rail,  the  derned 
thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  couldn't  pay  rates ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car, 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kern  his  wife 
and  five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough,  mighty  rough  ; 
But  the  Boys  they  stood  by. 


878 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  they  brought  him  the  stnlF 
For  a  house,  ou  the  sly  ; 
Aud  the  old  woman, — she  did  washing,  and  took 
ou  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean. 
That  the  spring  near  his  honse 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green  : 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary 
a  drop  to  bo  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out. 

And  the  boys  wouldn't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away  ; 
But  Dow  in  his  well  kept  a-peggiug  in  his  usual 
ridikilous  way. 

One  day, — it  was  June, — 

And  a  year  ago  jest, 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 
To  his  work  like  the  rest, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  Der- 
riuger  hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

Aud  he  stands  on  the  brink. 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  ; 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes  (jest  like  this,  sir!),  you  see, 
kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

II is  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay  : 
Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all, — as 
I've  heerd  the  folks  say. 

And — that's  a  peart  boss 

Thet  you've  got — ain't  it,  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost? 

Eh  ?     Oh  !— Well,  then,  Dow- 
Let's  see, — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't  his, 
sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried  ; 
For  you  see  the  dcrn  cuss  had  struck — -'Water?" — 
beg  your  pardiug,  young  man,  there  you  lied! 


It  was  gold, — in  the  quartz, — 

And  it  run  all  alike ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 
Aud  that  house  with  the  cooiiilow's  his'u — whicli 
the  same  isn't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet's  why  it's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  ho  kinder  got  that 
Through  sheer  contrariness ; 
For  'twas  xcater  the  derned  cuss  was  seekiu',  and 
his  luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Tli.at's  so.     Thar's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But — a — look  h'yur,  say. 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No  ?     Well,  then  the  next  time  you're  passiu' ;  aud 

ask  after  Dow, — and  that's  me! 
185C. 


JIM. 


Say  there !     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild  ? 
Well, — no  offence  : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar : 
That's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  j-e,  sir !     You 
Ain't  of  that  crew, — • 

Blessed  if  you  are! 

Money  ? — Not  much : 
That  ain't  my  kind  : 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ? — I  don't  mind, 

Seein'  it's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ? — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  ? — 
Well,  that  is  strange  : 
Why,  it's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here 
Sick,  for  a  change. 


BBET  HAETE. 


879 


Well,  here's  to  us  : 

Eh? 
The  h —  you  say! 

Dead  ?— 
That  little  cuss  f 

What  makes  you  star, — 
You  over  thar  ? 
Cau't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar'  ? 
It  wouldn't  take 
D —  much  to  break 
You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 
Poor — little — Jim  ! 
• — Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — 
No-account  men  : 
Then  to  take  Mm! 

Well,  thar— Good-bye,— 
No  more,  sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's  tbat  yon  say  ? — 
Why,  dern  it ! — sho  ! — 
No  ?     Yes  !     By  Jo  ! 

Sold! 
Sold  !     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim ! 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FKOM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

Which  I  wish  to  remark — 

And  my  language  is  plaiu — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar. 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name, 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply  ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 
And  quite  soft  were  the  skies ; 


Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise, 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game. 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand ; 
It  was  euchre — the  same 

He  did  not  understand ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  at  the  table 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve. 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve, 
Which  was  stufted  full  of  aces  and  bowers. 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee 
And  the  points  that  he  made 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see. 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh. 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor ;" 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding 

In  the  game  "ho  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long. 

He  had  twenty-four  packs, 
Wliich  was  coming  it  strong. 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper. 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark — 

And  my  language  is  plain — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


880 


CTCLOrJiDIA    OF  JiliJTISH  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


Samuel   Stillmau  (Uonaut. 


Mr.  Conant  was  born  in  Watciville,  Me.,  in  1831.  Af- 
ter rcceivinji  a  college  cducatiun  in  this  country,  he  spent 
several  years  abVoad,  principally  at  the  universities  of 
Berlin,  Ilciilelberg,  and  Munich.  On  his  return  to  this 
country  Mr.  Conant  became  connected  with  the  press 
of  New  York,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  profession  of 
a  journalist.  In  1870  he  published  a  translation  of  "  The 
Circassian  Boy,"  a  metrical  romance  by  the  Russian  poet 
Lcrmontoft".  He  has  contributed  frequently  to  the  peri- 
odical literature  of  the  day. 


RELEASE. 

As  one  who  leaves  a  prison  cell, 

And  looks,  with  glad  though  dazzled  eye, 
Once  more  on  wood  and  field  and  sky, 

And  feels  again  the  quickening  spell 

Of  Nature  thrill  through  every  veiu, 
I  leave  my  former  self  behind. 
And,  free  once  more  in  heart  and  mind, 

Shake  off  the  old,  corroding  chain. 

Free  from  ray  Past — a  jailer  dread — 
And  with  the  Present  clasping  hands, 
Beneath  fair  skies,  through  sunny  lands. 

Which  memory's  ghosts  ne'er  haunt,  I  tread. 

The  pains  and  griefs  of  other  days 
May,  shadow-like,  pursue  me  yet ; 
But  toward  the  sun  my  face  is  set, 

His  golden  liglit  on  all  my  ways. 


A  VIGIL. 

The  liands  of  my  watch  point  to  midniglit. 

My  fire  burns  low  ; 
But  my  i)nlse  runs  like  the  nu)rning. 

My  heart  all  aglow. 

My  darling,  my  maiden,  is  nested 
And  wrapped  from  the  chill, 

And  slumber  lies  down   on  her  eyelids, 
Pure,  light,  and  still ; 

She  needs  not  the  watch-care  of  angels 
To  keep  oft'  fear  and  ill. 

The  throbbing  of  her  heart  is  ever 
A  sweet,  virgin  prayer; 


The  thoughts  of  her  heart,  like  incense. 

Fill  the  chaste  and  silent  air; 
And  how  can  evil,  or  fear  of  it, 

Enter  in  there  ? 


THE   SAUCY  ROGUE. 

FltOM  THE  Geiimax. 

There  is  a  saucy  rogue,  well  known 
To  youth  and  gray-beard,  maid  and  crone — 
A  boy,  with  eyes  that  mirth  bespeak, 
"With  curly  locks  and  dimpled  ciieck  ; 
IIo  has  a  sl^-,  demurish  air. 

But,  maiden  fair. 

Take  care,  take  care  ! 
His  dart  may  wound  you,  unaware! 

With  bow  and  arrows  in  his  hand 
He  wanders  up  and  down  the  land  ; 
'Tis  jolly  sport  to  aim  a  dart 
At  some  poor  maiden's  fluttering  heart: 
She  wonders  what  has  hurt  her  there. 

Ah,  maiden  fair, 

Take  care,  take  care! 
His  dart  nuiy  wound  yon,  unaware! 

Her  nimble  hands  the  distaff"  ply; 
A  gallant  soldier-lad  rides  by ; 
He  gives  her  such  a  loving  glance 
Her  heart  stands  still,  as  in  a  trance, 
Aud  death-pale  sinks  the  maiden  fair. 

Quick,  mother,  there, 

Give  heed,  take  care. 
Else  you  may  lose  her,  unaware ! 

Who  stands  there  laughing  at  the  door? 
That  rogue,  who  triumphs  thus  once  more! 
Both  lad  and  maiden  he  has  hit, 
And  laughs  as  though  his  sides  would  split. 
And  so  he  sports  him  everywhere ; 

Now  here,  now  there  ; 

He  mocks  your  care  ; 
You  fall  his  victim,  unaware. 

Now  who  so  masterful  aud  brave 
To  catch  and  hold  this  saucy  knave  ? 
Whoever  binds  him  strong  and  fast. 
His  name  and  deed  shall  always  last. 
But,  if  this  dangerous  feat  you  dare, 

Beware !   take  care 

Lest  ill  you  fare ! 
The  rogue  may  catch  you  unaware! 


HENEY  M.  ALDEX. 


881 


(ocurji  i!T.  ^li)cn. 


AMERICAN. 

Born  on  Mount  Tabor,  near  Danby,  Vt.,  in  1836.  In 
1863-64  he  delivered  an  interesting  course  of  lectures 
at  the  Lowell  Institute,  Boston,  on  "The  Structure  of 
Paganism."  Mr.  Alden  has  written  but  few  poems,  but 
those  few  arc  of  a  very  high  order.  They  evince  the 
possession  (Sf  thoughtful  insight  and  unusual  power  of 
philosophic  contemplation. 


THE   ANCIENT  "LADY   OF   SORROW." 

The  worship  of  the  Madnnna,  or  Mater  Dolorosa— "  Onv  Lady 
of  Sorrow"— is  not  confined  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith;  it 
was  an  important  feature  in  all  the  ancient  Pagan  systems  of 
religion,  even  the  most  primitive.  In  the  Sacred  Mysteries  of 
Egypt  and  of  Greece  her  worship  was  the  distinctive  and  prom- 
inent element.  In  the  latter  her  name  was  Achtheia,  or  Sor- 
row. Under  the  name  of  Demeter,  by  which  she  was  generally 
kuowu  among  the  Greeks,  she,  like  the  Egyptian  Isis,  typify- 
ing the  Earth,  was  represented  as  sympathizing  with  the  sor- 
rowing children  of  Earth,  both  as  a  bonutifal  mother,  bestow- 
ing upon  them  her  fruits  and  golden  harvests,  and  in  her  more 
gloomy  aspects — as  in  autumnal  decay,  in  tempests,  and  wintry 
desolation — as  sighing  over  human  frailty,  and  over  the  wintry 
deserts  of  the  human  heart.  The  worship  connected  with  this 
tradition  was  vague  and  symbolical,  having  no  well-defined 
body  oi  doctrine  as  to  sin,  salvation,  or  a  future  life.  Day  and 
Night,  Summer  and  Winter,  Birth  and  Death,  as  shown  in  Nat- 
ure, were  seized  upon  as  symbols  of  vaguely  understood  truths. 

Her  closing  eyelids  mock  the  light ; 
Her  cold,  pale  lips  are  sealed  quite ; 
Before  her  face  of  spotless  white 

A  mystic  veil  is  drawn. 
Our  Lady  hides  herself  in  niglit ; 
In  sliadows  hath  she  her  delight ; 

She  will  uot  see  the  dawn! 

The  morning  leaps  across  the  iilain — 

It  glories  iu  a  promise  vaiu  ; 

At  noon  the  day  begins  to  wane, 

With  its  sad  proj)hecy  ; 
At  eve  the  shadows  come  again  : 
Onr  Lady  finds  no  rest  from  i)ain, 

No  answer  to  her  cry. 

In  Spring  she  doth  her  Winter  wait ; 
The  Autumn  shadoweth  fortli  her  fate ; 
Thus,  one  by  one,  years  iterate 

Her  solemn  tragedy. 
Before  her  pass  in  solemn  state 
All  shapes  that  come,  or  soon  or  late, 

Of  tliis  world's  miserj-. 

What  is,  or  shall  be,  or  hath  been, 
This  Lady  is ;   and  she  hath  seen, 
56 


Like  frailest  leaves,  the  tribes  of  men 
Come  forth,  and  quickly  die. 

Therefore  onr  Lady  hath  no  rest ; 

For,  close  beueatli  her  snow-wliite  breast. 
Her  weary  children  lie. 

She  taketh  on  her  all  our  grief; 

Her  Passion  passeth  all  relief; 

In  vaiu  she  holds  the  poppy  leaf — 

In  vain  her  lotus  crown. 
Even  fabled  Lethe  hath  no  rest. 
No  solace  for  her  troubled  breast, 

And  no  oblivion. 

"Childhood  and  youth  are  vain,"  she  saith, 
"Since  all  things  ripen  unto  death; 
The  flower  is  blasted  by  the  breath 

That  calls  it  from  the  earth. 
And  yet,"  she  saith,  "this  thing  is  sure — 
There  is  no  life  but  shall  endure, 

And  death  is  only  birth. 

"  From  death  or  birth  no  powers  defend. 
And  thus  from  grade  to  grade  we  tend, 
By  resurrections  without  end. 

Unto  some  final  peace. 
But  distant  is  that  peace,"  she  saith ; 
Yet  eagerly  awaiteth  Death, 

Expecting  her  release. 

"  O  Rest,"  she  saith,  "  that  will  not  come, 
Not  even  when  our  lips  are  dumb, 
Not  even  when  onr  limbs  are  numb, 

And  graves  are  growing  green ! 
O  Death,  that,  coming  on  apace. 
Dost  look  so  kindly  in  the  face, 

Thou  wear'st  a  treach'rous  mien !" 

But  still  she  gives  the  shadow  place — 
Our  Lady,  with  the  saddest  grace, 
Doth  yield  her  to  his  feigned  embrace, 

And  to  his  treachery  ! 
Ye  must  not  draw  aside  her  veil ; 
Ye  must  not  hear  her  dying  wail; 

Ye  must  not  see  her  die  ! 

But,  hark !  from  out  the  stillness  rise 
Low-murnnired  myths  and  prophecies. 
And  chants  that  tremble  to  the  skies — 

Miserere  Domine ! 
They,  trembling,  lo,se  themselves  in  rest, 
Soothing  the  anguish  of  her  breast — 

Miserere  Domine ! 


882 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


liobcrt  Piuiicr  jJoijcc. 

A  native  of  Glenosbccu,  Limerick  Countj',  Ireland, 
Joyce  was  boru  in  1837.  He  Avas  educated  cliielly  in 
Dublin,  and,  entering  Queen's  University,  became  first 
scholar  in  mathematics.  He  ^ot  his  degree  of  doctor  in 
medicine  in  18G2,  and  of  master  in  surgery  in  18(35.  Re- 
moving to  Boston,  U.  S.  A.,  in  18G0,  he  established  him- 
self there  as  a  physician.  lie  published,  in  1808,  "Le- 
gends of  the  Wars  in  Ireland;"  in  1871,  "Irisli  Fireside 
Talcs;"  in  1872,  "Ballads  of  Irish  Chivalry,  Songs,  and 
Poems;"  in  1876,  "Deirdre,"  a  charming  specimen  of 
narrative  verse  ;  in  1879,  "Bianid,"  another  poetical  suc- 
cess, showing  remarkable  facility  in  the  use  of  poetical 
diction.  Notwithstanding  his  fruitful  literary  labors, 
accomplished  mostly  in  moments  of  relaxation  and  lei- 
sure, Dr.  Joyce  has  attained  high  success  in  his  profession. 


FAIR  GWENDOLINE  AND  HER  DOVE. 
I. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither,  tlion  snowy  dovo, 

Spread  out  thy  white  wings  last  and  free ; 
And  fly  over  moorland,  and  hill,  and  grove, 

Till  thou  reach  the  castle  of  gay  Tralee. 
Sir  Gerald  bides  in  the  northern  tower. 

While  heather  is  i)nrple  and  leaves  ai'e  green  ; 
Go,  bid  him  come  to  tliy  lady's  bower, 

For  the  love  of  his  own  dear  Gwendoline ! 


"  Come  hither,  come  hither,  thou  lily-white  dove, 

Spread  out  thy  white  wings  fast  and  free  ; 
When  thou'st  given  Sir  Gerald  my  troth  and  love, 

In  the  northern  turret  of  gaj'^  Tralee — 
Then  speed  thy  flight  to  Dunkerron  gate, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green  ; 
And  tell  its  lord  of  thy  lady's  hate, 

That  he'll  ne'er  look  more  on  young  Gwendoline." 


Awaj-,  away  went  the  faithless  dove, 

Awaj'  over  castle  and  mount  and  tree, 
Till  he  lighted  Dunkerron's  gate  above, 

Not  the  northern  turret  of  gay  Tralee  : 
"  Sir  Donald,  my  lady  hath  lands  and  power, 

While  heather  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green. 
And  she  bids  thee  como  to  her  far-off  bower 

For  the  love  of  thine  own  dear  Gwendoline !" 


Away,  away  went  the  false,  false  dove. 
Nor  rested  by  castle,  or  mount,  or  tree, 

Till  he  lighted  a  corheil  stone  above. 
On  the  northern  turret  of  gay  Tralee: 


"  Sir  Gerald,  my  lady  hates  thee  sore, 

Wliile  lioathcr  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green. 

While  the  streams  dance  down  the  hills;  no  more 
Shalt  thou  look  on  the  face  of  fair  Gwendoline !" 


"  Tiiou  licst,  thou  liest,  O  faithless  dove ! 

I'll  take  nij'  good  steed  speedily,         • 
And  hie  to  the  bower  of  mj'  lady-love. 

And  ask  at  its  door  if  she's  false  to  me ; 
I'll  ne'er  believe  but  her  heart  is  true. 

While  heather  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green  I 
And  never  a  bridle-rein  he  drew 

Till  he  rode  to  the  bower  of  his  Gwendoline. 


Dunkerron's  lord  came  by  the  gate — 

A  stout  and  a  deadly  foe  was  he — 
And  with  lance  in  rest  and  with  frown  of  hate 

He  rode  at  Sir  Gerald  of  fair  Tralee. 
Sir  Gerald  bent  o'er  his  saddle-bow. 

While  heather  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green, 
Struck  his  lance  through  the  heart  of  his  bravest  foe, 

For  the  love  of  his  own  dear  Gwendoline. 


"Fair  Gwendoline, 'twas  a  faithless  dove. 

Yet  I  knew  thou  wert  ever  true  to  me ; 
'Twas  his  words  were  lies,  and  thy  troth  to  prove 

I  rode  o'er  the  mountains  from  fair  Tralee !" 
He's  clasped  his  arms  round  that  lady  gny. 

While  heather  is  purple  and  leaves  are  green, 
And  the  sunnuer-tido  saw  their  wedding-day — 

That  trusting  knight  and  fair  Gwendoline. 


THE  BANKS  OF  AN'NER. 

In  purple  robes  old  Sliavnamon 

Towers  monarch  of  the  monntain.s. 
The  first  to  catch  the  smiles  of  dawn. 

With  all  his  woods  and  fountains  ; — 
His  streams  dance  down  by  tower  and  town, 

IJiit  none  since  Time  began  her, 
Mot  mortal  sight  so  pure  and  bright 

As  winding,  Avandering  Aniier. 

Ill  hill-side's  gleam  or  woodland's  gloom, 

O'er  fairy  height  and  hollow, 
Upon  her  banks  gay  flowerets  bloom. 

Where'er  her  course  I  follow. 
And  halls  of  pride  tower  o'er  her  tide, 

And  gleaming  bridges  span  her, 


EOBEBT  DWYEB  JOYCE.— FITZ-HUGR  LUDLOW. 


883 


As,  laughing  gay,  slie  ■winds  away, 
The  geutle,  murmuring  Auner. 

There  gallant  men,  for  freedom  born, 

With  friendly  grasp  will  meet  you  ; 
There  lovely  maids,  as  bright  as  morn, 

AYith  sunny  smiles  will  greet  you ; 
And  there  they  strove  to  raise,  above 

The  Ecd,  Grceu  Ireland's  banner, — 
There  yet  its  fold  they'll  see  unrolled 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 

'Tis  there  we'll  stand,  with  bosoms  proud, 

True  soldiers  of  our  sire-laud. 
When  freedom's  wind  blows  strong  and  loud. 

And  floats  the  flag  of  Ireland. 
Let  tyrants  quake,  and  doubly  shake 

Each  traitor  and  trepanuer, 
When  once  we  raise  our  camp-fire's  blaze 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 

O  God!   be  with  the  good  old  days. 

The  days  so  light  and  airy. 
When  to  blithe  friends  I  sang  my  lays 

In  gallant,  gay  Tipperary  ; 
When  fair  maids'  sighs  and  witching  eyes 

Made  my  young  heart  the  planner 
Of  castles  rare,  built  in  the  air. 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner ! 

The  morning  sun  may  fail  to  show 

His  light  the  earth  illuming; 
Old  Sliavnamon  to  blush  and  glow 

In  autumn's  purple  blooming; 
And  shamrock's  green  no  more  be  seen, 

And  breezes  cease  to  fan  her. 
Ere  I  forget  the  friends  I  met 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner ! 


GLENAEA. 

Oh,  fair  shines  the  sun  on  Glenara, 
And  calm  rest  his  beams  on  Glenara; 

But,  oh,  there's  a  light 

Far  dearer,  more  bright. 
Illumines  my  soul  in  Glenara, 
The  light  of  thine  eyes  in  Glenara. 

And  sweet  sings  the  stream  of  Glenara, 
Glancing  down  through  the  woods  like  an  arrow ; 

But  a  sound  far  more  sweet 

Glads  my  heart  when  we  meet 


In  the  green  summer  woods  of  Glenara, — 
Thy  voice  by  the  wave  of  Glenara. 

And  oh,  ever  thus  in  Glenara, 

Till  we  sleep  in  our  graves  by  Glenara, 

May  thy  voice  sound  as  free 

And  as  kindly  to  me, 
And  thine  eyes  beam  as  fond  in  Glenara, 
In  the  green  summer  woods  of  Glenara. 


i^it^.ijuglj  £ui)loui. 


AMERICAN. 

Ludlow  (1837-1870)  was  a  native  of  Poughkeepsie,  N.  T. 
lie  wrote  articles  in  prose  and  verse  for  the  magazines, 
in  which  he  showed  fine  natural  abilities,  if  not  original 
genius.  Unfortunately,  he  was  addicted  to  the  use  of 
opiates.  He  wrote  a  remarkable  work,  entitled  "The 
Hasheesh  Eater,"  portrajing  vividly  the  pleasures  and 
pains  attending  the  use  of  that  drug.  In  his  "Heart  of 
the  Continent "  he  gives  a  graphic  description  of  a  jour- 
ney across  the  great  Western  plains.  His  short  stories 
are  amoni;-  the  best  of  their  kind. 


TOO   LATE. 

"Ah!  si  la  jeuuesse  8:ivait— si  la  vielllesse  ponvait!" 

There  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock. 

And  unceasing  bewailed  him  of  Fate, — 
That  concern  wliero  we  all  must  take  stock. 

Though  our  vote  has  no  hearing  or  weight ; 
And  the  old  man  sang  him  an  old,  old  song, — 
Never  sang  voice  so  clear  and  strong 
That  it  could  drown  the  old  man's  long. 
For  he  sang  the  song,  "  Too  late !  too  late !" 

"  When  wo  want,  we  have  for  our  pains 

The  promise  that  if  we  but  wait 
Till  the  want  has  burnt  out  of  our  brains. 

Every  means  shall  be  preseut  to  sate  ; 
While  we  send  for  the  napkin,  the  soup  gets  cold, 
While  the  bonnet  is  trimming,  the  face  grows  old, 
When  we've  matched  our  buttons,  the  pattern  is  sold, 

And  everything  comes  too  late — too  late! 

'•'When  strawberries  seemed  like  red  heavens, 

Terrapin  stew  a  wild  dream. 
When  my  brain  was  at  sixes  and  sevens. 

If  my  mother  had  '  folks '  and  ice-cream. 
Then  I  gazed  with  a  lickerish  hunger 
At  the  restaurant  man  and  fruit-monger : — 
But  oh,  how  I  wished  I  were  younger       [stream ! 

When  the  goodies  all  came  in  a  stream — in  a 


884 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


"I've  a  sploiulitl  blood-horse,  ami — a  liver 

Tliat  it  jars  into  torture  to  trot ; 
My  row-boat's  the  gem  of  the  river, — 

Gout  makes  every  kuncklo  a  kuot ! 
I  can  buy  bouudless  credits  on  Paris  and  Rome, 
But  no  palate  for  menus,  no  eyes  for  a  dome — 
Thoiie  belonged  to  the  youth  who  must  tarry  at  home, 

When  no  home  but  an  attic  he'd  got — he'd  got. 

"llow  I  longed,  in  that  loncst  of  garrets, 

Where  the  tiles  baked  my  brains  all  July, 
For  ground  to  sow  two  pecks  of  carrots, 

Two  pigs  of  my  own  in  a  sty, 
A  rose-bush — a  little  thatched  cottage — 
Two  spoons — love — a  basin  of  pottage ! — 
Now  in  freestone  I  sit — and  my  dotage — 

With  a  woman's  chair  empty  close  by — close  by ! 

'•'Ah!   now,  thougli  I  sit  on  a  rock, 

I  have  shared  one  seat  with  the  great ; 
I  have  sat — knowing  naught  of  the  clock — 

On  love's  high  throne  of  state ; 

But  the  lips  that  kissed,  and  the  arms  that  caressed. 

To  a  mouth  grown  stern  with  delay  were  pressed. 

And  circled  a  breast  that  their  clasp  had  blessed 

Had  they  only  not  come  too  late — too  late !" 


^Tlrtljur  illunbij. 


Munby,  a  native  of  England,  was  born  about  the  j-car 
1837.  lie  published  in  1865  a  volume  of  poems  entitled 
"Verses,  Old  and  New."  His  "  Doris  :  a  Pastoral,"  is  re- 
markable for  the  melodious  flow  of  the  versification  and 
tlic  ingcnions  arrangement  of  the  rlij-mes:  the  third  line 
of  the  first  stanza  being  rhythmically  related  to  the  third 
line  of  the  next,  etc.  He  has  been  a  contributor  to  some 
of  the  best  London  magazines,  and  has  shown  in  his  pro- 
ductions that  he  is  a  literary  artist  as  well  as  a  poet. 


AUTUMN. 

Come,  then,  with  all  thy  grave  beatitudes, 
Thon  soother  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 

Autumn  !  whose  ample  loveliness  includes 
The  i)leasure  and  the  pain 

Of  all  that  is  majestic  in  despair 

Or  beautiful  in  failure.     Hast  thou  failed? 

The  winds  of  heaven  among  thy  branches  bare 
Have  wrestled  and  prevailed. 

Yet,  the  fallen  bough  shall  warm  a  winter  hearth  ; 
The  lost  leaves  kiss  each  other  as  they  fall ; 


Tlie  ripened  fruits  arc  garnered  off  the  earth  ; 
Thon  hast  not  failed  at  ail ! 

Nay — thou  bast  neither  failure  nor  success : 
Thou  wearest  still  thy  lustrous  languid  wreath 

With  such  sweet  temper,  that  its  Lues  express 
No  thought  to  thee  of  death. 

Serene  in  loss,  in  glory,  too,  serene, 

All  things  to  thee  seem  most  indifferent ; 

Thou  art  as  one  who  knows  not  what  they  mean, 
Or  knows  and  is  content. 

So  yon  fair  tree,  pure  crimson  to  the  core. 
Burns  like  a  sunset  'mid  its  company 

Of  golden  limes;  and  cares  for  death  no  more 
Thau  if  it  could  not  die. 


DORIS:  A  PASTORAL. 

I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd-maiden; 

Her  crook  was  laden  with  wreathdd  flowers: 
I  sat  and  wooed  her,  through  sunlight  wheeling 

And  shadows  stealing,  for  hours  and  hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  encloses 
Wild  snnmier-roses  of  sweet  perfume, 

The  while  I  sued  her,  kept  hushed,  and  hearkened. 
Till  shades  had  darkened  from  gloss  to  gloom. 

She  touched  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger : 
She  said,  "  W^e  linger,  we  must  not  staj' ; 

My  flock's  in  danger,  ray  sheep  will  wander ; 
Behold  them  yonder,  how  far  they  stray  !" 

I  answered  bolder,  "  Nay,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  still  be  near  you,  and  still  adore ! 

No  wolf  uor  stranger  will  touch  one  yearling, 
Ah  !   stay,  my  darling,  a  monieut  more  !" 

She  whispered,  sighing,  "There  will  be  sorrow 
Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day ; 

My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded, 
I  shall  be  scolded  and  sent  away." 

Said  I,  denying,  "If  thej'  do  miss  you. 

They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get  home  ; 

And  well  rewarded  by  friend  and  neighbor 
Should  be  the  labor  from  which  you  come." 

"They  might  remember,"  she  answered,  meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly,  and  sheep  are  wild ; 


AETHUB  MUNBY.—ABEAHAM  PERRY  MILLER. 


885 


Hut  if  they  love  lae,  it's  uone  so  fervent : 
1  am  a  servant,  and  not  a  cliikl." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glowed  quick  within  me, 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 

"  Ah !  do  bat  prove  me ;  and  uone  shall  bind  you, 
Nor  fray  uor  find  you,  until  I  die !'' 

She  blushed  aud  started :   I  stood  awaiting, 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine ; 
But  I  did  brave  them  ;   I  told  her  plainly 

She  doubted  vainly, — she  inust  bo  mine. 

So  we,  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  her  uibbliug  ewes ; 

And  homeward  drave  them,  we  two  together. 
Through  blooming  heather  aud  gleaming  dews. 

That  simple  duty  fresh  grace  did  lend  her. 

My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true  ; 
That  I,  her  warder,  did  always  bless  her, 

Aud  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling, 
With  love  excelling,  and  undefiled  ; 

And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and  fervent. 
No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child. 


:^braljam  ycrrn  illiller. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Fairfield  County,  Ohio,  Miller  was  born 
Oct.  15th,  1837.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Virginia, 
he  chose  the  occupation  of  a  journalist ;  and  in  1880  was 
a  resident  of  Worthington,  Minn.,  where  he  edited  The 
Advance,  the  county  newspaper.  One  of  bis  poems,  ex- 
tending to  five  hundred  lines,  entitled  "  Consolation,  a 
Poetic  Epistle  to  a  Young  Poet,"  though  in  the  old  he- 
roic measure,  which  modern  poets  seem  to  avoid,  is  rich 
in  passages  indicating  true  poetic  feeling  and  power  of 
expression. 


Eocks,  icebergs,  mountains,  capped   witli   luminous 

snow, 
And  hundred-towered  cities,  moving  slow  ! 
And  then,  with  banners  round  the  West  unfurled, 
The  great  red  Sun  went  down  behind  the  world. 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 

From  "Consolation." 

All  through  the  afternoon  the  dreamy  daj' 
Swam  listless  o'er  the  earth,  aud  far  away 
The  lazy  clouds  went  loitering  round  the  sky, 
Or  sat  far  tip  and  dozed  on  mountains  high  ; 
The  green  trees  drooped,  the  panting  cattle  lay 
In  the  warm  shade  and  fought  the  flies  away. 
Along  the  world's  far  rim  and  down  the  sky. 
Cloud-panoramas  loomed  and  glided  by  ; 


THE   DIVINE   REFUGE. 

From  "  Consolation." 

0  loving  God  of  Nature !   who  through  all 
Hast  never  yet  betrayed  me  to  a  fall, — 
While,  following  creeds  of  men,  I  went  astray. 
And  in  distressing  mazes  lost  my  way ; 

But  turning  back  to  Tiiee,  I  fonnd  Thee  true. 
And  sweet  as  woman's  love,  and  fresh  as  dew, — 
Henceforth  on  Thee,  and  Thee  alone,  I  rest. 
Nor  warring  sects  shall  tear  me  from  Thy  breast. 
While  others  doubt  and  wrangle  o'er  their  creeds, 

1  rest  in  Thee,  and  satisfy  my  needs. 


TURN  TO  THE  HELPER. 

From  "  Consolation." 

As  when  a  little  child,  returned  from  play, 
Finds  the  door  closed  and  latched  across  its  way, 
Against  the  door,  with  infant  jjush  and  strain. 
It  gathers  all  its  strength  and  strives  in  vain  ; — 
Unseen,  within  a  loving  father  stands 
And  lifts  the  iron  latch  with  easy  hands ; 
Then,  as  he  lightly  draws  the  door  aside. 
He  hides  behind  it,  while,  with  baby  pride, — 
And  face  aglow,  in  struts  the  little  one. 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what  it  has  done, — 
So,  when  men  find,  across  life's  rugged  way, 
Strong  doors  of  trouble  barred  from  day  to  daj', 
And  strive  with  all  their  power  of  knees  and  hands, — 
Unseen  within  their  heavenly  Father  stands 
And  lifts  each  iron  latch,  while  men  pass  througli. 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what  they  can  do ! 

Turn  to  the  Helper,  nnto  whom  thou  art 
More  near  and  dear  than  to  thy  mother's  heart, — 
Who  is  more  near  to  thee  than  is  the  blood 
That  warms  thy  bosom  with  its  purple  flood — 
WIio  by  a  word  can  cliange  the  mental  state. 
And  make  a  burden  light,  however  great ! 

O  loving  Power!   that,  dwelling  deep  within, 
Consoles  our  spirits  in  their  woe  and  sin  : — 
When  days  were  dark  and  all  the  world  went  wrong, 
Nor  any  heart  was  left  for  prayer  or  song — 


ct'clopjEdia  of  nunisii  and  American  poetry. 


When  bitter  memory,  o'er  aud  o'er  again, 
Revolved  tlie  -wrongs  endured  from  fellow-men  ; 
And  showed  how  hopes  decayed  and  bore  no  fruit, 
And  He  who  placed  us  here  was  deaf  and  nuito: — 
If  theu  we  turned  on  God  iu  angry  wise, 
And  scanned  His  dealings  with  reproachful  eyes. 
Questioned  His  goodness,  and,  in  foolish  wrath. 
Called  Hope  a  lie  and  ridiculed  our  Faith, — 
Did  we  not  find,  in  such  an  evil  hour, 
That  far  within  us  dwelt  this  Loving  Power  ? 
No  wrathful  God  without  to  smite  us  down. 
Or  turn  his  face  away  with  angry  frown  ; 
But  in  the  bitter  heart  a  smile  began, 
Grew,  all  at  once,  within  and  upward  ran, 
Broke  out  upon  the  face — and,  for  awhile. 
Despite  all  bitterness,  we  had  to  smile! 
Because  God's  spirit  that  withiu  us  lay, 
Simply  rose  up  and  smiled  our  wrath  away ! 
This  love  endures  through  all  things,  without  end, 
And  every  soul  has  one  Almighty  Friend, 
Whose  angels  watch  and  tend  it  from  its  birth. 
And  heaven  becomes  the  servant  of  the  eaith  ! 
Whate'er  befall,  our  spirits  live  and  move 
In  one  yast  ocean  of  Eternal  Love ! 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER. 

FnOM   "  COSSOLATION." 

How  many  men  have  passed  the  flames  to  prove 
That  there  are  better  things  than  Avomairs  love! 
And  yet  when  Love  is  scorned  and  made  our  grief. 
Where  shall  we  fly  for  comfort  and  relief  ? 
Now  that  thine  own  is  spurned  and  undertrod. 
Fly  thou  to  Nature,  Poetry,  and  God ; — 
Nay,  fly  to  Love  itself,  and  Love  shall  bo 
Its  own  strong  healer,  and  shall  set  thee  free. 


KEEP   FAITH   IN  LOVE. 
FiioM  "  Consolation.'* 

Keep  faith  in  Love,  the  cure  of  every  curse — 
The  strange,  sweet  wonder  of  the  universe! 
God  loves  a  Lover,  and  while  time  shall  roll, 
This  wonder,  Love,  shall  save  the  human  Soul! 
Love  is  the  heart's  condition  :   youth  and  age. 
Alike  are  subject  to  the  tender  rage ; 
Age  crowns  the  head  with  venerable  snow. 
But  Life  and  Love  forever  mated  go ; 
Along  life's  far  frontier  the  agdd  move. 
One  foot  beyond,  and  nothing  left  but  Love! 
And  when  the  Soul  its  mortal  iiart  resigns. 
The  perfect  -world  of  Love  around  it  shines ! 


CljarlcG  Pimitrii. 


Dlmitiy,  ii  son  of  Professor  Alexander  Diinilry,  was 
born  in  Washington,  D.  C,  in  1838.  A  graduate  of 
Georgetown  College,  he  has  been  connected  Mltli  the 
periodical  press,  both  in  New  York  and  at  the  South, 
and  has  published  the  following  novels:  "Guilty  or  Not 
Guilty"  (1804);  "Angela's  Christmas"  (18C.5);  "The  Al- 
derly  Tragedy"  (ISfJC);  "The  House  in  Balfour  Street" 
(18G9).  Ills  "Viva  Italia"  is  well  adapted  to  dramatic 
efl'cct  in  the  recitation. 


VIVA  ITALIA. 
OX   THE   AUSTRIAN  DEPARTURE   FROM   ITALY. 

Haste  !  open  the  lattice,  Giulia, 

And  wheel  me  my  chair  where  the  sun 
May  fall  on  my  face  while  I  welcome 

The  sound  of  the  life-giving  gun ! 
The  Austrian  leaves  Avith  the  morning, 
Aud  Venice  hath  freedom  to-day — 
"Viva?     Evivva  Italia! 
Viva  il  Re !" 

Would  God  that  I  only  were  younger, 

To  stand  with  the  rest  on  the  street, 
To  fling  up  my  cap  on  the  mola, 

And  the  tricolor  banner  to  greet ! 
The  gondolas,  girl — they  are  passing! 
Aud  what  do  the  gondoliers  say  ? — 
"  Viva !     Evivva  Italia ! 
Viva  il  Re !" 

Oh  cursed  be  these  years  and  this  weakness 

That  shackle  me  hei-e  in  my  chair, 
When  the  peojilo's  loud  clamor  is  rending 

The  chains  that  once  made  their  despair! 
So  young  when  the  Corsicau  sold  us ! 
So  old  when  the  Furies  repay  ! 
"Viva!     Evviva  Italia! 
Viva  il  Re!" 

Not  these  were  the  cries  when  our  fathers 

The  gonfalon  gave  to  the  breeze. 
When  Doges  sate  solemn  iu  council, 

Aud  Dandolo  harried  the  seas ! 
But  the  years  of  the  future  are  ours, 
To  humble  the  pride  of  the  gray — 
"  Viva  !     Evivva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re !" 

Bring,  girl,  from  the  dust  of  yon  closet 
The  sword  that  your  ancestor  bore 


CHARLES  DIMITIiY.— EMILY  B.  PAGE. 


887 


■\Vbeii  Genoa's  prowess  was  humbled, 

Her  galleys  beat  back  from  our  shore ! 
O  great  Coutareno !  your  ashes 
Tcf  Freedom  are  given  to-day ! 
"  Viva !     Evivva  Italia ! 
Viva  il  Re!" 

What !  tears  iu  your  eyes,  my  Giulia  ? 

You  weep  wheQ  your  country  is  free  ? 
You  mourn  for  your  Austrian  lover, 

"Whose  face  never  more  you  shall  see  ? 
Kueel,  girl,  kneel  beside  me  aud  whisper. 
While  to  Heaven  for  vengeance  you  pray, 
"  Viva !     Evivva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Ee !" 

Shame,  shame  ou  the  weakness  that  held  you. 

And  shame  ou  the  heart  that  was  won  ! 
Xo  blood  of  the  gonfalon  i  ere 

Shall  mingle  with  blood  of  the  Hun ! 
Swear  hate  to  the  name  of  the  spoiler, 
Swear  lealty  to  Venice,  and  say, 
"Viva!     Evivva  Italia! 
Viva  il  Ee !" 

Hark !  heard  you  the  gun  from  the  mola ! 

And  hear  you  the  welcoming  cheer ! 
Our  army  is  coming,  Giulia, 

The  friends  of  our  Venice  are  near ! 
Eing  out  from  your  old  Campanile, 
Freed  bells  from  San  Marco,  to-day, 
"Viva!     Evivva  Italia! 
Viva  il  Ee !" 


(Cmilj)  U.  yagc. 


Miss  Page  (1838-1860)  was  a  native  of  Bradford,  Vt. 
She  was  a  toll -gatherer's  daughter,  and  her  poem  of 
"  The  Old  Canoe,"  written  when  she  was  eighteen  years 
of  age,  is  a  pen-picture  of  an  actual  scene  near  the  old 
bridge  just  back  of  her  home.  She  wrote  some  fugitive 
pieces  for  M.  M.  Ballou's  Boston  publications,  but  died 
young.  "The  Old  Canoe"  was  extensively  copied, and 
at  one  time  credited  to  Eliza  Coolv.  The  image  of  the 
"useless  paddles"  crossed  over  the  railing  "  lilce  the 
folded  hands  when  the  work  is  done,"  is  a  true  stroke 
of  genius.  

THE   OLD   CANOE. 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray,  and  the  shore  is  steep, 
Aud  the  waters  below  look  dark  and  deep. 
Where  the  rugged  pine,  in  its  lonely  pride, 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  murky  tide ; 


Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  are  long  and  rank, 
And  the  weeds  grow  thick  on  the  winding  bank  ; 
Where  the  shadow  is  heavy  the  whole  day  through, 
Lies  at  its  moorings  the  old  canoe. 

The  useless  paddles  are  idly  dropped, 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wing  that  the  storm  has  lopped. 

And  crossed  on  the  railing,  one  o'er  one. 

Like  the  folded  hands  when  the  work  is  done  ; 

While  busily  back  and  forth  between 

The  spider  stretches  his  silvery  screen, 

Aud  the  solemn  owl,  with  his  dull  "  too-hoo," 

Settles  down  on  the  side  of  the  old  canoe. 
I 

The  stern  half  sunk  in  the  slimy  wave, 

Eots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave, 

Aud  the  green  moss  creeps  o'er  its  dull  decay. 

Hiding  the  mouldering  dust  away. 

Like  the  hand  that  plants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower, 

Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  falling  tower; 

While  many  a  blossom  of  loveliest  hue 

Springs  up  o'er  the  stem  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  currentless  waters  are  dead  aud  still — • 

But  the  light  wind  plays  with  the  boat  at  will, 

And  lazily  in  and  out  again 

It  floats  the  length  of  its  rusty  chain, 

Like  the  weary  march  of  the  hands  of  time, 

That  meet  aud  part  at  the  noontide  chime, 

And  the  shore  is  kissed  at  each  turn  anew 

By  the  dripping  bow  of  the  old  canoe. 

Oh,  many  a  time,  with  a  careless  hand, 
I  have  pushed  it  away  from  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  paddled  it  down  where  the  stream  runs  quick — 
Where   the   whirls   are    wild    and  the    eddies    are 

thick — 
Aud  laughed  as  I  leaned  o'er  the  rocking  side, 
Aud  looked  below  in  the  broken  tide. 
To  see  that  the  faces  aud  boats  were  two 
That  were  mirrored  back  from  the  old  canoe. 

But  now,  as  I  lean  o'er  the  crumbling  side. 

And  look  below  in  the  sluggish  tide, 

The  face  that  I  see  there  is  graver  grown, 

And  the  laugh  that  I  hear  has  a  soberer  tone. 

And  the  hands  that  lent  to  the  light  skiff  wings 

Have  grown  familiar  with  sterner  things. 

But  I  lovo  to  think  of  the  hours  that  flew 

As  I  rocked  where  the  whirls   their  white   spray 

threw, 
Ere  the  blossom  waved,  or  the  green  grass  grew, 
O'er  the  mouldering  stern  of  the  old  canoe. 


CYCLOI'jEDIA    of  nillTlSlI  ASD  AMERICAN  rOETRT. 


^bba  (5oolb  lUoolson. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Woolson,  a  native  of  \Vindl)am,Me.,  wa^,  born  in 
1838,  and  educated  at  tlic  Portland  Ilij^ii  School.  She 
is  the  wife  of  Mr.  M.  Woolson,  a  teacher  in  tlie  English 
High  School,  Boston.  Ilcr  "  Carpc  Diem  "  is  one  of  the 
few  realistic  love-poems  as  true  to  nature  iu  the  senti- 
ment as  to  art  in  the  construction. 


CARPE   DIEM. 

Ab,  Jcuuie  dear,  'Ms  half  a  jcar 

Since  we  sang  late  and  long,  my  love ; 
As  home  o'er  dusky  fields  wo  came, 
While  Venus  lit  lier  tender  llame 
In  .silent  plains  above. 

I  scarcely  knew  if  rain  or  dew 

Had  made  the  grass  so  fresh  and  sweet ; 
I  only  felt  the  misty  gloom 
Was  filled  witli  scent  of  bidden  bloom 

That  bent  beneath  our  feet. 

In  songs  we  tried  our  hearts  to  hide, 
And  eacli  to  crush  a  voiceless  pain  ; 
With  bitter  force  my  love  returned. 
But  dared  not  hope  that  passion  burned 
Where  once  it  met  disdain. 

Thus  singing  still  wo  reached  the  hill, 
And  on  it  faced  a  breeze  of  June  ; 

White  rolled  the  mi.st  along  the  lea  ; 

lint  eastward  flashed  a  throbbing  sea 
Beneath  the  rising  moon. 

Your  lips  ai)art,  as  if  your  heart 

Had  something  it  would  say  to  mine, 
I  saw  you  with  your  dreamy  glance 
Far  sent,  iu  some  delicious  trance. 
Beyond  the  silver  shine. 

The  hour  su]U'enu^,  that  iu  my  dream 

.Should  bring  me  1)1  iss  for  aye,  was  come 
But  though  my  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
The  scornful  words  that  once  you  spake 
Smote  all  its  pleadings  dumb. 

No  note  or  word  the  silence  stirred, 

As  we  resumed  our  homeward  tread  ; 
Below  we  heard  the  cattle  browse. 
And  wakeful  birds  within  the  boughs 
Move  softly  overhead. 


Tlie  hour  was  late  when  at  the  gate 
We  lingered  ere  we  spake  adieu  ; 

Your  white  hand  plucked  from  near  the  door 

A  lily's  queenly  cup,  and  tore 
Each  waxen  leaf  in  two. 

My  hope  grew  bold,  and  I  had  told 
Anew  my  love,  my  fate  had  known ; 

But  then  a  quick  Good-night  I  heard, 

A  sudden  whirring  like  a  bird. 
And  there  I  stood  alone. 

Thus  love-bereft  my  heart  was  left, 

At  swinging  of  that  cruel  door ; 
So  shut  the  gates  of  Paradise 
On  timid  fools  who  dai'e  not  twice 
Ask  bliss  denied  before. 

Yes,  Jennie,  dear,  'tis  half  a  year, 

But  all  my  doubts,  mj'  tears  are  flown  ; 
For  did  I  not  on  yesternight 
Read  once  again  your  love  aright, 
And  dare  ijroclaim  mj'  own  ? 


Parib  (6rai). 

In  18G3  appeared  a  small  volume,  "The  Luggie,  and 
other  Poems,"  by  David  Gray  (1838-18G1),  son  of  a  hand- 
loom  weaver  at  Merkland,  Scotland.  The  Luggie  is  a 
mere  unpretending  rivulet,  flowing  into  one  of  the  trib- 
utaries of  the  Clyde;  but  Gray  was  born  on  its  banks, 
and  loved  its  every  aspect.  He  died  early  of  consump- 
tion. James  Iledderwick,  Lord  Houghton,  and  Robert 
Buchanan  have  written  tributes  to  his  memory.  In  the 
near  view  of  death  he  continued  to  find  his  solace  in 
giving  expression  to  his  poetic  fancies. 


WINTRY   WEATHER. 

O  Winter,  wilt  thou  never,  never  go? 

O  Summer,  but  I  weary  for  thy  coming, 

Longing  once  more  to  hear  the  Luggie  flow. 

And  frugal  bees,  laboriously  humming. 

Now  the  east  wind  diseases  the  inlirin. 

And  I  must  crouch  in  corners  from  rough  weather; 

Sometimes  a  winter  sunset  is  a  charm — 

When  the  fired  clouds,  compacted,  blaze  together. 

And  the  large  sun  dips  red  behind  the  hills. 

I,  from  my  window,  can  behold  this  pleasure  ; 

And  the  eternal  moon,  what  time  she  tills 

Her  orb  with  argent,  treading  a  soft  measure, 

With  queeidy  motions  of  a  bridal  mood, 

Through  the  white  spaces  of  infinitude. 


DAVID   GRAY.— MARY  CLEMMER. 


889 


DIE   DOWN,  O   DISMAL  DAY. 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day,  and  lot  me  live  ; 
And  come,  blue  deeps,  magnificently  strewn 
With  colored  clonds — large,  light,  and  fugitive — 
By  upper  winds  through  pompous  motions  blown. 
Now  it  is  death  in  life — a  vapor  dense 
Creeps  round  my  window,  till  I  cannot  see 
The  fur  snow-shining  mountains,  and  the  glens 
Shagging  the  mountain-tops.     O  God!   make  free 
This  barren,  shackled  eartli,  so  deadly  cold — 
Breathe  gently  forth  thy  Spring,  till  Winter  flies 
lu  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet  bold, 
While  she  performs  her  customed  charities. 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is  bare — 
O  God, for  one  clear  day,  a  snowdrop,  and  sweet  air! 


IF   IT   MUST   BE. 

If  it  must  be — if  it  must  be,  O  God! 

That  I  die  young,  and  make  no  further  moans  ; 

That,  underneath  the  unrespective  sod. 

In  unescutcheoned  privacy,  my  bones 

Shall  crumble  soon; — then  give  me  strength  to  bear 

The  last  convulsive  throe  of  too  sweet  breath  ! 

I  tremble  from  the  edge  of  life,  to  dare 

The  dark  and  fatal  leap,  having  no  faith. 

No  glorious  yearning  for  the  Apocalypse; 

But  like  a  child  that  in  the  night-time  cries 

For  light,  I  ciy ;   forgetting  the  eclipse 

Of  knowledge  and  our  human  destinies. — 

O  peevish  and  uncertain  Soul !   obey 

The  law  of  life  in  patience  till  the  Day. 


AN  OCTOBER  MUSING. 

Ere  the  last  stack  is  housed,  and  woods  are  bare. 

And  the  vermilion  fruitage  of  the  brier 

Is  soaked  in  mist,  or  shrivelled  up  Avith  frost, — 

Ere  warm  spring  nests  are  coldly  to  be  seen 

Teuantless  but  for  rain  and  the  cold  snow. 

While  yet  there  is  a  loveliness  abroad — 

The  frail  and  indescribable  loveliness 

Of  a  fair  form,  life  with  reluctance  leaves, 

Being  then  only  powerful, — while  the  earth 

Wears  sackcloth  in  her  great  prophetic  grief: — 

Then  the  reflective,  melancholy  soul 

Aimlessly  wandering  -with  slow-falling  feet 

The  heathery  solitude,  iu  hope  to  assuage 

The  cunning  humor  of  his  malady, 

Loses  his  painful  bitterness,  and  feels 

His  own  specific  sorrows  one  by  one 

Taken  up  in  the  huge  dolor  of  all  things,— 


Oh,  the  sweet  melancholy  of  the  time, 

Wlien  gently,  ere  the  heart  appeals,  the  year 

Shines  iu  the  fatal  beauty  of  decay  ! 

When  the  sun  sinks  enlarged  on  Carronben, 

Nakedly  visible,  without  a  cloud. 

And  faintly  from  the  faint  eternal  blue 

(Tliat  dim  sweet  harebell  color !)  comes  the  star 

Which  evening  wears,  when  Luggie  flows  iu  mist. 

And  in  the  cottage  windows  one  by  one. 

With  sudden  twinkle,  household  lamps  are  lit — 

What  noiseless  falling  of  the  faded  leaf! 


illarn  (EUmmcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Mary  Clemmer,  tlie  daughter  of  Abram  Clemmer,  was 
born  iu  Utica,  N.  T.,  and  educated  at  the  Academy  in 
Westtield,  Mass.  Her  ancestors  on  both  sides  for  cen- 
turies were  "unworldly,  bookish,  deeply  religious  per- 
sons ;"  and  she  seems  to  have  inherited  their  best  traits. 
She  began  her  literary  career  as  a  newspaper  correspond- 
ent, and  became  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  the 
Washington  letter-writers.  She  is  the  author  of  "Ten 
Years  in  Washington"  (1872);  "A  Memorial  of  Alice 
and  Phebe  Gary ;"  and  "  His  Two  Wives,"  a  novel.  Her 
style  is  at  once  facile,  fluent,  and  brilliant.  Her  emo- 
tional nature  is  plainly  that  of  the  born  poet.  She  has 
contributed  largely  to  the  Independent  and  other  well- 
known  journals. 


WAITING. 
I  wait. 

Till  from  my  veildd  brows  shall  fall 
This  baffling  cloud,  this  wearying  thrall, 
W^hich  holds  me  now  from  knowing  all; 
Until  my  spitit  sight  shall  see 
Into  all  Being's  mystery, 
See  what  it  really  is  to  be ! 

I  wait. 

While  robbing  days  iu  mockery  fling 

Such  cruel  loss  athwart  my  spring. 

And  life  flags  on  with  broken  wing ; 

Believing  that  a  kindlier  fate 

The  patient  soul  will  compensate 

For  all  it  loses,  ere  too  late. 

I  wait ! 

For  surely  every  scanty  seed 

I  plant  in  weakness  and  iu  need 

Will  blossom  iu  perfected  deed ! 

Mine  eyes  shall  see  its  atflnent  crown, 

Its  fragrant  fruitage,  dropping  down 

CareV lowly  levels  bare  and  brown! 


890 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


I  wait, 

'J'ill  in  white  Death's  traiKiiiiliity 
Shall  softly  fall  away  from  me 
This  weary  ilosh's  iuihinity, 
That  I  ill  larger  light  may  learn 
Tlio  larger  truth  I  would  discern, 
The  larger  love  for  which  I  yearn. 

I  wait! 

The  summer  of  the  soul  is  long, 

Its  harvests  yet  shall  round  me  throng 

In  perfect  pomp  of  snn  and  song. 

In  storniless  mornings  yet  to  be 

I'll  pluck  from  life's  fnll-fruited  tree 

The  joy  to-day  denied  to  me. 


A  PERFECT  DAY. 

Go,  glorious  day ! 

Here  while  you  pass  I  make  this  sign  ; 

Earth  swiugiug  on  her  sileut  way 

Will  hear  me  back  imto  this  hour  divine. 
And  I  will  softly  say :  "  Once  thou  wert  mine. 

"Wert  miue,  O  perfect  day! 

The  light  unknown  soaring  from  sea  and  shore, 

The  forest's  eager  blaze. 

The  flaming  torches  that  the  autumn  bore, 
The  fusing  sunset  seas,  when  storms  were  o'er. 

"Were  mine  the  brooding  airs, 

The  iiulsiug  music  of  the  weedy  brooks, 

The  jewelled  fishes  and  the  mossy  lairs. 

Wherein  shy  creatures,  with   their  free,  bright 

looks, 
Taught  bless(5d  lessons  never  found  in  books. 

"  All  mine  the  peace  of  God, 

W^hen  it  was  joy  enough  to  breathe  and  be, 

The  peace  of  Nature  oozing  from  her  sod, 

When  face  to  face  with  her  the  soul  was  free, 
And  far  the  false,  wild  strife  it  fain  would  llec." 

Stay,  beauteous  day ! 

Yet  why  pray  li     Tliy  lot,  like  mine,  to  fade; 
Thy  liglit,  like  yonder  uujuntain's  golden  haze. 

Must  merge  into  the  morrow's  misty  shade. 
And  I,  an  exile  in  the  alien  street. 
Still  gazing  back,  yearn  toward  the  vision  fleet. 

"  Ouco  thou  wert  mine !"  I'll  say, 

And  comfort  so  my  heart  as  with  okl  wine. 


Poor  iiilgrims!  oft  we  walk  the  self-same  way. 
To  weep  its  change,  to  kueel  before  the  shriue 

The  heart  once  Imilded  to  a  happy  day. 

When  dear  it  died.     I'll  say :  "  O  day  divine. 
Life  presses  sore  ;  but  once,  once  thou  wert  mine." 


NANTASKET. 

Fair  is  thy  face,  Nantasket, 

And  fair  thy  curving  shores, — 
The  peering  spires  of  villages, 

The  boatman's  dipping  oars; — 
The  lonely  ledge  of  Minot, 

Where  the  watchman  tends  his  light, 
And  sets  its  perilous  beacon 

A  star  in  the  stormiest  night. 

Along  thy  vast  sea  highways 

The  great  ships  slide  from  sight. 
And  flocks  of  wing(5d  phantoms 

Flit  by  like  birds  in  flight. 
Over  the  toppling  sea-wall 

The  home-bound  dories  float ; — 
I  see  the  patient  fisherman 

Bend  in  his  anchored  boat. 

I  am  alone  with  nature, 

With  the  rare  September  day; 
The  lifting  hills  above  me 

With  golden-rod  are  gay. 
Across  the  fields  of  ether 

Flit  butterflies  at  i)lay  ; 
And  cones  of  garnet  sumach 

Glow  down,  the  country  way. 

The  autunni  dandelion 

Beside  the  roadside  burns  ; 
Above  the  lichened  bowlders 

Quiver  the  plumdd  ferns  : 
The  cream-white  silk  of  the  milk-weed 

Floats  from  its  sea-green  ])od  ; 
From  out  the  mossy  rock-seams 

Flashes  the  golden-rod. 

The  woodbine's  scarlet  banners 

Flaunt  from  their  towers  of  stone ; 
The  wan,  wild  morning-glory 

Dies  by  the  road  alone  : 
By  the  hill-path  to  the  sea-side 

W^ave  myriad  azure  bells; 
Over  the  grassy  ramparts 

Bend  milky  immortelles. 


MJEY  CLEMMER. 


891 


Within  the  sea-washed  meadow 

The  wiUl  grape  climbs  the  wall ; 
From  ott'  the  o'er-ripe  chestnuts 

The  browu  burrs  softly  full ; — 
I  hear  iu  the  woods  of  Hingham 

The  mellow  caw  of  the  crow, 
Till  I  seem  iu  the  woods  of  Wachuset 

Iu  August's  sumptuous  glow. 

The  lingering  marguerites  lean 

Along  the  way-side  bars ; 
The  tangled  green  of  the  thicket 

Glows  with  the  asters'  stars ; 
Beside  the  brook  the  gentian 

Closes  its  fringed  eyes, 
And  waits  the  enticiug  glory 

Of  October's  yellow  skies. 

The  tiny  boom  of  the  beetle 

Smites  the  shining  rocks  below ; 
The  gauzy  oar  of  the  dragou-fly 

Is  beating  to  and  fro. 
The  lovely  ghost  of  the  thistle 

Goes  sailing  softly  by : 
Glad  in  its  second  summer 

Hums  the  awakened  fly. 

I  see  the  tall  reeds  shiver 

Beside  the  salt-sea  marge ; 
I  see  the  sea-bird  glimmer 

Far  out  on  airy  barge. 
The  cumulate  cry  of  the  cricket 

Piei'ces  the  amber  noon  ; 
Over  and  through  it  Oceau 

Chants  his  pervasive  rune. 

Fair  is  the  earth  behind  me. 

Vast  is  the  sea  before  ; 
Afiir  in  the  misty  mirage 

Glistens  another  shore : 
Is  it  a  realm  enchanted  ? 

It  cannot  be  more  fair 
Than  this  nook  of  Nature's  kingdom 

With  its  spell  of  space  and  air. 

Lo !     Over  the  sapphire  oceau 

Trembles  a  bridge  of  flame — 
To  the  burning  core  of  the  suuset — 

To  the  city  too  fair  to  name, 
Till  a  ray  of  its  inner  glory 

Streams  to  this  lower  sea, 
And  we  see  with  human  vision 

What  Heaven  itself  may  be. 


ALONE   WITH  GOD. 

Alone  with  God !  day's  craven  cares 

Have  crowded  onward  unawares  ; 

The  soul  is  left  to  breathe  her  prayers. 

Alone  with  God !   I  bare  my  breast. 
Come  in,  come  in,  O  holy  guest, 
Give  rest,  thy  rest,  of  rest  the  best ! 

Alone  with  God!   how  deep  a  calm 
Steals  o'er  me,  sweet  as  music's  balm. 
When  seraphs  sing  a  seraph's  psalm. 

Alone  with  God !   no  human  eye 
Is  here,  with  eager  look  to  pry 
Into  the  meaning  of  each  sigh. 

Alone  with  God  I  no  jealous  glare 

Now  stiugs  me  with  its  torturing  stare ; 

No  human  malice  says  beware! 

Aloue  with  God!  from  eartli's  rude  crowd, 
With  jostling  steps  and  laughter  loud, 
My  better  soul  I  need  not  shroud. 

Aloue  with  God!   He  only  knows 

If  sorrow's  ocean  overflows 

The  silent  spring  from  whence  it  rose. 

Alone  with  God  !  He  mercy  lends ; 
Life's  fainting  hope,  life's  meagre  ends, 
Life's  dwarfing  pain  ho  comprehends. 

Alone  with  God!  He  feeleth  well 

The  soul's  pent  life  that  will  o'erswell ; 

The  life-long  want  no  words  may  tell ; 

Alone  with  God !   still  nearer  bend ; 

Oh,  tender  Father,  condescend 

In  this  my  need,  to  be  my  friend. 

Alone  with  God!  with  suppliant  mien 
L^pon  thy  pitying  breast  I  lean. 
No  less  because  thou  art  unseen. 

Alone  with  God!  safe  in  thy  arms 
Oil  shield  me  from  life's  wild  alarms, 
Oh  save  me  from  life's  fearful  harms. 

Alone  with  God  !  Oh  sweet  to  me 
This  cover  to  whose  shades  I  flee, 
To  breathe  repose  in  thee — in  thee. 


892 


cyclopj=:dia  of  britisu  a\d  ameiiwan  foetry. 


fllrs.  (!:mma  (Tuttlc. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs.  Tuttlc,  whose  maklcn  name  was  Rccd,  was  born 
in  Braccvillc,  Trumbull  County,  O.,  in  1839.  AVcU  edu- 
cated at  a  Methodist  seminary,  she  early  developed  a 
taste  for  literature,  and  iniblished  two  volumes  of  poems. 
She  is  the  author  of  several  popular  sonj,^s,  which  have 
been  set  to  music  by  James  G.  Clark  and  other  well- 
known  composers.  As  an  elocutionist  and  public  read- 
er, she  has  won  a  higli  reputation  at  the  West.  She  is 
the  wife  of  Hudson  Tuttle  (born  1830),  who  to  the  pur- 
suits of  a  farmer,  resident  at  his  ancestral  home,  Berlin 
Ileii^hts,  Ohio,  unites  the  studies  of  a  philosopher.  lie 
is  the  author  of  several  works,  partly  intuitional,  and 
parti}'  seientilic,  s(jme  of  which  have  been  republished 
in  England  and  Germany,  and  have  had  a  wide  circula- 
tion in  America.  Mrs.  Tuttle's  little  poem,  "The  First 
Fledgling,"  is  not  one  of  her  best  or  most  elaborate  po- 
ems, but  it  will  carry  its  delicate  pathos  to  many  a  true 
mother's  heart. 


THE   FIRST   FLEDGLING. 

It  seems  so  lonely  in  the  nest, 

Since  cue  dear  bird  is  flowu, 
To  fashion,  with  its  chosen  mate, 

A  bome-nest  of  its  own. 
Wc  miss  the  twitter  and  the  stir, 

The  eager  stretching  wings. 
The  flashing  eyes,  the  ready  eong, 

And — ob,  so  many  things  ! 

Wo  find  it  hard  to  understand 

The  changes  wrought  by  years  ; 
How  our  own  sprightly  little  girl 

A  stately  wife  appears. 
It  seems  to  ns  she  still  should  bo 

Among  bcr  dolls  and  toys, 
JIaking  the  farni-honso  sound  again 

With  "Little  Tomboy's"  noise. 

When  berries  ripen  in  the  sun, 

We  miss  her  lingers  ligbt, 
Who  used  to  heap  them  up  for  tea, 

Dusted  with  sugar  •white. 
They  never  more  will  taste  as  fresh 

As  when  she  brought  them  in, 
Her  face  ablush  with  rosiness 

From  sunny  brow  to  chin. 

The  autumn  pcaclu\s  always  turned 
Their  reddest  cheek  to  her ; 

She  knew  the  ferneries  of  the  woods 
And  where  the  wild-flowers  were, 


And  somehow  since  she  left  the  nest. 

We  miss  her  busy  hand 
As  gatherer  and  garnisher, 

Whoever  else  has  planned. 

If  little  Gold-locks  asks  of  me, 

"  When  will  my  sister  come  ? 
Will  it  be  very,  rov/  long  ?" 

I  seem  as  oue  struck  dumb. 
But  when  her  brother  bites  his  lip 

And  turns  to  hide  a  tear, 
I  answer,  with  a  flashing  smile, 

"  Not  long,  I  hope,  my  dear." 

She  flutters  back  more  bright  with  joy 

Than  when  she  flew  away, 
And  we  are  happy — only  this — 

She  never  more  will  stay. 
A  bird  of  transit,  tarrying 

Not  long  in  the  old  nest, 
We  scarce  could  bear  it,  save  we  know 

God's  holv  laws  are  best. 


iJamcs  Uiiiicr  liani)all. 


Randall  is  the  author  of  one  of  the  most  spirited  lyr- 
ics of  the  Civil  War.  It  bears  date  Pointc  Coupee,  La., 
April  'JGth,  1801.  He  is  a  native  of  Baltimore,  born  in 
1831),  and  was  educated  at  the  Catholic  college  in  George- 
town, D.  C.  He  edited  a  newspaper  in  Louisiana,  but  at 
the  close  of  the  war  settled  in  Georgia.  Fortunately  for 
the  interests  of  human  liberty  throughout  the  world, 
"My  Maryland"  did  not  answer  the  poet's  appeal;  but 
the  "Northern  scum"  can  now  join  in  hearty  recogni- 
tion of  the  lyrical  fervor  he  has  displayed. 


MARYLAND. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torcli  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queeu  of  yore, 

Maryland  !  my  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  thy  wandering  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  mother  State!   to  thee  I  kneel, 

ilaryland ! 
For  life  and  death,  for  woo  and  weal. 


JAMES  EYDER  RANDALL.— JOHN  HAY. 


893 


Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  tby  beauteous  limbs  Avith  steel, 
Marylaud  !   my  Maryland  ! 

Thou  Avilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  ! 
Reuicmber  Carroll's  sacred  trust ; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust ; 
And  all  thy  sluniberers  with  the  just, 

Marylaud  !   my  Maryland  ! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawu  of  the  day, 

Maryland  ! 
Come !   with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Marylaud ! 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fraj', 
With  Watsou's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashiug  May, 

Maryland  I   my  Marylaud  ! 

Come!  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng. 
That  stalks  "with  Liberty  along. 
And  give  a  new  key'  to  thy  song, 

Maryland  !   my  Marylaud  ! 

Dear  Mother !   burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain  : 
"Sic  semper," 'tis  the  proud  refrain. 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland  ! 
Arise  in  mnjesty  again, 

Marylaud  !   my  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland  ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo !   there  surges  forth  a  shriek. 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !   my  Marylaud  ! 


1  A  punning  allusion  to  "  The  Star-spanglecl  Banner,"  \yntten 
by  Key  of  Baltimore. 


Thou  wilt  not  yield  tlie  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland !   my  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland  I 
The  old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  ; 
Huzza !   she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes — she  burns! — she'll  come,  she'll  come! 

Maryland !   my  Maryland ! 


iJoljn  €)a\). 

AMERICAN. 

Colonel  John  Hay,  author  of  "  Pike  County  Ballads, 
and  other  Poems  "  (1871),  also  of  "  Castilian  Days,"  was 
born  in  Salem,  Indiaua,  in  1839.  He  received  in  1879  the 
appointment  of  Uudcr-secretary  of  State,  and  became  a 
resident  of  Washington,  D.  C.  Some  of  his  humorous 
verses  have  been  widely  copied. 


A  TRIUMPH   OF   ORDER. 

A  squad  of  regular  infantry, 

In  the  Commune's  closing  days. 
Had  captured  a  crowd  of  rebels 

By  the  wall  of  Pere-la-chaise. 

There  were  desperate  men,  wild  women. 

And  dark-eyed  Amazon  girls, 
And  one  little  boy,  with  a  peach-dowu  cheek 

And  yellow  clustering  curls. 

The  captain  seized  the  little  waif, 
And  said,  "  What  dost  thou  here  ?" 

"  Sdpriufi,  Citizen  captain  ! 
I'm  a  Communist,  my  dear!" 

"Very  well!     Then  you  die  ■R-ith  the  others!" 

"Very  Avell!     That's  my  affair! 
But  first  let  me  take  to  my  mother. 

Who  lives  bj^  the  wine-shop  there, 

"  My  father's  watch.     You  see  it, 
A  gay  old  thing,  is  it  not  ? 


894 


CTCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


It  would  please  tlio  old  lady  to  have  it, 
Tbeii  I'll  come  back  here,  and  be  shot." 

"That  is  the  last  \\c  shall  see  of  him," 

The  grizzled  captain  griuued, 
As  the  little  ruau  skimmed  down  the  hill, 

Like  a  swallow  down  the  wind. 

For  the  joy  of  killing  had  lost  its  zest 

lu  the  glut  of  those  awful  days, 
And  Death  writhed  gorged  like  a  greedy  snake 

From  the  Arch  to  Pere-la-Chaise. 

But  before  the  last  ]ilatoon  had  lired. 
The  child's  shrill  voice  was  heard ! 

"Hoiip-la!  the  old  girl  made  such  a  row, 
I  feared  I  should  break  my  word." 

Against  the  bullet-pitted  wall 

He  took  his  place  with  the  rest, 
A  button  was  lost  from  his  ragged  blouse, 

Which  showed  his  soft,  white  breast. 

'•  Xow  blaze  away,  mj'  children  ! 

With  your  little  one — two — three!" 
The  Chassepots  tore  the  stout  young  heart, 

And  saved  Society ! 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN. 

There  was  never  a  castle  seen 

So  fair  as  mine  in  Spain  : 
It  stands  embowered  in  green, 
Crowning  the  gentle  slope 
Of  a  hill  by  the  Xenil's  shore, 
And  at  eve  its  shade  ilaunts  o'er 

The  storied  Vega  plain, 
And  its  towers  are  hid  in  the  mists  of  Hope  ; 

And  I  toil  through  years  of  pain 

Its  glimmering  gates  to  gain. 

lu  visions  wild  and  sweet 
Sometimes  its  courts  I  greet ; 

Sometimes  in  joy  its  shining  halls 
I  tread  with  favored  feet ; 
But  never  my  eyes  in  the  light  of  day 

■Were  blessed  with  its  ivied  walls, 
Where  the  marble  white  and  the  granite  gray 
Turn  gold  alike  when  the  sunV)eams  play. 

When  the  soft  day  dimly  falls. 

I  know  in  its  dusky  rooms 
Are  treasures  rich  and  rare ; 


The  spoil  of  Eastern  looms, 

And  whatever  of  bright  and  fair 
Painters  divine  have  won 

From  the  vault  of  Italy's  air ; 
White  gods  in  Phidian  stone 

People  the  haunted  glooms ; 
And  the  song  of  immortal  singers 
Like  a  fragrant  memory  lingers, 

I  know,  in  the  echoing  rooms. 

But  nothing  of  these,  my  soul! 

Nor  castle,  nor  treasures,  nor  skies, 
Nor  the  waves  of  the  river  that  roll. 

With  a  cadence  faint  and  sweet. 

In  peace  by  its  marble  feet — 
Nothing  of  these  is  the  goal 

For  which  my  whole  heart  sighs. 
'Tis  the  pearl  gives  worth  to  the  shell- 

The  pearl  I  would  die  to  gain  ; 
For  there  does  my  Lady  dwell, 
3Iy  love  that  I  love  so  well — 

The  Qneen  whose  gracious  reign 

Makes  glad  my  Castle  in  Spain. 

Her  ttice  so  purely  fair 

Sheds  light  in  the  shaded  places. 

And  the  spell  of  her  maiden  graces 
Holds  charmed  the  happy  air. 
A  breath  of  purity 

Forever  before  her  flies. 
And  ill  things  cease  to  be 

In  the  glance  of  her  honest  eyes. 
Around  her  pathway  flutter, 

AVhere  her  dear  feet  wander  free 

In  youth's  pure  majesty. 

The  wings  of  the  vague  desires; 
But  the  thought  that  love  would  utter 
In  reverence  expires. 

Not  yet !    not  yet  shall  I  see 

That  face,  whicli  shines  like  a  star 
O'er  my  storm-swept  life  afar. 

Transfigured  with  love  for  me. 

Toiling,  forgetting,  and  learning. 
With  labor  and  vigils  and  prayers. 
Pure  heart  and  resolute  will. 
At  last  I  shall  climb  the  Hill, 
And  breathe  the  enchanted  airs 

Wliero  the  light  of  my  life  is  burning. 
Most  lovely  and  fair  and  free  ; 

Where  alone  in  her  youth  and  beauty, 

And  bound  by  her  fate's  sweet  duty. 
Unconscious  she  waits  for  me. 


HELEN  S.  CONANT. 


895 


C)clcn  5.  (Uonaut. 


AMERICAN. 
Mrs.  Conant  was  boi'n  in  Methuen,  Mass.,  in  1839.  Her 
first  book,  "Tlie  Butterfly -hnntcrs,"  was  publislicd  in 
18(JG.  She  lias  since  written  "The  Primer  of  German  Lit- 
erature" and  "The  Primer  of  Spanish  Literature,"  each 
cnriebed  with  many  original  translations.  Mrs.  Conant  is 
a  frequent  contributor  to  American  periodical  literature. 


FEOM   THE   SPANISH  OF   CALDEKON. 

An  ancient  sage,  ouce  ou  a  time,  they  say. 
Who  lived  remote,  away  from  mortal  sight, 
Sustained  his  feeble  life  as  best  he  might 
With  herbs  and  berries  gathered  by  the  way. 
"Can  any  other  one,"  said  he,  one  day, 
"  So  poor,  so  destitute,  as  I  be  found  ?" 
And  when  he  turned  his  head  to  look  around 
He  saw  the  answer :  creeping  slowly  there 
Came  au  old  man  who  gathered  up  with  caro 
The  herbs  which  he  had  cast  upon  the  ground. 


ALAS! 

From  the  Spanish  of  Heeedia. 

How  many  wait  alone. 

Sighing  for  that  sweet  hour 
When  love  with  subtle  power 

Shall  claim  its  owu. 

And  if  the  maiden  fair 
Her  faithlessness  discover, 
Then  shall  the  hapless  lover 

Cry  in  despair. 

Love,  thou  hast  flying  feet ! 

Thy  hands  are  hot  and  burning, 
And  few,  unto  thee  turning, 

Shall  find  thee  sweet ! 

Yet  though  thy  pleasures  pass. 
The  heart  in  sad  seclusion 
Still  guards  its  fond  illusion. 

Alas !  alas ! 


SPANISH   SONG. 

On  lips  of  blooming  youth 
There  trembles  many  a  sigh. 

Which  lives  to  breathe  a  truth. 
Then  silently  to  die. 

Thou,  who  art  mj'  desire, 
Thy  languishing  sweet  love 
In  sighs  upon  thy  lips  shall  oft  expire. 


I  love  the  sapphire  glory 

Of  those  starry  depths  above. 

Where  I  read  the  old,  old  story 
Of  human  hope  and  love  ; 

I  love  the  shining  star. 
But  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 
The  fire  of  thine  eyes  is  brighter  far. 

The  fleeting,  fleeting  hours, 

Which  ne'er  return  again. 
Leave  only  faded  flowers 

And  weary  days  of  pain  ; 
Delight  recedes  from  view, 

And  never  more  may  i)ass 
Sweet  words  of  tenderness  between  us  two. 

The  gentle  breeze  whicli  plays 

On  the  water  murmuringly. 
And  the  silvery,  trembling  rays 

Of  the  moon  on  the  midnight  sea — 
Ay  !   all  have  passed  away, 

Have  faded  far  from  me, 
Like  the  love  which  lasted  only  one  sweet  day. 


MEETING. 

Fiioiir  THE  Spanish  of  Emilio  Bello. 

Many  years  have  floated  by 
Since  we  parted,  she  and  I. 
Now  together  here  we  stand. 
Eye  to  eye  and  hand  to  hand. 

I  can  hear  her  trembling  sighs, 
See  the  sweetness  in  her  eyes. 
Silently  I  hold  and  press 
Her  soft  hand  with  tenderness. 

Silence,  who  shall  fathom  thee  ? 
Who  reveal  the  mystery 
Hidden  between  loving  eyes. 
Burning  hands,  and  answering  sighs ' 


GERMAN  LOVE   SONG. 

Thou  art  the  rest,  the  languor  sweet ! 
Thou  my  desire !   thou  my  retreat ! 
I  consecrate  my  heart  to  thee. 
Thy  home  through  all  eternity  ! 

Come  in  to  me,  and  slint  the  door 
So  fast  that  none  shall  enter  more  ; 
Fill  all  my  soul  with  dear  delight ; 
Oh,  tarry  with  me  day  and  night ! 


B96 


CYCLOP JEDI A   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Austin  Pobson. 

Born  in  England  in  1840,  Dobson  lias  written  "Vign- 
ettes in  Riiyme  and  Vers  de  Soeiete,"  which  reached 
a  third  edition  in  1877.  That  same  year  he  published 
"  Proverbs  in  Porcelain,  and  other  Verses."  An  edition 
of  his  poems,  edited  by  Edmund  C.  Stcdman,  was  pub- 
lished (1880)  in  New  York,  and  well  deserves  the  editor's 
discriminating  praise.  Mr.  Dobsou  is  one  of  a  recent 
class  of  English  poets  who  have  reproduced  the  old 
French  forms  of  verse  in  the  rondeau,  virelal,  villanelle, 
ballade,  etc.  Mark  the  ingenious  multiplication  of  the 
rhymes  in  the  lirst  three  poems  we  quote. 


"MORE   POETS   YET!" 

"  More  Toets  yet !" — I  hear  him  say, 
Arming  his  heavy  hand  to  slay  ; — 

"  Despite  my  skill  ami  '  swashing  blow,' 
They  seem  to  spront  where'er  I  go  ; — 
I  killed  a  host  but  yesterday !" 

Slash  on,  O  Hercules!     Yon  may: 
Your  task  's  at  best  a  Hydra-fray  ; 

Aud  though  you  cut,  not  less  will  grow 
More  Poets  yet ! 

Too  arrogant !     For  who  shall  stay 
The  lirst  blind  motions  of  the  May  ? 

Who  shall  out-blot  the  morning  glow  ? — 
Or  stem  the  full  heart's  overilow  ? 
Who?     There  will  rise,  till  Time  decay, 
More  Poets  yet ! 


THE  PRODIGALS. 

"  Princes  ! — and  you,  most  valorous, 

Nobles  aud  Barons  of  all  degrees ! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 

Prodigals  driven  of  destinies! 

Nothing  wo  a.sk  or  of  gold  or  fees ; 
Harry  ns  not  with  the  hounds,  we  pray ; 

Lo, — for  the  surcote's  hem  wo  seize; — 
Give  us — ah  !   give  us — but  Yesterday  !" 

"  Dames  most  delicate,  amorous  ! 

Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  1)ees ! 
Beggars  are  we  that  pray  thee  thus, — 

Beggars  outworn  of  miseries  ! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that  i>lcasc  ; 
Weary  are  we,  and  old,  and  gray  ; 

Lo, — for  we  clutch  and  we  clasp  your  knees,- 
Givo  us — ah  !   give  us — but  Yesterday  !" 


"  Damo.sels— Dames,  bo  piteous  I" 

(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the  roadway  trees.) 
'•Hear  ns,  O  Knights  magiiauiuious !" 

(But  the  knights  pricked  on  in  their  panoplies.) 

Nothing  they  gat  of  hope  or  ease, 
But  only  to  heat  on  the  breast  and  say  :  — 

"  Life  wc  drank  to  the  dregs  and  lees ; 
Give  us— ah!   give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

ENVOY. 

Youth,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of  these ! 

Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way, — 
Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  aud  seas, 

"Give  us— ah!  give  ns — but  Yesterday  I" 


YOU   BID   ME   TRY. 


After  Voiture. 


You  bid  nic  try.  Blue-eyes,  to  write 

A  Rondeau.     What !— forthwith  ?— to-night  ? 

Reflect.     Some  skill  I  have,  'tis  true  ; 

But  thirteen  lines, — and  rhymed  on  two, — 

"Refrain,"  as  well.     Ah,  hapless  plight! 

Still,  there  are  five  lines, — ranged  aright. 
These  Gallic  bonds,  I  feared,  would  fright 
My  easy  Muse.     They  did  till  you — 
Yon  bid  me  try  ! 

Tiiat  makes  them  nine.     The  port's  in  sight  ;- 
'Tis  all  because  your  eyes  are  bright ! 
Now  just  a  pair  to  end  with  "oo," — 
When  maids  command,  what  can't  we  do ! 
Behold  ! — the  Rondeau,  tasteful,  light, 
You  bid  nic  trv  I 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

When  Spring  comes  laughing,  by  vale  and  hill. 
By  wind-flower  walking,  and  datlodil, — 
Sing  stars  of  morning,  sing  morning  skies. 
Sing  blue  of  speedwell,  and  my  Love's  eyes. 

When  comes  the  Sunmier,  full-loaved  and  strong. 
And  gay  birds  gossip,  the  orchard  long,— 
Sing  hid,  sweet  honey,  that  no  bee  sips; 
Sing  red,  red  roses,  aud  my  Love's  lips. 

When  Autumn  scatters  the  leaves  ngain, 

Aud  piled  sheaves  bury  the  broad-wheeled  wain,— 


AUSTIN  DOBSON.— HENRY  AMES  BLOOD. 


897 


Sing  flutes  of  harvest,  where  men  rejoice ; 
Slug  rouuds  of  reapers,  and  my  Love's  voice. 

But  when  comes  Winter,  with  hail  and  storm, 
And  red  fire  roaring,  and  ingle  'warm, — 
Sing  first  sad  going  of  friends  that  part ; 
Tiien  sing  glad  meeting,  and  my  Love's  heart. 


CHAXSONETTE. 

Once  at  the  angelus  (ere  I  was  dead), 
Angels  all  glorious  came  to  my  bed — 
Angels  in  blue  and  white,  crowned  on  the  head. 

One  was  the  friend  I  left  stark  in  the  snow  ; 
One  was  the  wife  that  died  long,  long  ago  ; 
One  was  the  love  I  lost, — how  could  she  know  ? 

One  had  my  mother's  eyes,  wistful  and  mild  ; 
One  had  my  father's  face  ;  one  was  a  child ; 
All  of  them  bent  to  me — bent  down  and  smiled. 


THE   CHILD   MUSICIAX. 

The  Bostoti  Advertiser  of  January  14th,  1874,  mentions  the 
case  of  a  boy  called  "the  baby  violinist"  who  died  "the  other 
day  at  the  age  of  six."  At  a  time  when  he  should  have  been 
in  bed  he  was  made  to  play  before  large  audiences  music  which 
excited  and  thrilled  him.  He  looked  exhausted  one  day,  and 
the  manager  told  him  to  stay  at  home.  That  night  as  the  lad 
lay  in  bed  with  his  father  the  latter  heard  him  say:  "Merciful 
God,  make  room  for  a  little  fellow  I" — and  with  this  strange 
and  touching  prayer  the  baby  violinist  died  !  The  incident 
doubtless  suggested  Dobson's  poem. 

He  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee, 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyshi[rs  whim, 

Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy. 
And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim. 

And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie, 
And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright. 

And  they  said — too  late — '•  He  is  weary  ! 
He  shall  rest  for  at  least  to-night!'' 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking, 
As  they  watched  in  tlie  silent  room, 

With  a  sound  of  a  strained  cord  breaking, 
A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom, 

'Twas  a  string  of  his  violoncello, 
And  they  heard  him  stir  in  bed — 

"Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow. 
Kind  God !"  was  the  last  that  he  said. 


ii)a\v\)  Allies  I31ooL>. 


A  native  of  Temple,  N.  II.,  born 'about  1840,  Mr.  Blood 
graduated  at  Dartiuoiitli  College,  and,  after  a  few  years 
spent  in  keeping  school,  accepted  a  situation  in  the  State 
Department  at  Washington.  A  volume  of  his  poems  has 
been  stereotyped,  and  the  specimens  we  have  seen  show 
that  our  literature  will  gain  by  the  publication. 


PRO  MORTUIS. 

For  the  dead  and  for  the  dying ; 

For  the  dead  that  once  were  living. 
And  the  living  that  are  dying. 

Pray  I  to  the  All-forgiving. 

For  the  dead  who  yester  journeyed ; 

For  the  living  avIio  to-morrow. 
Through  the  valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Must  all  bear  the  world's  great  sorrow  ; 

For  the  immortal,  who,  in  silence. 
Have  already  crossed  the  portal  ; 

For  the  mortal  who,  in  sadness. 
Soon  shall  follow  the  immortal; — ■ 

Keep  thine  arms  round  all,  O  Father! —  ■ 
Round  lamenting  and  lamented; 

Round  the  living  and  repenting. 

Round  the  dead  who  have  repented. 

Keep  thine  arms  round  all,  O  Father! 

That  are  left  or  that  are  taken  ; 
For  they  all  are  needy,  whether 

The  forsakinjr  or  forsaken. 


THE  LAST   VISITOR. 

"Who  is  it  knocks  this  storniy  night? 
Be  very  careful  of  the  light !" 
The  good-nuxn  said  to  his  wife. 

And  the  good-wife  went  to  the  door; 
But  never  again  in  all  his  life 
Will  the  good-man  see  licr  more. 

For  he  who  knocked  that  night  was  Death, 
And  the  light  went  out  with  a  little  breath; 
And  the  good-man  will  miss  Iiis  wife. 

Till  he,  too,  goes  to  the  door, 
When  Death  will  carry  him  up  to  Life, 
To  behold  her  face  once  more. 


898 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BltlTISIl  A.\D  AMElilCAX  POETRY. 


Robert  Hclln   lllccK'G. 


A  native  of  New  York  city  (born  in  1S40),  Weeks 
i,n-aduated  from  Yale  College  in  1803,  and  from  tlie  Law 
School  of  Columbia  College  in  1S(>1.  He  lias  published 
"Poems"  (1>S(;0) ;  "Episodes  and  Lyric  Pieces"  (1870) 
— works  full  of  liigh  promise. 


WINTER  SUNRISE. 

Wlicn  I  cousiiler,  as  I'm  forced  to  do, 

The  many  causes  of  my  discontent, 

And  count  my  failures,  and  remember  too 

How  many  hopes  the  failures  represent  ; 

The  hope  of  seeing  what  I  have  not  seen, 

The  hope  of  winning  what  I  have  not  won, 

The  hope  of  being  what  I  have  uot  been. 

The  hope  of  doing  what  I  have  not  done  ; 

Wlien  I  remember  and  consider  these — 

Against  my  Past,  my  Present  seems  to  lie 

As  bare  and  black  as  yonder  barren  trees 

Agaiust  the  brightness  of  the  morning  sky, 

Whose  golden  expectation  puts  to  shame 

Tlic  lurking  hopes  to  wliich  they  still  lay  claim. 


AD   FINEM. 

I  would  not  have  believed  it  then. 

If  any  one  had  told  me  so, — 
"Ere  you  shall  see  his  face  again, 

A  year  and  more  shall  go :" — 
And  let  them  come  again  to-day 

To  pity  me  and  prophesy, 
And  I  will  face  them  all,  and  say 

To  all  of  them,  You  lie  ; 

False  x>i"opliets  all,  you  lie,  you  lie! 

I  will  believe  no  word  but  his; 
Will  say  December  is  July, 

That  autumn  April  is, — 
Rather  thau  say  he  has  forgot, 

Or  will  not  come  who  bade  me  wait, 
Wlio  wait  him,  and  accuse  him  not 

Of  being  very  late. 

Ho  .said  that  ho  would  come  in  Spring, 
And  I  believed — believe   him  now, 

Though  all  the  birds  have  ceased  to  sing. 
And  bare  is  every  bough  ! 

For  spring  is  not  till  he  appear, 
Winter  is  uot  when  ho  is  ni";h  — 


The  only  Lord  of  all  n\y  year. 
For  whom  I  live — and  die! 


iHilliam  Olljauninci  (Dauuctt. 


Gannett,  the  son  of  a  clert^ynian,  was  born  in  Boston 
in  1840.  lie  graduated  at  Harvard  in  ISdO,  and  from  the 
Theological  IScliool  in  1808,  having  meanwhile  taught 
school  a  year  at  Newport,  R.  I.  For  two  years  he  was 
pastor  of  a  church  in  Milwaukee,  Wis. ;  since  which  he 
has  resided  chiefly  in  Boston.  He  has  contributed  ser- 
mons, lectures,  and  addresses  to  the  magazines,  and  has 
written  hymns  and  poems,  showing  an  original  veiu. 


LISTENING  FOR  GOD. 

I  hear  it  often  in  the  dark, 

I  hear  it  in  the  ligbt, — 
Where  is  the  voice  that  calls  to  me 

With  such  a  quiet  might  ? 
It  seems  but  echo  to  my  thought, 

And  yet  beyond  the  stars : 
It  seems  a  heart-beat  in  a  hush. 

And  yet  the  planet  jars. 

Oh,  may  it  be  that  far  within 

My  inmost  soul  there  lies 
A  spirit-sky,  that  opens  with 

Those  voices  of  surprise  ? 
And  can  it  be,  bj'  night  and  day. 

That  lirmameut  serene 
Is  just  the  heaven  where  God  himself, 

The  Father,  dwells  unseen  ? 

O  God  within,  so  close  to  mo 

Tliat  every  thought  is  plain, 
1)0  judge,  bo  friend,  be  Father  still, 

And  in  thj'  heaven  reign  ! 
Thy  heaven  is  mine, — my  very  soul  ! 

Thy  words  are  sweet  and  strong ; 
They  fill  my  inward  silences 

With  miKsie  and  with  song. 

They  send  nio  challenges  to  right. 

And  loud  rebuke  my  ill  ; 
Thoy  ring  my  bells  of  victory. 

They  breathe  my  "  Peace,  be  still !" 
They  ever  seem  to  say,  "  My  child, 

Why  seek  nie  so  all  day  ? 
Now  journey  inward  to  thyself, 

And  listen  by  the  way." 


GEORGE  McKXIGUT. 


899 


c!?corgc  illcKnigljt. 


McKniglit,  a  native  of  Sterling,  Cayuga  County,  N.  Y., 
was  born  in  1840,  and  has  always  resided  in  his  native 
town,  where  lie  is  a  practising  physician.  In  1877  he 
published  on  his  own  account  a  volume  of  131  pages, 
entitled  "Firm  Ground:  Tlioughts  on  Life  and  Faith." 
In  1878  a  revised  edition,  under  the  title  of  "Life  and 
Faith,"  was  issued,  witli  tlie  imprint  of  Henry  Holt  »fc 
Co.,  New  York.  It  consists  chiefly  of  a  series  of  son- 
nets, lofty  in  tone  and  sentiment,  and  artistic  in  struct- 
ure according  to  tlic  Petrarchan  model.  Eacli  one  is  the 
embodiment  of  some  riehlj-  suggestive  thought,  sliowing 
that  the  autlior's  range  of  meditation  is  in  the  higher 
ethical  and  devotional  region.  With  all  its  earnest  grav- 
ity, the  tone  of  these  productions  is  always  healthful, 
hopeful,  and  cheerful. 


"  THOUGH  NAUGHT  THEY  MAY  TO  OTHERS 
BE.'' 

If  in  these  thoughts  of  mine  that  now  assuage 

The  tedium  of  the  toilsome  life  I  live, 

The  few  who  cliance  to  notice  should  perceive 

Nothing'  their  lasting  interest  to  engage, 

And  quickly  cease  to  turn  the  farther  page, — 

It  were  a  shameful  thing  if  I  should  grieve. 

For  if  kind  Destiny  has  chosen  to  give 

To  other  minds,  in  many  a  clime  and  age, 

Days  brighter  than  my  hours,  should  I  repine? 

And  what  if  by  an  over-hasty  glance 

Some  import  be  not  lieeded,  or,  perchance, 

Too  dim  a  light  upon  the  pages  shine  ? 

Would  I  be  wronged,  even  though  the  wealth  I  own, 

And  not  the  less  enjoy,  were  all  unknown  ? 


PERPETUAL  YOUTH. 

"And  ever  beautiful  and  young  remains 
Whom  the  divine  ambrosia  sustains." 

The  days  of  yonth  !     The  days  of  glad  life-gain  ! 
How  bright  iu  retrospection  they  appear ! 
Yet  standing  in  my  manhood's  stature  here, 
I  ask  not  Time  his  fleet  hours  to  refrain. 
The  joyauce  of  those  days  may  yet  remain. 
Fly  on,  swift  seasons!     Not  with  grief  or  fear 
I  see  your  speed  increase  from  year  to  year ; — 
The  soul  may  still  its  buoyant  yonth  retain  ! 
May,  if  supplied  with  its  celestial  food, 
Forever  keep  so  young  it  will  not  cease 
To  grow  iu  strength,  in  stature  to  increase 
Through  all  its  days,  whate'er  their  multitude. 
And  lo  !   ambrosia  plentifully  grows  [goes. 

On  many  a  held  through  which  thought,  culling, 


H  C  O  R  N . 

"Which  Wisdom  holds  unlawful  ever." 

If  on  a  child  of  Nature  thou  bestow 

A  scornful  thought,  a  grievous  punishment 

Is  thine  ;   for  now  no  longer  evident 

Arc  loving  looks  Nature  was  wont  to  show  : 

Yet  alters  not  her  favor  toward  tliee  so ; — 

Not  really  does  she  thy  scorn  resent ; 

Her  heart  is  too  full  of  divine  content 

To  feel  the  troubling  passions  mortals  know. 

'Tis  thou,  by  harboring  unjust  disdain 

Within  thy  selfish  bosom,  who  hast  marred 

The  beaming  tenderness  of  her  regard. 

Thy  sympathy  with  her  is  less,  in  vain 

Is  now  each  kindly  look  of  hers,  each  smile 

Of  favor  thou  didst  oft  enjoy  erewhile. 


OPPORTUNITY. 

Has  thj'  pursuit  of  knowledge  been  confined 

AVithiu  a  narrow  range  by  penury, 

And  by  the  hands'  hard  toil  required  of  thee  ? 

Oh,  sorely  tried!     But  if  God  had  designed 

A  strong,  divinely  gifted  humau  mind 

Should  iu  the  world  appear,  and  grow  to  be 

A  grand  exemplar  of  humanity. 

Perhaps  His  Avisdom,  provident  and  kind, 

Seeking  a  time  and  iilace  upou  the  eartli, 

W^iiereiu  such  noble  life  might  grow  and  bear 

Its  perfect  fruitage,  beautiful  and  rare, 

Would  choose  and  foreordain,  tried  soul,  a  birth 

Like  that  assigned  to  thee  !     Oh,  squander  not 

The  opportunity  given  in  thy  lot ! 


TRIUMPH. 

Though  hard  surroundings,  like  unsparing  foes. 
Against  thee  have  prevailed,  a  victory 
May  yet  be  thine,  and  noble  life  may  be 
The  trophy  which  thy  triuuii»h  will  disclose. 
The  world's  great  prizes  thou  must  yield  to  those 
Of  better  fortune!     Yield  them  willingly: 
By  so  mucli  more  thy  virtue  sliall  be  free 
From  trammels  selfisli  cares  on  it  impose. 
Famed,  far-oft"  landscapes  thou  siialt  never  view: — 
Submit :   the  bliss  denied  thee  do  not  crave  ; 
And  thy  attentive  soul  a  sigiit  may  have 
Of  the  omnipresent  Beautiful  and  True, 
So  clear,  'twill  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  God, 
Thau  if  thou  sought'st  His  wonders  far  abroad. 


900 


CYCL0P2EDIA    OF  BlilTlSIl  AMJ  AMKIllCAX  POETRY. 


IN   UNISON. 

May  ncvevnioro  .1  seliish  wish  of  mine 

Grow  to  a  deed,  nnless  a  gieater  care 

For  others'  welfare  iu  the  iuciteniciit  share. 

O  Nature,  let  my  jiurposes  couibine, 

Heucefortli,  in  eonscious  uiiisou  with  thine, — 

To  spread  abroad  God's  gladness,  and  declare 

In  living  form  what  is  forever  fair. 

Meekly  to  labor  in  thy  great  design, 

Oil,  let  uiy  little  life  bo  given  whole  I 

If  so,  by  action  or  bj'  sntlering, 

Joy  to  my  fellow-creatures  I  may  bring. 

Or,  in  the  lowly  likeness  of  my  soul, 

T(»  beautiful  creation's  countless  store 

One  form  of  beauty  may  be  added  more. 


"THE  GLORY  OF  THE  LORD  SHALL  EN- 
DURE FOREVER." 

The  forces  that  prevail  eternally, 

And  those  that  seem  to  quickly  vanish  hence. 

Are  emanations  from  Omnipotence 

Of  self-conserving,  ceaseless  energy  : 

And  whatso  in  tlie  changeless  entity 

Of  God  originates,  partaketh  thence 

Of  the  divine,  essential  j)ermauence  :— 

Whatever  is  because  He  is,  shall  be. 

Oh,  then  to  strengthen  trust,  thyself  assure. 

In  every  fearful,  every  doubting  mood. 

From  God  came  forth  the  Beautiful  and  Good; 

And  as  the  Eternal  Glory  shall  endure, 

Tiiey  in  His  changelessuess  shall  still  abide 

Unwasted,  'mid  destruction  far  and  wide. 


THE   TEST   OF  TRUTH. 

If  ye  have  precious  truths  that  yet  remain 
Unknown  to  me,  oh  teach  mo  them  !     Each  way 
Into  my  soul  I  open  wide,  that  they 
May  enter  straightway,  and  belief  constrain. 
Hut  urge  not  fear  of  loss  nor  hope  of  gain 
To  rouse  my  will,  and  move  it  to  essay 
To  shape  my  soul's  belief,  or  tinge  one  ray 
Of  Naturii's  light !     All  wilful  faith  must  paiu 
The  Genius  of  true  Faith,  who  asks  assent, 
Not  even  to  dearest  truths,  until  the  hour 
Arrives  of  their  belief-compelling  power; 
Iu  order  that  the  force  they  will  have  spent 
Jn  Avrestliug  with  our  unbelief,  at  length 
May  be  trauslorMicd  into  believing  strength. 


EUTHANASIA. 

Seeing  our  lives  by  Nature  now  are  led 

In  an  appointed  way  so  tenderly  ; 

So  often  lured  by  Hope's  expectancy  ; 

So  seldom  driven  by  scourging  pain  and  dread  ; 

And  though  by  destiny  still  limited 

Insuperably,  our  pleasant  paths  seem  free : — 

May  we  not  trust  it  ever  thus  shall  be? 

That  when  Ave  come  the  lonely  vale  to  tread, 

Leading  away  into  the  unknown  night, 

Our  Mother  then,  kindly  persuasive  still, 

Sliall  gently  temper  the  reluctant  will  ? 

So,  haply,  we  shall  feel  a  strange  delight. 

Even  that  dreary  way  to  travel  o'er, 

And  the  mysterious  realm  beyond  explore. 


CONSUMMATION. 

"Tlie  grand  results  of  Time." 

'Twas  needful  that  with  life  of  low  degree. 
But  slowly  rising,  long  the  earth  should  teem 
Ere  man  was  born  ;  and  still  the  guiding  scheme 
Seemed  not  to  rest  in  full  nnitnrity : 
For  Nature  since  has  so  assiduously 
Cherished  his  growth  in  spirit,  it  would  seem 
That  lofty  human  souls,  iu  her  esteem, 
Are  the  best  trophies  of  her  husbandrj'. 
And  now,  as  if  she  neared  her  linal  aim. 
She  sheds  npon  them  with  conspicuous  care 
Each  fruitful  Inllucnce,  that  they  may  bear 
Great  and  pure  thoughts  and  deeds  of  noble  fame ; — 
As  if  her  crowning  joy  were  to  transmute 
The  sum  of  Time's  results  into  soul-fruit. 


CLEAR  ASSURANCE. 

Not  as  it  looks  will  be  thy  coming  state  : 
It  falsely  looms  to  IxUli  tliy  hopes  and  fears. 
Unwise  is  he,  with  ])rying  eye  who  ]>eers 
'Neath  the  unturned  pages  of  the  book  of  fate. 
Yet  whether  good  or  evil  hours  await 
Tliy  coining  in  the  far  successive  years. 
Thou  may'st  foreknow,  by  that  which  now  appears. 
It  well  may  daunt  thee,  or  with  joy  elate. 
For  iu  thy  heart's  affections  thou  can'st  see 
What  thou  becomcst  as  the  days  go  by: 
Think  not  by  skilled  device  to  modify 
The  strict  fultihuent  of  the  high  decree. 
That  more  and  more  like  the  sublime  or  low 
Ideals  thou  dost  cherish,  thou  shalt  grow. 


GEORGE  Mcknight.— JOHN  white  chad  wick. 


901 


LIVE   WHILE   YOU  LIVE. 

A  viow  of  present  life  is  all  thou  bast! 
Oblivion's  cluiid,  like  a  bigb-reacbinf''  Avail, 
Couceals  tby  former  being,  and  a  pall 
Hangs  o'er  the  gate  tbrongb  wbieb  tbou'lt   soon 

bave  passed. 
Dost  cbafe,  iu  tbese  close  bounds  imprisoned  fast? 
Perhaps  thy  spirit's  memory  ueeds,  withal, 
Such  limits,  lest  vague  dimness  should  befall 
Its  records  of  a  life-duration  vast ; 
And  artfully  tby  sight  may  be  confined 
While  tbon  art  dwelliug  ou  this  earthly  isle, 
That  its  exceeding  beauty  may,  the  while. 
Infuse  itself  witbiu  thy  growing  mind. 
And  fit  thee,  iu  some  future  state  sublime, 
Haply,  to  grasp  a  wider  range  of  time.' 


MEMENTO  MORI. 

Look,  soul,  bow  swiftly  all  things  onward  teud ! 

Such  universal  baste  betokens  need 

In  Destiny's  design  of  pressing  speed  : 

Speed  thou,  stay  not  until  thou  reach  the  eud ! 

L^pon  the  baste  of  Time  there  may  depend 

Some  far-off  good.     Thou  child  of  Time,  give  heed, 

Tiiat  with  a  willing  heart  and  ready  deed, 

To  Time's  great  baste  tby  dole  of  speed  tbon  lend! 

Though  beauteous  scenes  tby  onward  steps  would 

stay, 
Press  forward  toward  the  Goal  that  beckons  thee — 
The  uuimagined  possibility 
Of  all  the  mighty  future  to  assay! 
And  when  thou  drawest  near  thy  hour  to  die, 
Rejoice  that  one  accomplishment  is  nigh. 


GIFTS. 

"  Who  maketh  thee  to  differ  ?" 

Brother,  my  arm  is  weaker  far  than  thiuc  ; 
And  thou,  my  brother,  in  each  common  view 
Of  Nature  canst  discern  some  beauteous  buo 
Too  delicate  to  thrill  such  brain  as  mine. 
And  yet,  O  brothers  both,  by  many  a  sign 
God  shows  for  me  as  warm  love  as  for  you  : 
With  equal  care  His  light  and  rain  and  dew 
Ciierisb  the  sturdy  tree  and  clinging  vine. 

>  We  me  leniinded  by  this  sonnet  of  a  leinnik  which  the 
Chevalier  Bunsen  made  at  a  party  where  there  had  been  some 
astonishing  experiments  in  clairvoyance.  "  But  what,  then, 
were  our  eyes  given  us  for?"  asked  Bloonifield.  "To  limit  our 
vision,  my  lord,"  Buusen  instantly  replied.— E.  S. 


Bo  thou  not  proud  of  tliy  juore  massive  brawn  ! 
Nor  thou,  because  witiiin  thy  brain  each  thread, 
Through   which  the   thougbt-pulsatious  pass   and 

spread 
From  cell  to  cell,  has  been  more  tensely-  drawn  ! 
God's  forces  made  you  what  you  are,  why  then 
Should  you  expect  the  reverence  of  men  ? 


KINSHIP. 

"So  light,  yet  sure,  the  bond  that  binds  the  world." 

I  found  beside  a  meadow  brooklet  bright, 
Spring  flowers  whose  tranquil  beauty  seemed  to  give 
Glad  answers  as  to  whence  and  why  Ave  live. 
With  pleased  delay  I  liugered  while  I  might. 
Because  I  thought  Avben  they  Avere  out  of  sight, 
No  more  of  joy  from  them  I  should  receive. 
But  now  I  know  absence  cannot  bereaA-e 
Their  loveliness  of  power  to  giA'e  delight. 
For  still  my  soul  with  theirs  SAveet  couA-erse  holds, 
Through  sense  more  intimate  and  blessed  than  see- 
ing; 
A  bond  of  kindred  that  includes  all  being, 
Our  lives  in  conscious  uuion  now  infolds. 
And  oh,  to  me  it  is  enough  of  bliss 
To  know  I  am,  and  that  such  beauty  is. 


JJoljii  lllljitc  Clja^iDicK'. 


Chadwick  Avas  born  in  1840  in  Marblehcad,  Mass.  lie 
studied  at  the  Exeter,  N.  H.,  Academy,  and  graduated 
from  the  Cambridge  Divinity  School  in  1SC4.  He  has 
contributed  various  papers  to  Harper's  and  other  mag- 
azines, and  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems,  published 
1874.  He  is  settled  over  a  Unitarian  congregation  in 
Brooklju,  N.  T.  As  a  controversial  Avriter  of  radical 
tendencies  he  is  avcU  known. 


AULD  LANG-SYNE. 

It  singeth  low  in  every  heart. 

We  bear  it  each  and  all, — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not. 

However  wo  may  call ; 
They  throng  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

We  see  them  as  of  yore, — 
The  kind,  the  brave,  the  true,  the  sweet, 

Who  walk  witli  us  no  more. 

'Tis  bard  to  take  the  burden  up, 
AVhen  tbese  baA'e  laid  it  down  ; 


902 


CYCLOPAEDIA   OF  BltlTISH  AND  AMEUICAX  POETRY. 


Tlii'.v  brigliteiied  all  the  joy  of  life, 

They  softened  every  frown  ; 
But  oh,  'tis  good  to  think  of  tlieni, 

When  \ve  are  tempted  sore  ! 
Thanks  bo  to  God  tliat  sneli  have  been. 

Although  they  are  no  n\()re ! 

Jlorc  home-like  seems  tlie  vast  unknown, 

Since  they  have  entered  there ; 
To  follow  them  were  not  so  hard, 

"Wherever  thej'  may  fare  ; 
They  cannot  bo  -where  God  is  not, 

Ou  any  sea  or  shore: 
Whate'er  betides,  Thy  love  abides, 

Our  God,  for  evermore. 


BY  THE  sea-Shore. 

The  curvc^d  strand 

Of  cool,  gray  sand 
Lies  like  a  sickle  \>y  the  sea; 

The  tide  is  low, 

Bnt  soft  and  slow 
Is  creeping  higher  \\\}  the  lea. 

The  beach-birds  fleet, 

With  twinkling  feet, 
Hurry  and  scurry  to  and  fro, 

And  sip,  and  chat 

Of  this  and  that 
Which  you  and  I  may  never  know. 

The  runlets  gay 

That  haste  away 
To  meet  each  snowj'-bosomed  crest, 

Enrich  tlie  shore 

With  fleeting  store 
Of  art-defying  arabesque. 

Each  higher  wave 

Doth  touch  and  lave 
A  million  pebbles  smooth  and  bright ; 

Straightway  they  grow 

A  beauteous  show, 
With  hues  unknown  before  bedight. 

High  up  tho  beach, 

Far  out  of  reach 
Of  common  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 

The  drift-wood's  heap 

Doth  record  keep 
Of  storms  that  perished  long  ago. 


Nor  storms  alone : 

I  hear  the  moan 
Of  voices  choked  by  dashing  brine, 

When  sunken  rock 

Or  tempest  shock 
Crushed  the  good  vessel's  oaken  spine. 

Where  ends  the  beach, 

The  cliffs  u preach 
Their  liLheu-wrinkled  foreheads  old; 

And  here  I  rest 

While  all  the  west 
Grows  brighter  with  the  sunset's  gold. 

Far  out  at  sea 

The  ships  that  floe 
Along  tho  dim  horizon's  lino, 

Their  sails  unfold 

Like  cloth  of  gold. 
Transfigured  by  that  light  divine. 

A  calm  more  deep. 

As  'twere  asleep, 
Upon  the  weary  ocean  falls ; 

So  low  it  sighs. 

Its  murmur  dies. 
While  shrill  the  boding  cricket  calls. 

0  peace  and  rest ! 
Upon  the  breast 

Of  God  himself  I  seem  to  lean  : 

No  break,  no  bar 

Of  sun  or  star  : 
Just  God  and  I,  with  naught  between. 

Oh,  when  some  day 
In  vain  I  pray 
For  days  like  this  to  come  again, 

1  shall  rejoice 

With  heart  and  voice 
That  one  such  day  has  ever  been. 


CAKPE   DIEM. 

O  soul  of  mine,  how  few  and  short  the  years 

Ere  thou  slialt  go  the  way  of  all  thy  kind, 

And  liero  no  more  thy  joy  or  sorrow  find 

At  any  fount  of  happiness  or  tears! 

Yea,  and  how  soon  shall  all  that  thee  endears 

To  any  heart  that  beats  with  love  for  thee 

Be  everywhere  forgotten  utterly. 

With  all  thy  loves  and  joys,  and  hopes  and  fears! 


GEOEGE  WENTZ.—MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 


903 


IJiit,  O  luy  soul,  because  these  things  are  so, 
Be  thou  not  cheated  of  to-day's  delight, 
When  the  night  coiueth,  it  may  well  be  night; 
Now  it  is  (lay.     See  that  no  minute's  glow 
Of  all  the  shining  hours  unheeded  goes, 
No  fount  of  rightful  joy  by  thee  untasted  flows. 


©corge  lUcnt^. 


A  native  and  resident  of  Baltimore,  Wentz  studied 
medicine,  and  became  a  practising  physician.  He  is  the 
author  of  "The  Lady  of  the  Sea,"  a  poem  of  some  length, 
founded  on  an  Orli;uey  legend,  and  oi'iginally  published 
in  The  Southern  Jlaffcizine  for  1872.  His  shorter  lyrical 
pieces  are  suggestive  of  a  profound  poetical  sensibility, 
with  the  gift  of  giving  utterance  to  it  at  times  in  con- 
densed and  beautiful  forms. 


"SWEET   SPIRIT,  HEAR  MY  PRAYER." 

Of  all  the  human-helping  songs  to  God 
That  swell  upou  the  dim  cathedral's  air, 

Most  helpful  seems  to  me  this  song  of  all : 
"Sweet  Spirit,  hear  my  jirayer!" 

There  is  a  supplication  iu  the  sound  ; 

And  on  a  flight  of  Music's  solemn  sigh, 
My  weary  soul,  earth-sick  and  full  of  care, 

Mounts  upward  to  the  sky. 

A  clear  soprano,  like  a  mounting  bird. 

Soars  o'er  the  organ's  deep  vibrating  tone, 

To  bear  to  her  the  lovinguess  I  feel, 
But  may  not  plead  alone. 

For  .she,  a  spirit,  from  her  lofty  place 
Doth  oft  her  sympathetic  ear  incline. 

To  hear  a  mortal's  word,  and  stills  her  heart 
To  hear  the  beat  of  mine. 

The  tender  pleading  of  the  song  remains, 
While  priest  and  altar  fade  upon  the  air, 

And  all  the  dome  is  worshipful  with  her 
Whose  spirit  hears  my  prayer. 


NO  DEATH. 

There  is  no  death ;  the  common  end 
Of  life  and  growth  we  comprehend. 
Is  not  of  forms  that  cease,  but  mend  : 
It  is  not  death,  but  change. 


When  wastes  the  seed  the  sower  sows 
Beneath  the  clog  of  winter  snows, 
The  autumn  harvest  plainly  shows 

It  was  not  death,  but  change. 

When  Science  weighs  and  counts  the  strands 

In  economic  Nature's  bands, 

She  re-collects  them  in  her  hands 

To  show  no  loss  from  change. 

Tliey  do  not  die,  our  darling  ones ; 
From  falling  leaves  to  burning  suns. 
Through  worlds  on  worlds  the  legend  runs, — 
It  is  not  death,  but  change. 

When  stills  the  heart,  and  dims  the  eye. 
And  round  our  couch  friends  wonder  why 
The  signs  have  ceased  they  know  ns  by, 
It  is  not  death,  but  change. 


illarti  illapes  ?Dolicie. 

AMfeRICAN, 

Mrs.  Dodge,  a  daughter  of  the  late  Professor  Mapes, 
has  published  various  successful  works  for  the  young ; 
also  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled  "Along  the  Way,  and 
other  Poems,"  from  the  press  of  Scribner  &  Co.  (1879). 
She  is  widely  known  as  editress  of  The  St.  Xicholas  Mag- 
azine for  young  persons,  and  resides  iu  the  city  of  New 
York.  ;_ 

IN  THE   CANON. 

Intent  the  conscious  mountains  stood. 

The  friendly  blossoms  nodded. 
As  through  the  canon's  lonely  Avood 

We  two  in  silence  plodded. 
A  something  owned  our  presence  good  ; 

The  very  breeze  that  stirred  our  hair 
Whispered  a  gentle  greeting ; 

A  grand,  free  courtesy  Avas  there, 

A  welcome,  from  the  summit  bare 
Down  to  the  brook's  entreating. 

Stray  warlders  in  the  branches  dark 

Shot  through  the  leafy  passes, 
While  the  long  note  of  meadow-lark 

Rose  from  the  neighboring  grasses  ; 
The  yellow  lupines,  spark  on  spark, 

From  the  more  open  woodland  way, 
Flashed  through  the  sunlight  faintly  ; 

A  wind-blown  little  flower,  once  gay. 

Looked  up  between  its  petals  gray 
And  smiled  a  message  saintly. 


904 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


The  giant  ledf^es,  rod  and  st'anicd, 

The  clear,  blue  sky,  trce-lVcttcd  ; 
Tlio  mottled  light  that  round  iis  stroained, 

The  brooklet,  vexed  and  i)etted  ; 
The  bees  that  buzzed,  the  gnats  that  droained, 

The  flitting,  gauzy  things  of  June  ; 
The  plain,  far-ofl",  like  misty  ocean, 

Or,  cloud-land  bound,  a  fair  lagoon, — 

Tliey  sang  within  us  like  a  tunc^ 

They  swayed  us  like  a  dieani  of  motion. 

The  hours  Avent  loitering  to  the  West, 

The  shadows  lengthened  slowly  ; 
The  radiant  snow  on  niountaiu-crest 

Made  all  the  distance  holy. 
Near  by,  the  earth  lay  full  of  rest, 

The  sleepy  foot-hills,  one  by  one. 
Dimpled  their  way  to  twilight ; 

And  ere  the  perfect  day  was  done 

There  came  long  gleams  of  tinted  sun, 
Through  heaven's  crimson  skylight. 

Slowly  crept  on  tlie  listening  night, 

The  sinking  moon  shone  i)alo  and  slender; 

We  hailed  the  cotton-woods,  in  sight, 

The  home-roof  gleaming  near  and  tender. 

Guiding  our  quickeued  steps  aright. 
Soon  darkened  all  the  mighty  hills, 

The  gods  were  sitting  there  in  shadow  ; 
Lulled  were  the  noisy  woodland  rills, 
Silent  the  silvery  woodland  trills, — - 
'Twas  starlight  over  Colorado ! 


SHADOW  J-:VIDENCE. 

Swift  o'er  the  sunny  grass, 
I  saw  a  shadow  pa.ss 

With  subtle  charm  ; 
So  quick,  so  full  of  life, 
W^ith  thrilling  joy  so  rife, 
I  started,  lest  unknown. 
My  step — ere  it  was  flown, — 

Had  done  it  harm. 

Why  look  up  to  the  blue? 
The  bird  was  gone,  I  knew. 
Far  out  of  sight. 
Steady  and  keen  of  wing, 
The  slight,  impassioned  thing. 
Intent  on  a  goal  unknown. 
Had  held  its  course  alone 
In  silent  flight. 


Dear  little  bird,  and  fleet. 
Flinging  down  at  my  feet 

Shadow  for  song  : 
More  sure  am  I  of  thee — 
Unseen,  unheard  by  me — 
Tiian  of  some  things  felt  and  known, 
And  guarded  as  my  own, 

All  my  life  long. 


THE   TWO   MYSTERIES. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  room,  iu  its  white  coffin,  l;iy  the  dead 
child,  n  iiei>hew  of  the  poet.  Near  it,  in  a  great  chair,  eat  Walt 
Whitman,  surrounded  by  little  ones,  and  holding  a  beantiful  lit- 
tle girl  ou  his  lap.  She  looked  wonderingly  at  the  spectacle  of 
death,  and  then  inquiringly  into  the  old  man's  face.  'Yon  don't 
know  what  it  is,  do  you,  my  dear  ?'  said  he,  and  added, '  We  dou't 
eiiher.' '" 

We  know  not  what  it  is,  dear. 

This  sleep  so  deep  and  still ; 
Tiie  folded  hands,  the  awful  calm. 

The  cheek  so  pale  and  chill ; 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again. 

Though  wo  may  call  and  call  ; 
The  strange  white  solitude  of  peace 

That  settles  over  all. 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear, 

This  desolate  heart-pain  ; 
Tiiis  dread  to  take  our  daily  way. 

And  walk  in  it  again  ; 
We  know  not  to  what  other  sphere 

Tiie  loved  who  leave  us  go, 
Nor  why  we're  left  to  wonder  still, 

Nor  why  we  do  not  know. 

Hut  this  we  know  :    our  loved  anil  dead. 

If  tliey  shoulil  come  this  day — 
Should  come  and  ask  us,  "What  is  life?" 

Not  one  of  us  could  saj'. 
Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep 

As  ever  death  can  be  ; 
Yet  oh  !   how  dear  it  is  to  us, — 

This  life  we  live  and  see ! 

Tiien  might  tliey  say — these  vanished  ones — 

And  bless6d  is  the  thought! — 
"  So  death  is  sweet  to  us,  beloved, 

Though  we  may  show  yon  naught; 
Wo  may  not  to  the  quick  reveal 

The  mystery  of  death — 
IV  cannot  tell  us,  if  ye  would, 

The  mystery  of  breath." 


MAliY  MAPES  DODGE.— KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD.— ZADEL  BARNES  GUSTAFSON. 


902 


Tho  child  who  enters  life  conies  not 

With  knowledge  or  intent, 
So  those  who  enter  dccath  must  go 

As  little  children  sent. 
Nothing  is  known.     But  I  believe 

That  God  is  overhead ; 
And  as  life  is  to  the  living, 

So  death  is  to  the  dead. 


NOW   THE   NOISY   WINDS  ARE    STILL. 

Now  the  noisy  winds  are  still  ; 
April's  coming  up  the  hill ! 
All  the  spring  is  in  her  train. 
Led  by  shining  ranks  of  rain  ; 

Pit,  pat,  patter,  clatter, 

Sndden  sun,  and  clatter,  patter! — 
First  the  blue,  and  then  the  shower ; 
Bursting  bud,  and  smiling  flower; 
Brooks  set  free  with  tinkling  ring  ; 
Birds  too  full  of  song  to  sing ; 
Crisp  old  leaves  astir  with  pride, 
Where  the  timid  violets  hide, — 
All  things  ready  Avith  a  will, — 
April's  coming  up  the  hill! 


Kate  yutuam  (Pscjooi). 


Born  at  Fryeburg,  Me.,  in  1840,  Miss  Osgood  has  con- 
tributed to  the  magazines  a  number  of  poems  worthy 
of  being  collected  into  a  volume.  Her  little  ballad  of 
"Driving  Home  the  Cows"  lias  a  homely  pathos  that 
goes  straight  to  its  mark. 


DRIVING   HOME   THE   COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  jiass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  Avas  still. 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  hoy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go: 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  tramjiliug  foe. 


But  after  the  evening  work  was  done. 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp. 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  tho  clover,  and  through  the  wheat. 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  siuce  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew^  co(d  and  late. 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  d(Mic ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  comiug  one  by  one  : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind  ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass — - 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  nnto  life  again  ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  : 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb  : 

And  nnder  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


£aLicl  Barnes  (!3u5tafsoii. 

AMERICAN. 

The  author  of  "  ^Icg  :  a  Pastoral,  and  other  Poems" 
(Boston  :  Lee  &  Shephard,  1870),  is  one  of  the  youngest 
of  our  American  poets  (born  March  9tb,  1841).  The 
reader  of  her  poems  is  impressed,  in  some  of  them  by 


906 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


their  idyllic  cliarni,  in  otlicrs  by  their  diam;itic  force, 
and  in  all  by  their  generous  sympathy  and  nobility  of 
sentiment.  Simultaneously  with  her  own  volume  above 
mentioned,  tlierc  was  issued  by  the  same  house,  and  ed- 
ited by  her,  the  collected  poems  of  Maria  Brooks  ('■  Maria 
del  Occidcnte"). 


ZLOBANE.' 

As  swayctli  in  the  suuuuex-  vviud 
The  close  taud  stalwart  grain, 

So  moved  the  serried  Zulu  shields 
That  day  ou  ^vild  Zlobane  ; 

The  -white  shield  of  Uw.  hnshaiid, 
Who  hath  twice  need  of  life, 

The  black  shield  of  the  young  chief, 
Who  hath  not  yet  a  wife. 

Uurecking  harm,  the  British  lay, 

Secure  as  if  they  slept, 
While  close  ou  front  and  either  flank 

The  live  black  crescent  crept ; 

Then  burst  their  wild  and  frightful  cry 

Upon  the  British  ears, 
With  whir  of  bullets,  glare  of  shields, 

And  flasli  of  Zulu  spears. 

They  gathered  as  a  cloud,  swift  rolled, 
'Twixt  sun  and  snninier  scene. 

They  thickened  down  as  the  locusts 
That  leave  no  living  green. 

Uprose  the  British  ;   in  the  shock 
Reeled  but  an  instant ;   then, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  faced  the  foe, 
And  met  tlielr  doom  like  men. 

But  one  was  there  whoso  heart  was  torn 

In  a  more  awful  strife  ; 
lie  liad  tlie  soldier's  steady  nerve, 

And  calm  disdain  of  life, — 

Yet  now,  half  turning  from  the  fray. 

Knee  smiting  against  knee, 
lie  scanned  the  hills,  if  yet  were  left 

An  open  way  to  flee. 


■  Zlobane  is  the  name  of  the  nionntaiii  which  was  t.nken  by 
8torm  from  the  Zulus  by  the  Uiilish  forces  on  the  niorniufj;  of 
the  2Sth  of  March,  187!>.  On  the  top  of  this  mountain  the  victo- 
rious Enghsh  troops,  who  had  unsaddled  their  horses  and  cast 
themselves  down  to  rest,  were  surprised  and  surrounded  by  the 
Zulus,  or  the  British  corps  only  one  cai)tniu  and  six  meu  es- 
caped.   This  ballad  relates  au  iucident  of  the  day. 


Not  for  himself.     His  little  son, 
Scarce  thirteen  summers  born. 

With  hair  that  shone  upon  his  brows 
Like  tassels  of  the  corn, 

And  lips  yet  curled  in  that  sweet  pout 
Shaped  by^  the'  mother's  breast, 

Stood  by  his  side,  and  silently 
T(j  his  brave  father  pressed. 

The  horse  stood  nigh  ;   the  fatiicr  kis.sed 

And  tossed  the  boy  astride. 
"Farewell!"  he  cried,  "and  for  thy  life. 

That  way,  my  darliug,  ride!" 

Scarce  touched  the  saddle  ere  the  boy 
Leaped  lightly  to  the  ground, 

And  smote  the  horse  upon  its  fl.ank, 
Tliat  with  a  quivering  bound 

It  sprang  and  galloped  for  the  hills, 

With  one  sonorous  neigh ; 
Tlie  fire  flashed  where  its  spurning  feet 

Clanged  o'er  the  stony  way. 

So,  shod  witli  fear,  fled  like  the  wind. 

From  where  in  ancient  fray 
Kome  grappled  Tusculum,  the  slain 

Mamilius'  charger  gray. 

"  Father,  I'll  die  with  yon !"     The  sire. 

As  this  ho  saw  and  heard, 
Turned,  and  stood  breathless  in  the  joy 

And  pang  that  knows  no  word. 

Once  each,  as  do  long  knitted  friends. 

Upon  the  otlier  smiled, 
And  tlien — he  had  but  time  to  give 

A  weapon  to  the  child 

Ere,  leaping  o'er  the  British  dead, 

Tlie  supple  Zulus  drew 
The  cruel  assegais,  and  first 

The  younger  hero  slew. 

Still  grew  the  fatlier's  heart,  his  eye 
Bright  with  nnflickeriug  flame: 

Five  Zulus  bit  the  dust  in  death 
By  his  unblenchiug  aim. 

Tlifu,  covered  with  uncounted  wouiuls, 
Ho  sank  beside  his  child. 


ZADEL  BARNES  GUSTAFSON.— ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


907 


And  tbey  who  fouml  tlicin  say,  in  tleath 

Each  ou  the  other  smiled. 

»  *  *  *  * 

Tims  England,  for  tliy  lust  of  power ! 

The  blood  of  striving  men, — 
Once  more  outpoured — cries  unto  God 

From  Zlobane's  height  and  gleu ! 


THE   FACTORY-BOY.' 

"  Come,  iioor  child  !"  say  the  Flowers  ; 

"  We  have  made  you  a  little  bed  ; 
Come,  lie  with  us  in  the  showers 

The  summer  clouds  will  shed. 
Don't  work  for  so  many  hours  : 

Come  hither  and  play  instead!" 
"Come!"  whispers  the  waving  Grass: 
"  I  will  cool  your  feet  as  you  pass ; 

The  Daisies  will  cool  your  head." 

And  "  Come,  come,  come  !"  is  sighing 

The  River  against  the  wall ; 
But  "  Stay  !"  iu  grim  replying, 

The  wheels  roar  over  all. 
By  hill  and  Held  and  river. 

That  hold  tlie  child  iu  thrall, 
He  sees  the  long  light  quiver, 

And  hears  faint  voices  call. 

Bright  shapes  flit  near  iu  numbers : 

They  lead  his  soul  away : 
"Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush  !    he  slumbers  !" 

He  dreams  he  hears  them  say. 

And,  just  for  one  strained  instant, 

He  dreams  he  hears  the  wheels, 
But  smiles  to  feel  the  flowers, 

And  down  among  them  kneels. 
Over  his  weary  ankles 

A  rippling  runlet  steals, 
And  all  about  his  shoulders 

The  daisies  dance  in  reels. 

Up  to  his  cheeks  and  temples 

Sweet  blossoms  blush  and  press, 
And  softest  summer  zephyrs 

Lean  o'er  in  light  caress. 
Sleep  in  her  mantle  folds  him, 

As  shadows  fold  the  hill. 
Deep  iu  her  trance  she  holds  him. 

And  the  great  wheels  are  still! 

1  From  "Where  is  the  Child?"  in  Harper's  Magazine, 


llobcrt  I3ucljanan. 


A  native  of  Scotland,  Buchanan  was  born  in  1841,  and 
educated  at  the  Hii^h  School  and  University  oi'Glasg-ow. 
He  published  a  volume  of  poems  called  "Undertones" 
in  18(50;  "Idyls  oflnverbuni  "  (18(55);  "London  Poems" 
(18G(5) ;  "  The  Drama  of  Kin-s  "  (1871) ;  "  Celtic  Mystics  " 
(1877),  etc.  Fluent,  versatile,  and  facile  in  his  style,  he 
has  made  his  mark  as  a  poet  of  no  ordinary  power.  As 
he  has  youth  on  his  side,  he  may  live  to  surpass  all  that 
he  has  yet  done.  His  poems  are  i^ublished  by  Roberts 
Brothers,  Boston. 

DYING. 

"  O  bairn,  when  I  am  dead. 

How  shall  ye  keep  frae  harm  ? 
What  haiul  will  gie  ye  bread  ? 
What  fire  will  keep  ye  warm  ? 
How  shall  ye  dwell  ou  earth  awa'  frae  me  V 
"  0  raither,  dinua  dee  !" 

"  O  bairn,  by  night  or  day 

I  hear  nae  sounds  ava'. 
But  voices  of  winds  that  blaw, 

And  the  voices  of  ghaists  that  say. 
Come  awa' !   come  awa' ! 
The  Lord  that  made  the  wiud  and  made  the  sea. 
Is  hard  on  my  bairn  and  me, 
And  I  melt  iu  his  breath  like  snaw." 
"  O  mither,  dinua  dee  I" 

"  O  bairn,  it  is  but  closing  up  the  ecu, 
Aud  lying  down  never  to  rise  again. 
Many  a  strong  man's  sleeping  hae  I  seen, — 

There  is  nae  pain ! 
I'm  weary,  weary,  aud  I  scarce  ken  why  ; 
My  summer  has  gone  by, 
And  sweet  were  sleep,  but  for  the  sake  o'  thee." 
"O  mither,  dinua  dee!" 


HERMIONE  ;  OR,  DIFFERENCES  ADJUSTED. 

Wiierever  I  wander,  up  aud  about. 
This  is  the  puzzle  I  can't  make  out — 
Because  I  care  little  for  books,  6o  doubt: 

I  have  a  wife,  and  she  is  wise. 

Deep  iu  iihilosophy,  strong  in  Greek ; 

Spectacles  shadow  her  pretty  eyes. 
Coteries  rustle  to  hear  her  speak ; 

She  Avrites  a  little — for  love,  not  fame ; 

Has  published  a  book  with  a  dreary  name  ; 
Aud  yet  (God  bless  her!)  is  mild  aud  meek. 


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CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  how  I  liappeiicd  to  woo  and  wed 

A  wife  so  pretty  and  wise  withal 
Is  part  of  the  puzzle  that  fills  my  head — 
Plagues  mo  at  daytime,  racks  mo  in  bed, 

Haunts  me  and  makes  me  appear  so  small. 
The  only  answer  that  I  can  see 
Is — I  could  not  have  married  Ilermiono 
(That  is  her  tine  wise  name),  but  she 
Stooped  in  her  wisdom  and  married  me. 

For  I  am  a  fellow  of  no  degree, 

Given  to  romping  and  jollity; 

The  Latin  tliey  thraslied  into  me  at  school 

The  workl  and  its  lights  have  thrashed  away; 
At  figures  aloue  I  am  no  fool, 

/*nd  in  city  circles  I  say  my  say. 
But  I  am  a  dunce  at  twenty-nine, 
An.l  the  kind  of  study  that  I  think  fine 
Is  a  chapter  of  Dickens,  a  sheet  of  the  Times, 

Wiu'M  I  lounge,  after  work,  in  my  easy  chair; 
ranch  for  liumor,  and  Praed  for  rhymes, 

And  the  butterfly  mots  blown  here  and  there 

15y  the  idle  breath  of  the  social  air. 

A  little  French  is  my  only  gift. 
Wherewith  at  times  I  can  make  a  shift, 
Guessing  at  meanings  to  flutter  over 
A  filagree  tale  in  a  paper  cover. 

Hermioue,  my  Ilermione! 

What  could  your  wisdom  perceive  in  me  ? 

And  Hermioue,  my  Hermioue! 

How  docs  it  happen  at  all  that  we 

Love  one  another  so  utterly  ? 

Well,  I  have  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  two, 

A  darling  who  cries  with  lung  and  tongue,  about 
Ah  fine  a  fellow,  I  swear  to  you. 

As  ever  poet  of  sentiment  sung  about  I 
And  my  ladj'-wife,  with  serious  eyes, 
]5riglitens  and  lightens  when  he  is  nigh, 
And  loidvs,  although  she  is  deep  and  wise. 
As  foolish  aud  happy  as  he  or  I! 
And  I  have  tlie  courage  just  then,  you  see, 
To  kiss  the  lips  of  Hermioue — 
Those  learned  lips  that  the  learnM  praise — 
And  to  clasp  her  close  as  in  sillier  days; 
To  talk  and  joke  in  .a  frolic  vein. 

To  tell  her  my  stories  of  things  and  men  ; 
And  it  never  strikes  me  that  I'm  i)rofane. 
For  she  laughs,  and  blushes,  and  kisses  again, 

And,  presto!   fly  goes  her  wisdom  then! 
For  boy  claps  hands  and  is  uj)  on  her  breast, 

Koaring  to  see  her  so  bright  with  mirth, 


And  I  know  she  deems  me  (oh,  the  jest !) 
The  cleverest  fellow  on  all  the  earth! 

And  Hermioue,  my  Hermione, 

Nurses  her  boy  and  defers  to  me ; 

Does  not  seem  to  see  I'm  small —  ' 

Even  to  think  me  a  dunce  at  all! 

Ami  wherever  I  Avauder,  up  and  about, 

Here  is  the  jjuzzle  I  can't  make  out — 

That  Hermione,  my  Hermione, 

In  spite  of  her  Greek  and  philosophy. 

When  sporting  at  night  with  her  boy  and  me, 

Seems  sweeter  and  wiser,  I  assever — 

Sweeter  and  wiser,  and  far  more  clever, 

And  makes  me  feel  more  foolish  than  ever, 

Through  her  childish,  girlish,  joyous  grace. 

And  the  silly  pride  in  her  learn6d  face ! 

That  is  the  puzzle  I  can't  make  out- 
Bccause  I  care  little  for  books,  no  doubt; 
But  the  puzzle  is  pleasant,  I  know  not  why  : 

For  whenever  I  think  of  it,  night  or  morn, 
I  thank  my  God  she  is  wise,  aud  I 

The  happiest  fool  that  was  ever  born ! 


LANG LEV  LANE. 

In  all  the  land,  range  uj),  range  down, 

Is  there  ever  a  place  so  pleasant  and  sweet 
As  Langley  Lane  in  London  town, 

.lust  out  of  the  bustle  of  square  and  street  ? 
Little  white  cottages  all  in  a  row. 
Gardens  where  baehelors'-buttons  grow, 

Swallows'  nests  in  roof  and  wall, 
And  up  above  the  still  blue  sky. 
Where  the  woolly  white  eloiuls  go  sailing  by,— 

I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  it  all ! 

For  now,  in  summer,  I  take  my  chair. 

And  sit  outside  in  the  sun,  .and  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  street  and  square, 

And  the  swallows  aud  sparrows  chirping  near; 
And  Fanny,  who  lives  just  over  the  way. 
Comes  running  many  a  time  each  day 

With  her  little  hand's  touch  so  warm  and  kind. 
And     I     smile     and    talk,   with    the    snn     on    my 

cheek. 
And  the  little  live  hand  seems  to  stir  aud  speak — 

For  Fanny  is  dumb  and  I  am  blind. 

Fanny  is  sweet  thirteen,  and  she 

Has  fine  black  ringlets  aud  dark  eyes  clear, 


EOBERT  BUCHANAN.— MINOT  JUDSON  SAVAGE. 


909 


Ami  I  :nu  older  by  sniiiiiiers  three — 

Why  .sliuiihl  we  huhl  one  .inother  so  dear? 

Because  she  cannot  utter  a  Avord, 

Nor  liear  the  music  of  bee  or  bird, 

Tlie  Avater-cart's  splash  or  the  luilkuiau's  call! 

Because  I  have  never  seen  the  sky, 

Nor  the  little  singers  that  hnm  and  lly — 
Vet  l<iu)\v  she  is  gazing  upon  tlieiii  all! 

For  till'  sun  is  shining,  the  swallows  lly, 

The  bees  and  the  blueflies  nniriniir  low, 
And  I  hear  the  water-cfirt  go  by. 

With  its  cool  splash-splash  down  the  dusty  row ; 
And  the  little  one  close  at  my  side  perceives 
Mine  eyes  upraised  to  the  cottage  eaves, 

Where  birds  are  chirping  in  summer  sliine. 
And  I  hear,  though  I  cannot  look,  and  she, 
Though  she  cannot  hear,  can  the  singers  sec — 

And  the  little  soft  fingers  flutter  in  mine! 

Hath  not  the  dear  little  hand  a  tongue, 

Wiien  it  stirs  on  my  palm  for  the  love  of  me? 
Do  I  not  know  she  is  pretty  and  young? 

Hath  not  my  soul  an  eye  to  see  ? — 
'Tis  pleasure  to  make  one's  bosom  stir. 
To  wonder  how  things  appear  to  her, 

That  I  only  hear  as  they  pass  around  ; 
And  as  long  as  we  sit  in  the  music  and  light, 
She  is  happy  to  keep  God's  sight. 

And  /  am  happy  to  keep  God's  sound. 

Why,  I  know  her  face,  though  I  am  blind — ■ 

I  made  it  of  music  long  ago  : 
Strange  large  eyes  and  dark  hair  twined 

Eonnd  the  pensive  light  of  a  brow  of  snow  : 
And  when  I  sit  by  my  little  one. 
And  hold  her  hand  and  talk  in  the  snn. 

And  hear  the  music  that  haunts  the  place, 
I  know  she  is  raising  her  eyes  to  me, 
And  guessing  how  gentle  my  voice  must  be, 

And  sedtxj  the  music  upon  my  face. 

Though,  if  ever  the  Lord  should  grant  me  a  prayer, 

(I  know  the  fancy  is  only  vain.) 
I   should    pray, — just    once,  when    tlie    weather    is 
fair,- 

To  see  little  Fanny  and  Langley  Lane  ; 
Though  Fanny,  perhaps,  would  pray  to  h(!ar 
The  voice  of  the  friend  that  she  holds  so  dear, 

Tlie  song  of  the  birds,  the  hum  of  the  street — 
It  is  better  to  be  as  we  have  been  — 
Each  keeping  uj)  something,  unheard,  unseen, 

To  make  God's  heaven  more  strange  and  sweet ! 


Ah!   life  is  pleasant  in  Langley  Lane! 

There  is  always  something  sweet  to  hear, 
Chirping  of  birds  or  patter  of  rain  ! 

And  Fanny,  my  little  one,  always  near! 
And  though  I  am  weakly,  and  can't  live  long. 
And  Fanny,  my  darling,  is  far  from  strong. 

And  though  we  can  never  married  be — 
What  then  ? — since  we  hold  one  another  so  dear 
For  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  one  cannot  hear, 

And  the  pleasure  that  only  one  can  see? 


TO   Tin  FLEES.  . 

From  "  Faces  on  Tiis  Wall." 

Go,  triflers  with  God's  secret.      Far,  oh  far 

Be  your  thin  monotone,  your  brows  flower-crowned, 

Your  backward-looking  faces;   for  ye  mar 

The  pregnant  time  with  silly  sooth  of  sound, 

With  flowers  around  the  feverish  temples  bound, 

And  withering  in  the  close  air  of  the  feast. 

Take  all  the  summer  pleasures  ye  have  found. 

While  Circe-charmed  ye  turn  to  bird  and  beast. 

Meantime  I  sit  apart,  a  lonely  wight 

On  this  bare  rock  amid  this  fitful  Sea, 

And  in  the  wind  and  rain  I  try  to  light 

A  little  lamp  that  may  a  Beacon  be, 

Wherebj'  poor  sliip-folk,  driving  through  the  night, 

May  gain  the  Ocean-course,  and  think  of  me  ! 


ilVmot  iJuLison  Sai^agic. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Norridge\vock,Me.,  Savage  was  born  June 
lOtli,  1841,  and  graduated  at  the  Bangor  Theological  Sem- 
inaiy  in  1864.  Trained  in  the  Orthodox  Chinx-Ii,  he  began 
to  preach  in  October  of  tliat  year  in  a  scliool-house  in 
Sun  Mateo,  Cat.  In  1873  he  left  orthodoxy,  and  was  pas- 
tor over  the  Third  Unitarian  Church  in  Cliicago,  where 
he  remained  one  year,  when  lie  was  called  to  the  jjulpit 
in  Boston,  where  he  has  presided  (1880)  six  years.  He  is 
the  author  of  "Christianity  the  Science  of  Manhood" 
(1873);  "The  Religion  of  Evolution  "  (1876) ;  "Light  on 
the  Cloud"  (1879);  "BluSton:  a  Story  of  To-day,"  "Life 
Questions,"  "The  Morals  of  Evolution,"  "Talks  about 
Jesus"  (1880),  etc.  There  has  been  also  for  several  years 
a  weekly  issue  of  his  sermons. 


LIFE   FEOM   DEATH. 

Had  one  ne'er  seen  the  miracle 
Of  May-time  from  December  born, 

Who  would  have  dared  the  tale  to  tell 
That  'neath  ice-ridges  slept  the  corn  ? 


910 


CYCLOPJEDIA   OF  BRITISH  ASD  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


White  death  lies  deep  upon  the  liills, 
And  moanings  through  the  tree-tops  go ; 

The  exulting  Avind,  -with  breath  that  chills, 
Shouts  triumph  to  the  unresting  snow. 

My  study  window  sliows  nio  where 

On  hard-fouglit  lields  tlie  summer  died ; 

Its  banners  now  are  stripped  and  bare 
Of  even  autumn's  fading  pride. 

Yet,  on  the  gust  that  surges  by, 
I  read  a  i)ictured  pronnse  ;   soon 

Tlie  storm  of  earth  and  frown  of  sky 
Will  melt  into  luxuriant  June. 


LIFE   IX   DEATH. 

New  being  is  from  being  ceased ; 

No  life  is  but  by  death ; 
Something's  expiring  everywhere 

To  give  some  other  breath. 

There's  not  a  flower  that  glads  the  sprinj 

But  blooms  upon  tlie  grave 
Of  its  dead  parent  seed,  o'er  which 

Its  forms  of  beauty  wave. 

The  oak,  that  like  an  ancient  tower 
Stands  massive  on  tlie  heath. 

Looks  out  upon  a  living  world. 
But  strikes  its  roots  in  death. 

The  cattle  on  a  thousanil  hills 
Clip  the  sweet  herbs  that  grow 

Rank  from  the  soil  enriched  by  herds 
Sleeping  long  years  below. 

To-day  is  but  a  structure  built 

Upon  dead  yesterday  ; 
And  Progress  hews  her  temple-stones 

From  wrecks  of  old  decay. 

Then  mourn  not  death  :   'tis  but  a  stair 

Built  with  divinest  art, 
Up  which  the  deathless  footsteps  climb 

Of  loved  ones  who  depart. 


LIGHT  ON  THE  CLOUD. 

There's  never  an  always  cloudless  sky. 
There's  never  a  vale  so  fair, 


But  over  it  sometimes  shadows  lie 
In  a  chill  and  songless  air. 

But  never  a  cloud  o'erhuug  the  day. 

And  flung  its  shadows  down, 
But  on  its  lieaven-side  gleamed  some  raj-. 

Forming  a  sunshine  crown. 

It  is  dark  on  only  the  downward  side  : 
Though  rage  the  tempest  loud, 

And  scatter  its  terrors  far  and  wide. 
There's  light  upon  the  cloud. 

And  often,  when  it  traileth  low, 

Shutting  the  landscape  out. 
And  only  the  chilly  east-winds  blow 

From  the  foggy  seas  of  doubt. 

There'll  come  a  time,  near  the  setting  sun, 
When  the  joys  of  life  seem  few, 

A  rift  will  break  in  the  evening  dun. 
And  the  golden  light  stream  through. 

And  the  soul  a  glorious  bridge  will  make 

Out  of  the  golden  bars. 
And  all  its  priceless  treasures  take 

Where  shiue  the  eternal  stars. 


3q\]\\  ^liiiington  SiiniouLis. 

One  of  the  new  Victorian  poets,  Synionds  has  written 
verses  that  show  unquestionable  power  in  dealing  with 
the  great  problems  of  life  and  death.  He  is  the  author 
of  "Studies  of  the  Greek  Poetry,  in  Two  Series,"  whicli 
appeared  in  1876,  and  was  republished  by  Harper  it 
Brothers;  "Sketches  in  Italy  and  Greece"  (187[»); 
"Sketches  and  Studies  in  Italy"  (18t9) ;  "Sonnets  of 
Michael  Angelo  Buonarotti  and  Tomaso  Canipanella" 
(1878);  "Many  Moods,  a  Volume  of  Verse"  (1878); 
"  New  and  Old,  a  Volume  of  Verse"  (1880).  The  poems 
have  been  rci)ublished  by  James  R.Osgood  &  Co.,  Bos- 
ton, lu  the  Preface  to  "Many  Moods,"  Syinonds  speaks 
of  himself  as  "  condemned  by  ill-health  to  long  exile,  and 
dei)rived  of  the  resources  of  serious  study."  The  themes 
of  the  volume  arc  Love,  Friendship.  Death,  and  Sleep; 
and  the  fresh  thoughtfulness  with  which  they  are  treated 
distinguishes  the  book  as  one  of  the  rare  productions  of 
the  day.  His  poems  on  Greek  themes  in  "New  and 
Old"  show  high  scholarly  culture. 


IN   THE   MENTONE   GRAVEYARD. 

Between  the  circling  mountains  and  th(^  se.a 

Rest  thou. — Pure  spirit,  spirit  whose  work  is  done. 
Hero  to  tlie  earth  whate'er  was  left  of  thee 


JOHN  ADDIXaTON  SYMONDS. 


911 


Mortal,  wo  iciuler.     But  beyoiul  the  sun 
Aud  utmost  stars,  who  kuows  what  life  begun 
Even  now,  nor  ever  to  be  ended,  bri^Iit 
AVith  clearest  ctflneuce  of  unclouded  light, 

Greets  thee  undazzled? — Lo!   this  place  of  tombs 
With  rose-wreaths  aud  with  clematis  and  viue, 

Aud  violets  that  smile  in  winter,  blooms: 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  in  sweet  procession  shine 
Above  tliy  shadeless  grave:   the  waves  divine 

Gleam  like  a  silver  shield  beneath ;   the  bare 

Broad  hills  o'erhead,  detiuiug  the  free  air. 

Enclose  a  temple  of  the  sheltering  skies 

To  roof  thee.     Noon  aud  eve  and  lustrous  night. 

The  sunset  thou  didst  love,  the  strong  sunrise 
That  tilled  thy  soul  erewhile  with  strange  delight. 
Still  on  thy  sleeping  clay  shed  kisses  bright ; 

But  thou — oh,  not  for  thee  these  waning  powers 

Of  morn  and  evening,  these  poor  paling  llowers, 

Tlieso  narrowing  limits  of  sea,  sky,  and  earth  ! 
For  in  thy  tonibless  city  of  the  dead 

Suurising  aud  sunsetting,  aud  the  mirth 
Of  spring-time  and  of  summer,  aud  our  red 
Rose-wreaths  are  swallowed  in  the  streams  that 

Suin-eme  of  Light  ineifable  from  Him,  [spread 

Matched  with  whose  least  of  rays  our  sun  is  dim. 

Oh,  blessed!     It  is  for  us,  not  thee,  we  grieve! 
Yet  even  so,  ye  voices,  aud  yon  tide 

Of  souls  iunuraerous  that  panting  heave 

To  rhythmic  pulses  of  God's  heart,  aud  hide 
Beneath  your  myriad  booming  breakers  wide 

The  universal  Life  invisible, 

Give  praise!     Behold,  the  void  that  was  so  still 

Breaks  into  singing,  and  the  desert  cries — 

Praise,  praise   to   Thee!   praise  for  Thy  servant 
Death, 

The  healer  aud  deliverer!  from  his  eyes 

Flows  life  that  cannot  die;  yea,  with  his  breath 
The  dross  of  weary  earth  he  wiuuoweth, 

Leaving  all  pure  aud  perfect  things  to  bo 

Merged  iu  the  soul  of  Thine  inuuensity  ! 

Praise,  Lord,  yea,  praise  for  this  our  brother  Death! 
Though  also  for  the  fair  mysterious  veil 

Of  life  that  from  Thy  radiance  severeth 

Our  mortal  sight,  for  these  faint  blossoms  frail 
Of  joy  on  earth  we  cherish,  for  the  pale 

Light  of  the  circling  years,  we  praise  Thee  too : — 

Since  thus  as  iu  a  web  Thy  spirit  through 


The  phantom  world  is  woven: — Yet  thrice  praise 
For  him  who  frees  us!     Surely  wo  shall  gain, 

As  guerdon  for  the  exile  of  these  days, 

Oueness  with  Thee;   and  as  the  drops  of  rain, 
Cast  from  the  sobbing  cloud  in  summer's  pain, 

Resume  their  rest  in  ocean,  even  so  we, 

Lost  for  awhile,  shall  find  ourselves  in  Thee. 


FROM  "SONNETS  ON  THE  THOUGHT  OF 
DEATH." 

III. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep :   the  Infinite 
Withiu  us  to  the  Infinite  without 
Cries  with  an  inextinguishable  shout, 
In  spite  of  all  we  do  to  stifle  it. 
Therefore  Death  in  the  coming  gloom  hath  lit 
A  torch  for  Love  to  fly  to.     Dread  and  Doubt 
Vanish  like  broken  armies  in  the  rout 
When  the  swords  splinter  and  the  hauberks  split. 
But  iu  the  interval  of  crossing  spears 
There  is  a  stagnant  dark,  where  all  things  seem 
By  frauds  encompassed  aud  confused  with  fears : 
Herein  we  live  our  common  lives,  and  dream ; 
Yet  even  here,  remembering  Love,  we  may 
Look  with  calm  eyes  for  Death  to  summon  day. 


Can  dissolution  build  ?     Shall  death  amend 
Chaos  on  chaos  hurled  of  human  hope, 
Co-ordinate  our  efforts  with  our  scope. 
And  in  white  light  the  hues  of  conflict  blend  ?— 
Alas !   we  know  not  where  our  footsteps  tend  ; 
High  overhead  the  unascended  cope 
Is  lost  in  ether,  while  we  blindly  grope 
'Mid  mist-wreaths  that  the  warring  thunders  rend. — 
Somehow,  we  know  not  how ;  somewhere,  but  where 
We  know  not ;  hy  some  hand,  we  know  not  whose, 
Joy  must  absorb  the  whole  wide  world's  despair. 
This  we  call  Faith  :   but  if  we  dare  imi>ose 
Form  on  this  faith,  we  shall  but  beat  the  air, 
Or  build  foundations  on  the  baseless  ooze. 


Onward  forever  flows  the  tide  of  Life, 
Still  broadening,  gathering  to  itself  the  rills 
That  made  dim  music  in  the  primal  hills. 
And  tossing  crested  waves  of  joy  and  strife. 
We  watch  it  rising  where  no  seeds  are  rife, 
But  fire  the  elemental  vortex  fills ; 
Through  plant  aud  beast  it  streams,  till  human  wills 
Uufold  the  sanctities  of  human  life. 


912 


CYCLOl'JiDlA    OF  lilllTlSU  AMD  JMLliWJy  rOETllY. 


Further  wo  see  ui)t.     Hut  licro  fnitli  joiiis  liaiids 
With  reason:   life  tliat  (niwanl  chiih'  to  us 
From  simple  to  muni  complfx,  still  must  How 
Forward  and  forward  throiigii  far  wider  lands : — 
If  thought  begins  with  man,  the  luminous 
Kingdom  of  mind  beyond  him  still  must  grow. 


Is  there  then  hope  that  tliou  and  I  .sliail  be 

Saved  from  the  ruin  of  the  ravenous  years, 

And  placed,  though  late,  at  last  among  our  peers, 

On  the  firm  heights  of  immortality? 

Nay,  not  so.     Thought  may  burn  eternally. 

And    beacon    through    ten    tliousand    broadening 

spheres, 
Using  our  lives  like  wood  that  disappears 
In  the  fierce  flame  it  feeds  continually. 
Thus  we  may  serve  to  build  the  cosmic  soul 
As  moments  in  its  being :   but  to  deem 
That  we  shall  therefore  grow  to  grasp  the  whole, 
Or  last  as  separate  atoms  in  tlie  stream 
Of  Life  transcendent,  were  Ji  beauteous  dream, 
Too  frail  to  bear  stern  reason's  strong  control. 


Yet  Hope,  cast  back  on  Feeling,  argues  thus  : — 

If  thought  be  highest  in  the  scale  we  sec, 

That  thought  is  also  personality, 

Conscious  of  self,  aspiring,  emulous. 

Growth  furthermore  means  goodness  :  naught  in  us 

Abides  and  flourishes,  unless  it  be 

Tempered  for  life  by  love's  vitality. 

Evil  is  everywhere  deciduous. 

Shall  then  the  universal  Thought,  i)un'  mind, 

Pure  growth,  pure  good,  be  found  impersonal  ? 

And  if  a  Person,  dare  we  think  or  call 

Him  cruel,  to  his  members  so  unkind 

As  to  permit  our  agony,  nor  bind 

Each  flower  Death  plucks  into  Life's  coronal  ? 


One  saith,  "The  world's  a  stage:  I  took  my  seat; 

I  saw  the  show;   and  now  'tis  time  to  rise." 

Another  saith,  "I  came  with  eager  eyes 

Into  life's  banquet-hall  to  drink  and  eat ; 

The  hour  hath  struck  when  I  must  shoe  my  feet. 

And  gird  me  for  the  way  that  deathward  lies." 

Another  saith,  "Life  is  a  bird  that  flies 

From  dark  through  light  to  darkness,  arrowy-fleet." 

Oue  show  ;  one  feast ;  one  flight ; — must  that  bo  all  ? 

Could  we  uuleara  this  longing,  could  w©  cry, 

"Thanks  for  otir  part  in  life's  fair  festival! 

We  know  not  whence  we  came,  we  know  not  why 


We  go,  nor  where ;   but  God  is  over  all !" 
It  would  not  then  be  terrible  to  die. 


Hush,  heart  of  mine!     Nor  jest,  nor  blasphemy 

IJe.seems  the  strengthless  creature  of  an  hour  I 

Wed  resiguatiou  rather;   dread  the  power, 

Whate'er  it  be,  that  rules  thy  destiny. 

Nay,  learn  to  love;    love  irresistibly! 

With  obstinate  reiteration  shower 

Praises  and  prayers,  thy  spirit's  dearest  dower. 

On  the  mute  altar  of  that  ileity  ! 

They  work  no  wrong  who  worship  :  they  are  pure 

Who  seek  God  even  in  the  sightless  blue  : 

And  they  have  hope  of  victory  who  endure. 

Tiiis  mortal  life,  like  a  dark  avenue, 

Is  leading  thee  perchance  to  light  secure, 

And  limitless  horizons  clear  to  view. 


THE   WILL. 

Blame  not  the  times  in  which  we  live, 
Nor  Fortune  frail  and  fugitive  ; 
Blame  not  thy  parents,  nor  the  rule 
Of  vice  or  wrong  once  learned  at  school ; 
But  blame  thyself,  O  man  ! 

Although  both  heaven  and  earth  combined 
To  mould  thy  flesh  and  form  thy  mind. 
Though  every  thought,  word,  action,  will, 
Was  framed  by  powers  beyond  tiiec,  still 
Thou  art  thyself,  O  man  I 

And  self  to  take  or  leave  is  free, 
Feeling  its  own  sufliciency  : 
In  spite  of  science,  spite  of  fate, 
The  judge  within  thee  soon  or  late 
Will  blame  but  thee,  0  man  I 

Say  not,  "  I  would,  but  could  not — He 
Should  bear  the  blame,  who  fashioned  me  — 
("all  you  mere  change  of  motive  clioice  ?" 
Scorning  such  pleas,  the  inner  voice 

Cries,  "Thine  tlie  deed,  O  man!" 


BEATI   ILLI. 

Blessed  is  the  man  whose  heart  and  hands  are  pure! 
He  hath  no  sickness  that  he  shall  not  cure, 
No  sorrow  that  he  may  not  well  endure  : 
His  feet  are  steadfast  and  his  hope  is  sure. 


JOHN  A.  SYMONDS.— EDMUND  ARMSTRONG.— MRS.  AUGUSTA   WEBSTER. 


913 


Ob,  blessed  is  lie  who  ne'er  hath  sold  his  soul, 
"Whose  Avill  is  perfect,  and  whoso  word  is  whole, 
Who  hath  not  paid  to  common-sense  the  toll 
Of  self-disgrace,  nor  owned  the  world's  control ! 

Through  clouds  and  shadows  of  the  darkest  night 
He  will  not  lose  a  glimmering  of  the  light. 
Nor,  though  the  sun  of  day  be  shrouded  quite. 
Swerve  from  the  narrow  path  to  left  or  right. 


€i)munlr  Armstrong. 

Armstrong  (1841-1865)  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  a 
graduate  of  Trhiity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  was  Presi- 
dent of  the  Undergraduates'  Philosophical  Society.  At 
one  time  an  avowed  holder  of  sceptical  views  in  regard 
to  immortality  and  the  divine  purpose  of  life,  he  lived  to 
recant  and  disavow  his  former  opinions,  but  died  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty-four.  A  volume  of  his  poems  was 
published  by  Edward  Moxon  &  Co.,  London,  iu  1866, 
They  show  that  the  poetical  element  in  his  nature  was 
too  strong  for  the  sceptical. 


FEOM  DARKNESS  TO  LIGHT. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  for  us  no  more 
The  sea  of  dark  negation  booms 

Upon  a  strange  aud  shadowy  shore— 
An  ocean  vexed  with  glooms ; 

Whereon,  in  trembling  barks  forlorn. 
We  tossed  ujjon  the  waves  of  doubt. 
Our  compass  gone,  our  starlight  out, 

Our  shrouds  and  cordage  torn. 

Our  course  is  on  another  sea ; 

Beneath  a  radiant  arch  of  day ; 
While  bursts  of  noble  harmony 

Inspire  us  on  our  way ; 
Subduing  to  a  trustful  calm 

Our  spirits  amid  surge  and  wind, 

Aud  flowing  on  the  anxious  mind 
Like  Kusts  of  healing  balm. 


ilTrs.  'Augusta  llUbstcr. 

Mrs.  Webster,  born  in  England  about  1811,  published 
iu  1866  "A  Woman  Sold,  and  other  Poems,"  also 
"Dramatic  Studies"  and  "The  Auspicious  Day"  (1873). 
There  are  several  other  works  from  her  pen.  One  of 
her  critics  says:  "She  has  a  dramatic  faculty  unusual 
with  women,  a  versatile  range,  much  penetration  of 
thought,  and  is  remarkably  free  from  the  dangerous 
manuerisms  of  modern  verse." 
58 


TO   BLOOM  IS  THEN  TO   WANE. 

Too  soon  so  fair,  fair  lilies ; 
To  bloom  is  then  to  wane  ; 

The  folded  bud  has  still 

To-morrows  at  its  will, 
Blown  flowers  can  never  blow  again. 

Too  soon  so  bright,  bright  noontide  ; 

The  sun  that  now  is  high 
Will  henceforth  only  sink 
Toward  the  western  brink ; 

Day  that's  at  prime  begins  to  die. 

Too  soon  so  rich,  ripe  summer, 
For  autumn  tracks  thee  fast ; 

Lo,  death-marks  on  the  leaf! 

Sweet  summer,  aud  my  grief; 
For  summer  come  is  summer  i)ast. 

Too  soon,  too  soon,  lost  summer ; 

Some  hours  and  thou  art  o'er. 
Ah !  death  is  part  of  birth  : 
Summer  leaves  not  the  earth. 

But  last  year's  summer  lives  no  more. 


THE   GIFT. 

0  happy  glow  !  O  sun-bathed  tree ! 
O  golden-lighted  river ! 

A  love-gift  has  been  given  me, 
And  which  of  you  is  giver? 

1  came  upon  you  somethiug  sad. 
Musing  a  mouruful  measure, 

Now  all  my  heart  in  me  is  glad 
With  a  quick  sense  of  pleasure. 

I  came  upon  you  with  a  heart 
Half  sick  of  life's  vexed  story, 

And  now  it  grows  of  you  a  part, 
Steeped  in  your  golden  glory. 

A  smile  into  raj"^  heart  has  crept 
And  laughs  through  all  my  being ; 

New  joy  into  my  life  has  leapt, 
A  joy  of  only  seeing! 

0  happy  glow !   O  sun-bathed  tree ! 

O  golden-lighted  river! 
A  love-gift  has  been  given  me, 

And  which  of  you  is  giver  ? 


914 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Joaquin  iUiller. 


AMERICAN. 

Jlillcr  was  born  in  1841  in  Indiana.  When  lie  was 
thirteen,  his  parents  einiji;rated  to  Oregon  overland,  and 
settled  in  the  Willamette  Valle}'.  After  some  rough  ad- 
ventures in  the  mining  distriets  of  California,  he  studied 
law,  was  admitted  to  praeticc,  and  in  1800  was  elected 
county  judge.  Having  published  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  one  of  which  bore  the  title  of  "Joaquin,"  he 
adopted  that  name  instead  of  his  original  one  of  Cincin- 
natus  Heine  Miller.  In  1870  he  went  to  Europe,  ami  in 
London  found  a  publisher  for  his  "Songs  of  the  Sier- 
ras," which  quickly  gave  him  a  reputation  abroad  and  at 
home.  He  has  since  published  "  The  Ship  in  the  Desert, 
a  Poem,"  and  "  Songs  of  Italy  "  (1878). 


LONGINGS  FOR  HOME. 

Could  I  but  retnru  to  my  woods  onco  more, 

Aud  dwell  iu  their  depths  as  I  have  dwelt, 

Kneel  in  their  mosses  as  I  have  knelt, 

Sit  where  the  cool  white  rivers  ruu, 

Away  from  the  world  and  half  hid  from  the  sun, 

Hear  wind  iu  the  woods  of  my  storm-torn  shore, 

Glad  to  the  heart  with  listening, — 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  then  could  sing, 

And  sing  as  I  never  have  sung  before. 

I  miss,  how  wholly  I  miss  my  wood. 

My  matchless,  magnificent,  dark-leaved  firs, 

That  climb  up  the  terrible  heights  of  Hood, 

Where  only  the  breath  of  white  heaven  stirs! 

These  Alps  they  are  barren ;    wrapped  in  storms, 

Formless  masses  of  Titan  forms, 

They  loom  like  rnins  of  a  grandeur  gone, 

Aud  lonesome  as  death  to  look  upon. 

O  God!   once  more  in  my  life  to  hoar 

The  voice  of  a  wood  that  is  loud  and  alive, 

That  stirs  with  its  being  like  a  vast  bee-hive  ! 

And  oh,  once  more  in  mj^  life  to  see 

The  great  bright  eyes  of  the  antlered  deer; 

To  sing  with  the  birds  that  sing  for  me, 

To  tread  where  only  the  red  man  trod, 

To  say  no  word,  but  listen  to  God ! 


PALATINE   HILL. 

A  wolf-like  stream  without  a  sound 
Steals  by  and  hides  beneath  the  shore. 
Its  awful  secrets  evermore 

Withiu  its  sullen  bosom  bound. 


And  this  was  Rome,  that  shrieked  for  room 
To  stretch  her  limbs!     A  hill  of  caves 
For  half-wild  beasts  and  hairy  slaves; 

And  gypsies  tent  within  her  tomb! 

Two  lone  palms  on  the  Palatine, 
Two  rows  of  cypress  black  aud  tall, 
With  white  roots  set  iu  Caesar's  Hall, — 

A  garden,  convent,  aud  sweet  shrine. 

Tall  cedars  on  a  broken  wall, 
That  look  away  toward  Lebanon, 
And  seem  to  mourn  for  grandeur  gone : 

A  wolf,  an  owl, — and  that  is  all. 


LOVE   ME,  LOVE. 

Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 
Soft  as  summer  weather ; 

If  you  love  me,  tell  me  so. 
As  we  sit  together. 

Sweet  and  still  as  roses  blow — 

Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 

Tell  me  only  with  your  eyes, 
Words  are  cheap  as  water, 
If  yon  love  me,  looks  and  sighs 

Tell  my  mother's  daughter 
More  than  all  the  world  may  know- 
Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 

Words  for  others,  storm  and  snow, 
Wind  and  changeful  weather — 

Let  the  shallow  waters  flow 
Foaming  on  together ; 

But  love  is  still  and  deep,  and  oh! 

Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 


lllaiic  U.  Cticostc. 

Miss  Lacoste,  born  about  the  year  1842,  was  a  resident 
of  Savannah,  Ga.  (1863),  at  the  time  she  wrote  the  charm- 
ing little  poem  of"  Somebody's  Darling."  Without  her 
consent,  it  was  tirst  published,  with  her  name  attached, 
in  the  Sontheni  Churchman.  It  has  since  been  copied 
into  American  and  English  collections,  school-books, 
and  newspapers,  with  her  name;  so  that  her  wish  to  re- 
main anonymous  seems  to  be  now  impracticable.  Her 
residence  (1880)  was  Baltimore,  and  her  occupation  that 
of  a  teacher.  In  a  letter  to  us  (1880),  she  writes:  "I 
am  thoroughly  French,  aud  desire  always  to  be  identi- 
fied with  France;  to  be  known  and  considered  ever  as  a 
Frenchwoman.  *  *  *  I  cannot  be  cousidered  an  authoress 


MABIE  E.  LACOSTE.—MAY  EILEY  SMITH. 


915 


at  all,  and  resion  all  claim  to  the  title."  The  patriotism 
of  Miss  Lacoste  is  worthy  of  all  praise ;  but  if  she  did 
not  wish  to  be  regarded  as  au  authoress,  and  a  much 
esteemed  one,  she  ought  never  to  have  written  "Some- 
body's Darling."  The  marvel  is  that  the  vein  from 
which  came  this  felicitous  little  poem  has  not  been 
more  productively  worked. 


SOMEBODY'S   DAELING. 

Into  a  ward  of  tlio  whitewashed  walls, 

Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
\younded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 

Somebody's  Darling  was  borne  one  day — 
Somebody's  Darling,  so  young  and  so  brave. 

Wearing  yet  on  his  i)ale,  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave. 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold. 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow  ; 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  Darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  all  the  wandering  waves  of  gold, 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now. 

Somebody's  Darling  is  still  and  cold. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low  ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take. 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know  : 
Somebody's  hand  had  rested  there, — 

Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light? 

God  knows  best ;   he  has  somebody's  love ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there  ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above 

Night  and  morn  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand  ; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for  him — • 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  the  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling  childlike  lips  apart. 
Tenderlj'  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear ; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, — 

"  Somebody's  Darling  .slumbers  here." 


iWax)  Uilni  Smitl). 


AMERICAN. 

May  Louise  Riley  was  born  in  Brighton,  a  suburb  of 
Rochester,  N.  Y.,  in  1842,  and  became  by  marriage  Mrs. 
Albert  Smith,  and  a  resident  of  Chicago.  She  has  been 
a  writer  from  her  youth,  and  a  frequent  contributor  to 
newspapers  and  magazines.  She  excels  in  homely  and 
pathetic  themes,  and  some  of  her  poems  have  been  wide- 
ly copied. 


IF. 

If,  sitting  with  this  little,  worn-out  shoe 
And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on  my  knee, 

I  knew  the  little  feet  had  pattered  through 

The  pearl-set  gates  that  lie  'twixt  Heaven  and  me, 

I  could  be  reconciled  and  happy,  too. 

And  look  with  glad  eyes  toward  the  jasper  sea. 

If  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of  birds 
Reminds  me  of  a  music  far  more  sweet, 

I  listen  for  his  pretty,  broken  words, 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled  feet, 

I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I  heard 
No  answer,  and  but  saw  his  vacant  seat. 

I  could  be  glad  if,  when  the  day  is  done. 
And  all  its  cares  and  heartaches  laid  away, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden  sun, 

And,  with  a  heart  full  of  sweet  yearnings,  say — 

"  To-night  I'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 
By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  I  could  know  those  little  feet  were  shod 
In  sandals  wrought  of  light  in  better  lands, 

And  that  the  footprints  of  a  tender  God 

Ran  side  by  side  with  him,  in  golden  .sands, 

I  could  bow  cheerfully  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Since  Benny  was  in  wiser,  safer  hands. 

If  ho  were  dead,  I  would  not  sit  to-day 

And  stain  with  tears  the  wee  sock  on  my  knee  ; 

I  would  not  kiss  the  tiny  shoe  and  say — 
"  Bring  back  again  my  little  boy  to  me !" 

I  would  be  patient,  knowing  'twas  God's  way, 
And  wait  to  meet  him  o'er  death's  silent  sea. 

But  oh!  to  kuow^  the  feet,  once  pure  and  while, 
The  haunts  of  vice  had  boldly  ventured  in  ! 

The  hands  that  should  have  battled  for  the  right 
Had  been  wrung  crimson  in  the  clasp  of  sin  ! 

And  should  he  knock  at  Heaven's  gate  to-night, 
To  fear  my  boy  could  hardly  enter  in ! 


916 


CYCLOPAEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


pijilip  Bourkc  illarston. 

Marston,  one  of  the  young  English  poets  of  the  latter 
half  of  the  ninctecntli  century,  is  the  son  of  John  West- 
land  Marston  (born  1820),  author  of  "The  Patrician's 
Daughter,"  and  other  plays;  whose  dramatic  and  poet- 
ical works  were  published  in  a  collected  form  in  1876. 
Philip  is  said  to  be  blind,  though  not  from  birth.  He 
has  published  "  Song-tide,  and  other  Poems"  (1871),  and 
"All  in  All:  Poems  and  Sonnets"  (1874).  He  has  also 
contributed  to  LipphtcoWs  and  other  American  maga- 
zines. His  poems,  artistic  in  construction,  tender  and 
emotional  in  sentiment,  have  found  an  enlarging  circle 
of  admirers.  

FEOM  FAR. 

O  Love,  come  back,  across  the  weary  way 
Thou  didst  go  yesterday — 

Dear  Love,  come  back ! 

"  I  am  too  far  upon  my  way  to  turu  : 
Be  silent,  hearts  that  yearn 
Upon  my  track." 

O  Love  !  Love !  Love  !  sweet  Love  !  we  are  undone 
If  thou  indeed  be  gone 

Where  lost  things  are. 

"Beyond  the  estremcst  sea's  waste  light  and  noise, 
As  from  Ghostland,  thy  voice 
Is  borne  afar." 

O  Love,  what  was  our  sin  that  we  should  be 
Forsaken  thus  by  thee  ? 
So  hard  a  lot ! 

"Upon  your  hearts  my  hands  and  iij^s  were  set — 
My  lips  of  lire — and  yet 

Ye  knew  nie  not." 

Nay,  surely.  Love !    We  knew  thee  well,  sweet  Love ! 
Did  wo  not  breathe  and  move 
Within  thy  light? 

"  Ye  did  reject  mj^  thorns  who  wore  my  roses  : 
Now  darkness  closes 

Upon  your  sight." 

O  Love  !   stern  Love  !   be  not  implacable  : 
We  loved  thee,  Love,  so  well ! 
Come  back  to  u.s ! 

"  To  whom,  and  where,  and  by  what  weary  way 
That  I  went  yesterday, 

Shall  I  come  thus?" 


Oh  weep,  weep,  weep !  for  Love,  who  tarried  long, 
With  many  a  kiss  and  song. 
Has  taken  wing. 

No  more  he  lightens  in  our  eyes  like  fire : 
He  heeds  not  our  desire, 

Or  songs  we  sing. 


Bibncii  £amcr. 


Born  in  Macon,  Ga.,  in  1813,  Lanier  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  Baltimore,  where  he  became  lecturer  on  Eng- 
lish Literature  in  the  Johns  Hopkins  University.  In 
1876  he  published  a  small  collection  of  poems  from  the 
press  of  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia  ;  and  a  new  vol- 
ume was  to  appear  in  1881.  His  prose  works  are  "  Flor- 
ida" (1875),  and  "The  Science  of  English  Verse"  (1880) 
— a  volume  of  much  original  merit,  in  which  he  seems 
to  have  been  unindebted  to  any  predecessor.  He  is  also 
the  author  of  some  approved  books  for  boys.  Lanier 
is  a  proficient  in  music,  and  a  member  of  the  Peabody 
Orchestra,  an  organization  for  the  cultivation  of  classic 
music,  maintained  in  connection  with  the  Peabody  In- 
stitute. 


A  ROSE-MORAL. 

Soul,  get  thee  to  the  heart 

Of  yonder  tuberose ;  hide  thee  there. 
There  breathe  the  meditations  of  thine  art 
Suffused  with  prayer. 

Of  spirit  grave  yet  light. 

How  fervent  fragrances  uprise 
Pnre-born  from  these  most  rich  and  yet  most  white 
Virginities ! 

SInlched  with  unsavory  death, 

Reach,  Soul !   yon  rose's  white  estate  : 
Give  oft'  thine  art  as  she  doth  issue  breath, 
And  wait, — and  wait. 


EVENING  SONG. 

Look  off",  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands. 

And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea ; 
How  long  they  kiss,  in  sight  of  all  the  lands! 
Ah,  longer,  longer  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 

As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine. 
And  Cleopatra  Night  drinks  all.     'Tis  done! 
Love,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine. 


SIDNEY  LANIElt.— THOMAS  STEPHENS  COLLIER. 


917 


Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  auil  comfort  Heaven's  heart ; 
Glimmer,  ye  Avaves,  round  else-uulighted  sands; 
O  Night,  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart — 
Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 


THE   HARLEQUIN   OF  DREAMS. 

Swi/t  through  some  trap   mine   eyes  have   never 

found, 
Dim-panelled  in  the  painted  scene  of  sleep. 
Thou,  giant  Harlequin  of  Dreams,  dost  leap 
Ui)ou  my  spirit's  slage.     Then  sight  and  sound, 
Then  space  and  time,  then  language,  mete  and  bound, 
And  all  familiar  forms  that  firmly  keep 
Man's  reason  in  the  road,  change  faces,  peep 
Betwixt  the  legs,  and  mock  the  daily  round. 
Yet  thou  canst  more  than  mock :  sometimes  my  tears 
At  midnight  break  through  bounden  lids — a  sign 
Thou  hast  a  heart;   and  oft  thy  little  leaven 
Of  dream-taught  wisdom  works  me  bettered  years, 
lu  one  night  witch,  saint,  trickster,  fool  divine, 
I  think  thou'rt  Jester  at  the  Court  of  Heaven  ! 


FROM  THE  FLATS. 

What  heartache— ne'er  a  hill ! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague,  and  chill 
The  drear  sand-levels  drain  my  spirit  low. 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  me  all  they  know  ; 
Whereat  their  stupid  tongues,  to  tease  my  pain, 
Do  drawl  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  I  cannot  name  : 
Always  the  same,  the  same. 

Nature  hath  no  surprise, 
•No  ambuscade  of  beauty,  'gainst  mine  eyes 
From  brake  or  lurking  dell  or  deep  defile ; 
No  humors,  frolic  forms — this  mile,  that  mile; 
No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley  hopes 
Beyond  the  bends  of  roads,  the  distant  slopes. 
Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run  tame  : 
Ever  the  same,  the  same. 

Oh,  might  I  through  these  tears 
But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia  high  uprears. 
Where  white  the  quartz  and  pink  the  pebbles  shine. 
The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the  muscadine 
Swings  o'er  the  slope,  the  oak's  far-falling  shade 
Darkens  the  dog-wood  in  the  bottom  glade, 
And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny  nook 
Bright  leaps  a  living  brook ! 


(illjomas  Stcpljcns  Collier. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  New  York  city,  born  in  1842,  Collier  was 
left  an  orphan  at  six  years  of  age.  He  took  to  the  sea, 
and  before  he  was  sixteen  had  visited  Africa,  China,  and 
Japan.  He  was  in  tlie  United  States  Naval  Service  dur- 
ing the  Rebellion,  and  visited  China  and  the  East  a  sec- 
ond time.  On  his  return  he  became  a  resident  of  New 
London,  Conn.  His  poems  are  marked  by  a  progressive 
improvement,  indicative  of  reserved  power,  yet  undevel- 
oped. 


A  WINDY  EVENING. 

The  snn  sank  low;  beyond  the  harbor  bar 

The  waves  ran  white  and  high ; 
The  reefed  sails  of  a  vessel  showed  afar 

Against  the  gray-blue  sky. 

Sharp  called  the  gulls,  as  'mid  the  tossing  spray 

They  circled  swift ;  and  loud 
The  north  wind  roared,  as  it  rushed  down  the  bay. 

And  rent  the  seaward  cloud. 

Past  the  old  light-house,  rising  white  and  tali, 

Like  birds  the  wind  deceives. 
Swept  from  the  forest  by  the  surging  squall, 

Sail  the  sear  autumn  leaves. 

Fast  o'er  the  dark  and  foam-capped  waves  they  tly. 

Brown  ghosts  of  May  and  June, 
Seeking  the  ship  tossed  up  along  the  sky 

Beneath  a  thin,  white  moon. 

Then  as  they  sped  on  to  the  shadows  gray, 

The  sun  sank  lower  down, 
Sending  a  golden  light  across  the  bay, 

And  through  the  dark  old  town. 

It  made  the  church  spires  glow  with  shifting  light, 

That  slow  grew  faint  and  pale. 
As  it  was  borne  into  the  coming  night 

B3^  the  swift  rushing  gale. 

The  shadows  darkened,  and  along  the  sea 

The  swaying  ship  had  flown  ; 
The  sun  was  gone  ;   one  bright  star,  glisteningly, 

Near  to  the  moon  outshone. 

Through  crimson,  flame,  amber,  and  paling  gold, 

Faded  the  day's  sweet  light ; 
And  on  the  sea  and  land  gathered  the  cold 

Gray  shadows  of  the  night. 


918 


CTCLOrJiDIA    OF  BlilTISn  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A  SEA  ECHO. 

The  waves  came  ruoaniiig  up  tlio  sLore, 

Cauio  white  with  foam  close  to  her  feet, 
And  saug,  "Your  love  will  come  no  more 

To  give  you  kisses  sweet." 
The  low  wind  sighed  among  the  trees, 

"  Your  love  is  sailing  far  away, 
Where  over  bright,  sun-lighted  seas 

Soft  suminor  breezes  play." 

"O  sighing  wind!     O  moaning  sea! 

You  have  no  knowledge  of  my  love  ; 
Where'er  Jiis  ship  doth  sail,  still  he 

To  me  will  faithful  prove  : 
Wliilo  skies  are  blue,  while  stars  arc  bright. 

And  waves  come  singing  up  the  shore, 
I  know  my  lover  will  delight 

In  me,  and  love  me  more." 

'•  And  if  your  lover  silent  lies, 

Where  coral  flowers  around  him  grow. 
The  love-light  faded  from  his  eyes, 

That  once  they  used  to  know — 
If  he  no  more  can  come  to  you. 

Where  will  your  soul  find  joy  and  rest  ? 
What  is  your  gaiu,  if  he  is  true 

■And  loves  you  still  the  best  ?" 

"Ah,  sea  and  wind,  if  he  no  more 

Can  come  to  me,  I  still  shall  hold 
His  love  more  precious  than  before ; 

No  death  can  make  love  cold. 
Why  moan  or  cry  ?  whjit  use  of  tears  ? 

Though  long  days  make  my  eyes  grow  diui, 
There  comes  an  end  to  all  the  years — 

Aud  I  can  go  to  him." 


iJolju  JJaijiic. 


Payne,  born  in  Enijland  in  1S43,  hiis  won  some  dis- 
tinction by  liis  graceful  and  musical  but  highly  elaborate 
imitations  of  French  forms  of  verse.  He  has  published 
"The  Masque  of  Shadows,  and  other  Poems"  (1870); 
"Intaglios:  Sonnets"  (1871);  "Songs  of  Life  and 
Death"  (187-');  "The  Poems  of  Francis  Villon  done  into 
English  Verse  in  the  Original  Forms"  (printed  for  pri- 
vate circulation);  "  Lautrec,  a  Poem;"  "New  Poems" 
(1880).  The  Wcstmiiintcr  Review  says  of  Payne:  "He  lias 
succeeded  in  wedding  thouirlit  to  new  music.  He  may 
not  be  popular  with  the  '  blind  multitude,'  but  he  is  sure 
to  be  so  with  all  lovers  of  poetry  both  to-day  and  to- 
morrow." Some  of  the  best  of  his  imitations  of  French 
forms  appeared  in  the  London  Athenaum. 


RONDEAU  REDOUBLE. 

My  day  and  night  are  in  my  lady's  hand; 

I  have  no  other  sunrise  than  her  sight : 
For  me  her  favor  glorifies  the  land  ; 

Her  anger  darkens  all  the  cheerful  light; 
Her  face  is  fairer  than  the  hawthorn  white, 

When  all  a-flower  in  May  the  hedge-rows  stand : 
Whilst  she  is  kind  I  know  of  none  afliVight ;    . 

My  day  and  night  are  iu  my  lady's  hand. 

All  heaven  iu  her  glorious  eyes  is  spanned  : 

Her  smile  is  softer  than  the  oummer  night. 
Gladder  than  daybreak  on  tlie  Faery  strand : 

I  have  no  other  sunrise  tluiu  her  sight. 

Her  silver  speech  is  like  the  singing  flight 
Of  runnels  rippling  o'er  the  jewelled  sand, 

Her  kiss  a  dream  of  delicate  delight; 
For  me  her  favor  glorifies  the  land. 

What  if  the  Winter  slay  the  Summer  bland! 

Tiio  gold  sun  in  her  hair  burns  ever  bright : 
If  she  be  sad,  straightway  all  joy  is  banned ; 

Her  anger  darkens  all  the  cheerful  light. 

Come  weal  or  woe,  I  am  my  lady's  knight, 
And  in  her  surface  every  ill  withstand; 

Love  is  my  lord,  in  all  the  world's  despite, 
Aud  holdeth  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
My  day  and  night. 


VILLANELLE. 

The  air  is  white  with  snow-flakes  clinging  ; 

Between  the  gusts  that  come  and  go 
Mothinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Mcthinks  I  see  the  primrose  springing 

On  many  a  bank  and  hedge,  although 
Tiie  air  is  white  with  snow-flakes  clinging. 

Surely  the  h;inds  of  S[)ring  are  flinging 

Wood-scents  to  all  the  winds  that  blow : 
Methiiiks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

Mothinks  I  see  the  swallow  winging 

Across  the  woodlands  sad  with  snow  ; 
Tlu!  air  is  white  with  snow-flakes  clinging. 

Was  that  the  cuckoo's  wood-chime  swinging? 

Was  that  the  linnet  fluting  low  ? 
Mcthinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  sin<j;ing. 


JOHN  PAYNE,— HARRIET  W.  PRESTON— NORA   PERRY. 


911) 


Or  caa  it  be  the  breeze  is  bringing 

The  breath  of  violets  ?     Ah  no  ! 
The  air  is  -vvliite  -with  suow-flakes  clinging. 

It  is  my  lady's  voice  that's  stringing 
Its  beads  of  gold  to  song  ;    and  so 
Methiuks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 

The  violets  I  see  upspringing 

Are  in  my  lady's  eyes,  I  trow  : 
The  air  is  white  with  snow-flakes  clinging. 

Dear,  whilst  thy  tender  notes  are  ringing, 

Even  whilst  amidst  the  winter's  woe 
The  air  is  white  with  snow-flakes  clinging, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  woodlark  singing. 


ijarriet  111.  JJvcston. 


Miss  Preston  is  a  native  of  Danvers,  Mass.  Slie  has 
won  distinction  by  her  excellent  translations  of  Proven- 
cal poetry,  and  is  the  author  of  "  Aspendale,"  "Love  in 
tlie  Nineteenth  Century,"  and  several  attractive  maga- 
zine papers.  She  is  also  the  translator  of  Frederick  Mis- 
tral's "Mireio"  (18T2) ;  and  in  1876  published  a  volume 
entitled  "Troubadours  and  Trouveies,  New  and  Old," 
from  which  we  extract  "Thirteen," after  Theodore  Au- 
banel,  a  modern  Provenyal  poet — the  poem  being  found- 
ed on  the  old  superstition  that  in  a  dinnci--party  of  thir- 
teen one  will  die  before  a  year  is  ended.  In  her  original 
verses  she  has  been  equally  successful. 


THIRTEEN. 

"Touch,  for  your  life,  no  single  viand  costly! 

Taste  not  a  drop  of  liquor  where  it  shines! 
Be  here  but  as  the  cat  who  lingers  ghostly 

About  the  flesh  upon  the  spit  and  whines  ; 
Aj^,  let  the  banquet  freeze  or  perish  wholly 

Or  ever  a  morsel  pass  your  lips  between  ! 
Fur  I  have  counted  you,  my  comrades  jolly, 

Ye  are  thirteen,  all  told, — I  say  thirteen .''' 

"  Well,  what   of  that  ?"  the  messmates  answered, 
lightly ; 

"So  be  it  then!     We  are  as  well  content! 
The  longer  table  means,  if  we  guess  rightly, 

Space  for  more  jesters,  broader  merriment." 
"'Tis  I  will  wake  the  wit  and  spice  the  folly  I 

The  haughtiest  answer  when  I  speak,  I  ween. 
And  I  have  counted  you,  my  comrades  jolly  ! 

Ye  are  thirteen,  all  told, — I  say  thirteen!" 


"  So  ho !  thou  thinkest  then  to  qnench  our  laughter  ? 

Thou  art  a  gloomy  presence,  verily ! 
We  wager  that  wo  know  what  thou  art  after! 

Come,  then,  a  drink  !   and  bid  thy  vapors  fly  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  taint  ns  with  thy  melancholy" — 

"Nay,  'tis  not  thirst  gives  me  this  haggard  mien. 
Laugh  to  your  hearts'  content,  my  comrades  jolly ; 

Still  I  have  counted,  and  ye  are  thirteen!" 

"Who  art  thou  then,  thou  kill-joy?     What's  thy 
nature. 

And  what  thy  name,  and  what  thy  business  here  V 
"My  name  is  Death!     Observe  mj'  every  feature! 

I  waken  longing  and  I  carry  fear. 
Sovereign  am  I  of  mourners  and  of  jesters; 

Behind  the  living  still  I  walk  unseen. 
And  evermore  make  one  among  the  feasters 

When  all  their  tale,  is  told,  and  they  thirteen" 

"Ha!  art  thou  Death?     I  am  well  pleased  to  know 
thee," 
A  gallant  cried,  and  held  his  glass  aloft ; 
"Their  scarecrow  tales,  O  Death,  small  justice  do 
thee ; 
Where  are  the  terrors  thou  hast  vaunted  oft  ? 
Come,  feast  with  me  as  often  as  they  bid  thee! 

Our  friendly  plates  be  laid  with  none  between." 
"Silence,"  cried  Death,  "and  follow  where  I  lead 
thee. 
For  thou  art  ho  who  makest  us  thirteen." 

Sudden,  as  a  grape-cluster,  when  dissevered 

By  the  sharp  knife,  drops  from  the  pai'ent  bough. 
The  crimson  wine-glass  of  the  gallant  wavered 

And  fell ;   chill  moisture  started  to  his  brow. 
Death,  cry  iug, "  Thou  canst  not  walk,  but  I  can  carry," 

Shouldered  his  burden  with  a  ghastly  grin. 
And  to  the  stricken  feasters  said,  "  Be  wary  ! 

I  make  my  count  oft.  as  yc  make  thirteen." 


^oxa  Jpcrrj}. 


A  native  and  resident  of  Providence,  R.  I.,  Miss  Perry 
has  published  two  volumes  of  poems  :  "After  the  Ball, 
and  other  Poems"  (1876),  and  "Her  Lover's  Friend, 
and  other  Poems."  David  A.  Wasson,  a  good  critical 
judge,  says  of  the  last-named  volume:  "I  recognize  in 
some  of  these  pieces  a  quality  of  literary  production 
which  is  very  uncommon,  if  it  be  not  quite  unique,  in 
this  country."  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  herself  a  poet, 
writes:  "There  is  little  art  in  Nora  Perry's  songs  ;  they 
are  as  natural  as  a  bird's.     There  are  very  few  figures. 


920 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


metaphors,  startling  phrases,  and  no  affeetations  of  phil- 
osophic thought,  in  the  lines ;  but  tlicy  lilt  along  in  a 
perpetual  sweet  cantabile,  and  one  realizes  that  there  is 
no  knack  or  effort  about  it,  but  that  it  is  the  voice  and 
breath  of  simple  genius.  With  its  music  there  is  to  be 
felt  in  all  her  verse  the  spirit  of  purit}',  of  innocence, 
and  youth." 


IN  THE  DARK. 

This  is  my  little  sweetheart  dead. 
Blue  were  lier  eyes,  and  her  cheek  was  red 
And  warm  at  mj-  touch  when  I  saw  her  last, 
When  she  smiled  on  me  and  held  me  fast 

With  the  light,  soft  clasp  of  her  slender  hand  ; 
And  now  beside  her  I  may  stand  and  stand 
Hour  after  honr,  and  no  blush  would  rise 
On  her  dead  white  cheek;  and  her  shut  blue  eyes 

Will  never  unclose  at  my  kiss  or  call. — 
If  this  is  the  end  ;   if  this  be  all 
That  I  am  to  know  of  this  woman  dear; 
If  the  beautiful  spirit  I  knew,  lies  here, 

AVith  the  beautiful  body' cold  and  still; 
If,  while  I  stand  here  now,  and  thrill 
With  my  yearning  memories  sore  at  heart 
For  a  token  or  sign  to  rend  apart 

The  pitiless  veil, — there  is  nothing  beyond  ; 

If  this  woman,  so  fair,  so  fine,  so  fond 

A  week  ago — fond,  fine,  and  fair 

With  the  life,  the  soul  that  shone  out  there. 

In  her  eyes,  her  voice,  which  made  her  in  truth 
The  woman  I  loved ;  if  this  woman  forsooth 
Is  dead  as  this  dead  clay  that  lies 
Under  my  gaze  with  close-shut  eyes, 

Then  what  is  the  meaning  of  life,  when  death 
Can  break  it  all,  as  breaks  at  a  breath 
The  child's  blown  bubble  afloat  in  the  sun  ? 
What  is  the  meaning,  if  all  is  done 

When  this  breath  goes  out  into  empty  air. 
Like  this  childish  plaything  flimsy  and  fivir? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  love's  long  pain, 
The  yearning  memories  that  love  and  strain 

The  living  heart  or  the  living  soul. 
If  this  is  the  end,  if  this  is  the  whole 
Of  life  and  death, — this  little  span 
That  drops  in  the  dark  before  the  span 


Which  the  brain  conceives  is  half  complete, 
Making  life  but  the  empty  bubble's  cheat  T 
When,  a  year  ago,  through  all  the  maze 
Of  si^eculation's  far-hung  haze, 

I  followed  on  with  careless  tread, 
/  had  not  looked  then  on  my  dead — 
My  dead  so  infinitely  dear. 
My  dead  that  coldly  lying  here 

Mocks  my  fond  heart  with  semblance  fair, 
Chills  me  with  measureless  despair. 
Tlten  1  could  calmly  measure  fate 
With  Nature's  laws,  and  speculate 

On  all  the  doubts  that  science  brings ; 
Now,  standing  here,  what  is  it  springs 
Within  my  soul,  that  makes  despair 
Not  quite  despair  ?     O  fond,  O  fair, 

O  little  sweetheart,  dead  to  me. 
Somewhere  or  other  thou  must  wait  for  nie  ; 
Somewhere,  somewhere,  I  shall  not  look  in  vain 
To  find  thy  living  face,  thy  living  love  again ! 


IN  JUNE. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing, 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see ; 

So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming-bird  agoing 
From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  Avith  the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes. 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing  everywhere ; 

So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off"  the  fields  of  clover 
The  west  wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill; 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover. 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen,  thrushes; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear ; 
And   water,  hush    yeur   song   through   reeds    and 
rushes, 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling. 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me  ; 

So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting,  falling, 
O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  boisterous  glee. 


NOB  A   rERBY. 


921 


So  loud,  so  loud ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush,  nor  iilover, 
Nor  uoisy  niill-stream  iu  its  fret  aud  fall. 

Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my  lover, 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down !"  he  called,  and  straight 

the  thrushes  [down !" 

From   mate   to   mate   sang  all   at   once,  "  Come 

And  while  the  water  laughed  through  reeds  and 

rushes,  [down !" 

The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "  Come 

Then  down  aud  otf,  and  through  the  fields  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call. 

Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover. 
The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret  and  fall. 


EIDING  DOWN. 

Oh,  did  you  see  him  riding  down. 
And  riding  down,  while  all  the  town 
Came  out  to  see,  came  out  to  see. 
And  all  the  bells  rang  mad  with  glee  ? 

Oh,  did  you  hear  those  bells  ring  out. 
The  bells  ring  out,  the  j)eople  shout, 
Aud  did  you  hear  that  cheer  on  cheer 
That  over  all  the  bells  rang  clear? 

And  did  you  see  the  waving  flags. 

The  fluttering  flags,  the  tattered  rags, 

Eed,  white,  aud  blue,  shot  through  aud  through. 

Baptized  with  battle's  deadly  dew  ? 

And  did  you  hear  the  drums'  gay  beat, 
The  drums'  gay  beat,  the  bugles  sweet, 
The  cymbals'  clash,  the  cannons'  crash. 
That  rent  the  sky  with  sound  and  flash  ? 

And  did  you  see  me  waiting  there, 
Just  waiting  there,  and  watching  there. 
One  little  lass,  amid  the  mass 
That  pressed  to  see  the  hero  pass  ? 

And  did  you  see  him  smiling  down, 
And  smiling  down,  as  riding  down 
With  slowest  pace,  with  stately  grace, 
He  caught  the  vision  of  a  face, — 

My  face  uplifted  red  and  white, 
Turned  red  and  white  with  sheer  delight. 
To  meet  the  eyes,  the  smiling  eyes, 
Outflashiug  iu  their  swift  surprise  ? 


Oh,  did  you  see  how  swift  it  came. 
How  swift  it  came  like  sudden  flame, 
That  smile  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see? 

And  at  the  windows  all  along, 
Oh  all  along,  a  lovely  throng 
Of  faces  fair,  beyond  compare. 
Beamed  out  upon  him  ridiug  there ! 

Each  face  was  like  a  radiant  gem, 
A  sparkling  gem,  aud  yet  for  them 
No  swift  smile  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
No  arrowy  glance  took  certain  aim. 

He  turned  away  from  all  their  grace, 
From  all  that  grace  of  perfect  face, 
He  turned  to  me,  to  only  me. 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see. 


SOME  DAY  OF  DAYS. 

Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street 

With  idle,  heedless  pace, 

Unlooking  for  such  grace, 

I  shall  behold  your  face ! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  thus  may  we  meet. 

Perchance  the  sun  may  shiue  from  skies  of  May, 

Or  winter's  icy  chill 

Touch  whitely  vale  and  hill. 

What  matter?     I  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  on  that  day. 

Once  more  life's  perfect  youth  will  all  come  back, 

And  for  a  moment  there 

I  shall  stand  fresh  aud  fair, 

Aud  drop  the  garment  care ; 
Once  more  my  perfect  youth  will  nothing  lack. 

I  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how  'twill  be — 

How  face  to  face  each  soul 

W^ill  slip  its  long  control, 

Forget  the  dismal  dole 
Of  dreary  Fate's  dark  separating  sea ; 

And  glance  to  glance,  and  hand  to  hand  in  greeting, 

The  past  with  all  its  fears, 

Its  silences  and  tears, 

Its  lonely,  yearning  years. 
Shall  vanish  in  the  moment  of  that  meeting. 

1871. 


922 


CTCLOI^liDIA    OF  mUTlSlI  AND  AMERICAN  FOETRY. 


M)\\  Uotilc  (D'Hcilltj. 

O'Reilly  was  born  in  1844  in  DowUi  Castle,  County 
Meatli,  Ireland.  He  was  cdueated  by  liis  father,  and  be- 
came a  journalist.  In  1SC3  he  enjjaged  in  the  revolution- 
ary movement  fo'r  a  republic.  Entering.'  the  Eiii^lish  army 
in  a  cavalry  regiment,  he  made  no  secret  of  his  republi- 
can sentiments  among  his  lellow-soldiers.  In  186G  he 
was  arrested,  tried,  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for 
life,  which  was  commuted  lo  imprisonment  for  twenty 
years.  He  was  sent  in  chains  to  the  penal  colony  of  West 
Australia  in  1867,  and  escaped  thence  in  1809,  through  the 
devoted  aid  of  an  American  whaling  captain,  David  li. 
Gifford,  of  New  Bedford,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  first 
book.  O'Keilly  fixed  his  residence  in  Boston,  where  he 
became  editor  of  The  Pilot.  In  1878  he  published  "  Songs, 
Legends,  and  Ballads,"  by  which  he  placed  himself  in  the 
front  rank  of  the  Irish  poets  of  the  day.  Ilis  poem  of 
"The  Patriot's  Grave,"  read  at  the  Robert  Emmet  Cen- 
tennial in  Boston,  March  4tli,  1878,  seems  to  pulsate  at 
times  with  the  intense  emotion  made  to  throb  in  words 
by  the  "faculty  divine." 

WESTERN  AUSTRALIA. 

O  beauteous  Sonthlancl !   land  of  yellow  air 

That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and  doth  bold 

Tbo  moveless  foliage  of  tby  valleys  fair 
And  wooded  bills,  like  aureole  of  gold ! 

O  tbou,  discovered  ere  tbe  fitting  time. 

Ere  Nature  iu  comi)letion  turned  tbee  forth! 

Ere  augbt  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 
Tby  virgin  breatb  allured  tbo  amorous  Nortb. 

O  land,  God  made  tbee  wondrous  to  tbe  eye, 
But  His  sweet  singers  tbou  bast  never  beard  ; 

He  left  tbee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-by. 

And  give  ricb  voice  to  every  brigbt-winged  bird. 

lie  painted  with  fresb  bues  tby  myriad  flowers, 
But  left  them  scentless:  ab,  their  woful  dole, 

Like  sad  reproach  of  their  Creator's  powers, — 
To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 

He  gave  tbee  trees  of  odorous,  precious  wood  ; 

But  'mid  tbem  all  bloomed  not  one  tree  of  fruit: 
He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was  good, 

Wiien  leaving  tbee  all  perfumeless  and  mute. 

lie  blessed  tby  flowers  witb  boney :   every  bell 
Looks  earthward,  sunward,  wltb  a  yearning  wist ; 

But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  tbe  swell 

Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-bnngering  to  be  kissed. 

O  strange  land,  tbou  art  virgin !   tbou  art  more 
Tbau  fig-tree  barren  !     Would  that  I  could  paint 


For  otbers'  eyes  tbe  glory  of  tbe  sliore 

Where  last  I  saw  tbee  ;   but  tbe  senses  faint 

In  soft,  delicious  dreaming  when  tbey  drain 
Tby  wine  of  color.     Virgin  fair  tbou  art, 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  w  itli  soft  pain 

Tbe  spouse  wbo  comes  to  wake  tby  sleeping  heart. 


FOREVER. 

Those  we  love  truly  never  die, 
Though  year  by  year  tbe  sad  memorial  wreatb, 
A  ring  and  flowers,  types  of  life  and  death, 

Arc  laid  upon  their  graves. 

For  death  tbe  pure  life  saves, 
And  life  all  pure  is  love;   and  love  cau  reach 
From  heaven  to  earth,  and  nobler  lessons  teach 

Than  those  by  mortals  read. 

Well  blessed  is  bo  wbo  has  a  dear  one  dead  : 
A  friend  be  has  whose  face  will  never  change — 
A  dear  communion  that  will  not  grow  strange; 

Tbe  anchor  of  a  love  is  death. 

The  blc.ss6d  sweetness  of  a  loving  breath 
Will  reach  our  cheek  all  fresh  through  weary  years. 
For  her  who  died  long  since,  ab  !  waste  not  tears, 

Sbe's  thine  unto  tbe  end. 

Thank  God  for  one  dear  friend, 
Witb  face  still  radiant  with  tbe  light  of  truth, 
Wliose  love  comes  laden  with  the  scent  of  youtb, 

Through  twenty  years  of  death. 


AT   REST. 

The  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel. 
From  port  to  port  fair  breezes  blow  ; 

But  tbo  ship  must  sail  tbe  convex  sea, 
Nor  may  she  straigbter  go. 

So,  man  to  mau  ;   in  fair  accord. 

On  thought  and  will  the  winds  may  wait 
But  the  world  will  bend  the  passing  word, 

Tbougli  its  shortest  course  be  straight. 

From  soul  to  soul  the  shortest  line 

At  best  will  bended  be  : 
Tbe  ship  that  holds  tbe  straigbtest  course 

Still  sails  the  convex  sea. 


CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 


923 


Cljadottc  Jisltc  Bates. 

AMERICAN. 
Miss  Bates  was  born  in  tlie  city  of  New  York,  but  has 
spent  most  of  her  life  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  where  she  has 
long  been  engaged  in  tcacliing.  Her  lirst  poems  appear- 
ed in  Our  Young  Folkx,  a  juvenile  magazine,  -which  was 
incorporated  in  the  St.  XicMas.  Her  first  volume  ap- 
peared in  1879,  under  the  title  of'Kisk,  and  other  Po- 
ems." It  includes  more  than  two-thirds  of  what  she 
has  written  for  various  periodicals  during  the  last  fifteen 
years.  It  is  a  book  of  genuine  poetical  utterances,  as 
the  few  extracts  we  give  will  show. 


SATISFIED. 

Life  is  unutterably  dear, 

God  makes  to-day  so  fair ; 
Though  Heaven  is  better, — being  here 

I  long  uot  to  be  there. 

The  weights  of  life  are  pressing  still. 

Not  one  of  them  may  fall ; 
Yet  such  strong  joys  my  spirit  fill, 

That  I  can  bear  them  all. 

Thongh  Care  and  Grief  are  at  my  side, 
There  wonld  I  let  them  stay, 

And  still  be  ever  satisfied 
With  beautiful  To-dav! 


AFTER  READING  LONGFELLOW'S  "  MORITURI 
SALUTAJIUS." 

"Ye  agninst  whose  familiar  names  not  j'et 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set." 

Be  that  sad  year,  O  poet !   very  far 

That  proves  thee  mortal  by  the  little  star. 

Yet  since  thy  thoughts  live  daily  in  our  own, 

And  leave  no  heart  to  weep  or  smile  alone  ; 

Since  they  are  rooted  in  our  souls,  and  so 

Will  live  forever  whither  those  shall  go. 

Though  some  late  asterisk  may  mark  thy  name, 

It  never  will  be  set  against  thy  fame ! 

For  the  world's  fervent  love  and  praise  of  thee 

Have  starred  it  first  with  immortality. 


WOODBINES  IN  OCTOBER. 

As  dyed  in  blood  the  streaming  vines  appear. 
While  long  and  low  the  wind  about  them  grieves,- 

Thc  heart  of  Autumn  must  have  broken  here. 
And  poured  its  treasure  out  upon  the  leaves. 


EVIL  THOUGHT. 

A  form  not  always  dark  but  ever  dread, 
That  sometimes  haunts  the  holiest  of  all, — 

God's  audience-room,  the  chamber  of  the  dead, 
He  ventures  here,  to  woo  or  to  appall ! 

When  the  soul  sits  with  every  portal  wide, 
Joyful  to  drink  the  air  and  light  of  God, 

This  Dark  One  rushes  through  with  rapid  stride, 
Leaving  the  print  of  evil  where  ho  trod. 

Sometimes  he  enters  like  a  thief  at  night; 

And  breaking  in  upon  the  stillest  hour 
Startles  the  soul  to  tremble  with  affright 

Lest  she  be  pinioned  by  so  foul  a  power. 

Again  we  see  his  shadow,  feel  his  tread, 

And  just  escape  that  strange  and  captive  touch  ; 

Perhaps  by  some  transfixing  wonder  led, 
We  look  till  drawn  within  his  very  clutch. 

O  valorous  souls !   so  strong  to  meet  the  foe, 
O  timid  souls!    yet  brave  in  flight  of  wing, 

Secure  and  happy  ones  who  seldom  know 
The  agony  this  visitant  can  bring, — 

Have  mercy  on  your  brothers  housed  so  ill, 
Too  weak  or  blinded  anj-  force  to  wield  ; 

Judging  their  deeds,  this  fiend  remember  still: 
Christ  ijity  those  who  cannot  use  His  shield! 


THE   POWER   OF   MUSIC. 

How  high  those  tones  are  beating,  and  how  strong 
Against  these  frail  and  tottering  walls  of  clay  ! 

Can  they  withstand  those  mighty  dashings  long? 
Do  I  not  feel  them  even  now  give  way  ? 

What  if  they  should  ?  That  soon  or  late  must  be  : 
The  broken  wall  lets  forth  the  soul  to  light : — 

O  Heaven  !    what  fitter  passage  into  thee 

Than  on  the  waves  of  music's  conquering  night  I 


SONNET:   TO   C.  F. 

O  friend  !  whose  name  is  closely  bound  with  mine, 
How  often  when  thy  soul  its  body  wore, 
We  spake  of  those  who  spake  with  us  no  more, 
And  eager  sought  their  nearness  to  divine. 
To-day  I  stand  with  just  this  grave  of  thine 


934 


CYCLOPEDIA   OF  BUIIISU  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


And  tlio  rcnicmbrauce  of  the  days  before, 
Which  time  and  place  so  vividly  restore 
That  sense  of  death  and  dust  I  can  resign. 
Once  it  Avas  hero  thy  fancy  nsed  to  seek, 
In  Natnrc's  simple  play  midst  flower  and  tree, 
In  snddcu  tremor  of  a  dear  grave's  grass, 
Some  subtile  recognition : — tbns  then  speak, 
O  soul  that  kuowest  all,  aud  now  art  free, 
To  her  who  still  can  only  guess  aud  pass. 


THE  TELEPHONE. 

Oh  !   what  a  marvel  of  electric  might, 

That  makes  the  ear  the  conqueror  of  space, 

And  gives  us  all  of  presence  but  the  sight, 

Wheu  miles  of  dark  aud  distance  bide  the  face. 

Sonl !   is  not  this  thy  very  analogue  ? 

Do  not  strange  thoughts  come  sounding  tbrough 
thee  thus? 
Ay,  clear  sometimes,  as  if  there  were  no  clog 

To  shut  remotest  being  out  from  us ! 

Low  notes  are  said  through  this  strange  instrument 
To  reach  the  listener  with  distinctest  tone : 

So  inmost  thoughts,  from  man  or  angel  sent. 
Strike  through  the  soul's  aerial  telephone ! 


HOPES  AND  MEMORIES. 

As  little  children  running  on  before. 

To  tbose  who  follow,  backward  glauces  throw, 
And  ever  as  they  near  the  household  door. 

With  ever  watchful  smile,  more  eager  grow, — 

So  do  young  hopes  before  fond  memories  run. 
Looking  behind  their  parent  smiles  to  meet; 

Bounding  with  bolder  step  at  every  one. 
But  oft  returning  for  assurance  sweet. 


Ukljari)  lUatsou  d^ilticr. 

AMERICAN. 

Born  in  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  Feb.  8tli,  l&i4,  Gilder  has 
become  well  known  as  a  journalist  and  man  of  letters. 
He  has  published  "The  New  Day,  a  Poem  in  Songs  and 
Sonnets"  (1870);  "The  Poet  and  his  Master"  (1878). 
Anew  and  revised  edition  of  "The  New  Day"  appeared 
in  1880.  The  author  is  associated  in  the  editorship  of 
Scrihner''s  MontMij  Jfat/azine.  His  poems  partake  largely 
of  the  modern  spirit  aud  style. 


THE   RIVER. 

I  know  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side. 
Nor  the  i)alo  mist  that  lies  along  the  hills. 
And  with  white  Joy  the  deepening  valley  fills; 
Nor  yet  the  solemn  river  moving  wide 
Into  that  valley,  where  the  hills  abide. 
But  whence  those  morning  clouds  on  noiseless  wheels 
Shall  lingering  lift,  and,  as  the  mooulight  steals 
From  out  the  heavens,  so  into  the  heavens  shall 

glide. 
I  know  thou  art  not  that  gray  rock  that  looms 
Above  the  water,  fringed  with  scarlet  vine ; 
Nor  flame  of  burning  meadow ;   nor  the  sedge 
That  sways  and  trembles  at  the  river's  edge. 
But  through  all  these,  dear  heart,  to  me  there  comes 
Some  melancholy  absent  look  of  thiue. 


A  THOUGHT. 

Once,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land 
That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the  sun  : 
A  laud   of  broad,  green  meadows,  through   which 

poured 
Two  rivers,  slowly  widening  to  the  sea, — 
Thus,  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how  or  whence. 
Was  borne  into  my  iiuexpectaut  soul 
That  thought,  late  learned  by  anxious-witted  man. 
The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 


SONG. 


Through  love  to  light !     Oh,  wonderful  the  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day ! 
From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through  love  to  light!     Through  light,  O  God!  to 

Thee, 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light ! 


O  SWEET  WILD  ROSES  THAT  BUD  AND 
BLOW. 

O  sweet  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow 
Along  the  way  that  my  Love  may  go ; 
O  moss-green  rocks  that  touch  her  dress. 
And  grass  that  her  dear  feet  may  press ; 

O  maple-tree,  whose  brooding  shade 
For  her  a  summer  tent  has  made ; 


BICEAED    WATSON  GILDEE.— ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 


925 


O  goklen-rod  ami  brave  simtlower 
That  flauio  before  my  maideu's  bower ; 

O  buttcrflj",  OQ  whose  light  wiugs 
The  golden  summer  sunshine  clings ; 
O  birds  that  flit  o'er  wheat  and  wall, 
And  from  cool  hollows  pipe  and  call ; 

O  falling  water,  whose  distant  roar 
Sounds  like  the  waves  upon  the  shore ; 
O  winds  that  down  the  valley  sweep. 
And  lightnings  from  the  clouds  that  leap  ; 

O  sliies  that  bend  above  the  hills, 
O  gentle  rains  and  babbling  rills, 
O  moon  and  sun  that  beam  and  burn — 
Keep  safe  my  Love  till  I  return ! 


CALL   ME   NOT   DEAD. 

Call  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  goue 
Into  the  company  of  the  ever-living 
High  and  most  glorious  poets !     Let  thanksgiving 
Bather  be  made.     Say — "  He  at  last  hath  won 
Kelease  and  rest,  converse  supreme  and  wise. 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces  : 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places. 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 
To-morrow  (who  can  say)  Shakspeare  may  pass, — 
And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well, — 
Or  Milton, — or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly 
hill." 


MY   SOXGS  ARE   ALL   OF  THEE. 

My  songs  are  all  of  thee;  what  though  I  sing 

Of  morning  when  the  stars  are  yet  in  sight, 

Of  evening,  or  the  melancholy  night. 

Of  birds  that  o'er  the  reddening  waters  wing; 

Of  song,  of.  fire,  of  winds,  or  mists  that  cling 

To  mountain-tops,  of  winter  all  in  white, 

Of  rivers  that  toward  ocean  take  their  flight. 

Of  summer  when  the  rose  is  blossoming. 

I  think  no  thought  that  is  not  thine,  no  breath 

Of  life  I  breathe  beyond  thy  sanctity ; 

Thou  art  the  voice  that  silence  uttereth, 

And  of  all  sound  thou  art  the  sense.     From  thee 

The  music  of  my  song  and  what  it  saith 

Is  but  the  beat  of  thy  heart,  throbbed  through  me. 


(flijabctlj  Stuart  pijclps. 

AMERICAN. 

The  daughter  of  Professor  Austin  Phelps,  Elizabeth 
was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  Aug.  31st,  1844,  and  educated 
at  Andover.  In  1868  she  published  "The  Gates  Ajar," 
which  had  a  great  sale;  in  18G9,  "Men,  Women,  and 
Ghosts,"  a  collection  of  her  stories  from  Uarper^s  and 
other  magazines  ;  in  1871,  "  The  Silent  Partner."  She 
has  also  published  a  volume  of  poems. 


APPLE   BLOSSOMS. 

I  sit  beneath  the  apple-tree, 

I  see  nor  sky  nor  sun  ; 
I  only  know  the  apple-buds 

Are  opening  one  by  one. 

You  asked  me  once  a  little  thing — 

A  lecture  or  a  song 
To  hear  with  you ;   and  yet  I  thought 

To  fiud  my  whole  life  long 

Too  short  to  bear  the  happiness 
That  bounded  through  the  day. 

That  made  the  look  of  apple  blooms, 
And  you  and  me  and  Maj' ! 

For  long  between  ns  there  had  hung 
The  mist  of  love's  young  doubt ; 

Sweet,  shy,  uncertain,  all  the  world 
Of  trust  and  May  burst  out. 

I  wore  the  flower  in  my  hair. 

Their  color  on  my  dress  ; 
Dear  love !   whenever  apples  bloom 

In  heaven  do  they  bless 

Your  heart  with  memories  so  small, 

So  strong,  so  cruel  glad  ? 
If  ever  apples  bloom  in  heaven, 

I  wonder  are  you  sad  ? 

Heart!   yield  up  thy  fruitless  quest, 

Beneath  the  apple-tree ; 
Youth  comes  but  once,  love  only  once, 

And  May  but  once  to  thee ! 


ON  THE  BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

It  chanceth  ouce  to  every  soul. 

Within  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole, 


926 


CYCLOPJEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Upon  Life's  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  stand — 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

O  i)alacc  of  the  rosc-hcart's  hne ! 

How  like  a  llowcr  the  warm  light  falls  from  you! 

O  prison  Avith  the  hollow  eyes ! 

Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  arise. 

O  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  does  uot  cuter  in ! 

O  bless6d  prison  walls !  how  true 

The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth  you ! 


(!:nuhi  yfeiffcr, 


Born  in  England,  Miss  Pfeiffer  has  written  sonnets  and 
poems,  which  have  attracted  the  attention  of  sonic  of  the 
best  critics.  We  find  nothing  more  noteworthy  in  the 
list,  however,  than  the  following  graceful  little  effusion 
constructed  in  imitation  of  the  old  French  form  of  verse, 
called  the  "  Villanelle  ;"  which,  we  arc  told,  was  in  truth 
a  "Shepherd's  Song:"  and,  according  to  rule,  "the 
thoughts  should  be  full  of  sweetness  and  simplicity." 
Tiie  recurrence  of  the  rhymes  is  worthy  of  note. 


SUMMER-TIME. 

VILL.\NELLE. 

O  Summer-time,  so  passing  sweet, 

But  heavy  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
But  languid  with  the  fervent  heat, 

They  chide  amiss  who  call  thee  fleet, — 

Thee  with  thy  weight  of  daylight  hours, 
O  Summer-time,  so  passing  sweet ! 

Young  Summer,  thou  art  too  replete. 

Too  rich  in  choice  of  joys  and  powers, 
But  languid  with  the  fervent  heat. 

Adieu !   my  face  is  set  to  meet 

Bleak  Winter,  with  his  pallid  showers — 
O  Summer-time,  so  passing  sweet! 

Old  Winter  steps  with  swifter  feet. 

He  lingers  not  in  wayside  bowers, 
lie  is  not  languid  with  the  heat; 

His  rounded  day,  a  pearl  complete. 

Gleams  on  the  nnknowu  night  that  lowers ; 
O  Summer-time,  so  passing  sweet. 
But  languid  with  the  fervent  heat! 


(iljcopljilc  illar^ials. 

One  of  the  "  Victorian  poets,"  Marzials  is  noted  for  his 
imitations  of  Frencn  forms  of  verse.  Some  of  liis  po- 
ems are  the  result  of  his  studies  in  Provcnfal  litci-ature. 
He  is  the  author  of  "The  Gallery  of  Pigeons,  tnid  other 
Poems,"  a  work  laughed  at  by  some  of  his  critics  and 
praised  by  others.  Poetic  license  can  hardly  justify  a 
metaphor  like  this : 

"I'd  like  to  be  the  hweiulei' 
That  makes  her  linen  sweet." 


CARPE   DIEM. 

EONDE.\U. 

To-day,  what  is  there  in  the  air 

That  makes  December  seem  sweet  May  ? 

There  are  no  swallows  anywhere, 

Nor  crocuses  to  crown  your  hair. 

And  hail  you  down  my  garden  way. 

Last  night  the  full-moon's  frozen  stare 
Struck  me,  perhaps ;  or  did  you  say. 
Really,  you'd  come,  sweet  friend  and  fair, 
To-day  ? 

To-day  is  here  ; — come,  crown  to-day 

With  Spring's  delight  or  Spring's  despair ! 
Love  cannot  bido  old  Time's  delay — 
Down  my  glad  gardens  light  winds  play. 
And  my  whole  life  shall  bloom  and  bear 
To-day. 


OmuuL)  111.  (!5ossc. 

One  of  the  younger  tribe  of  Victorian  poets,  Gosse  has 
published  "On  Viol  and  Flute,"  "  King  Eric,"  and  other 
works.  He  is  one  of  tlic  revivers  of  the  old  French  forms 
of  rh^^ming  verses,  and  we  give  specimens  of  his  skill  in 
these  beautiful  but  somewhat  artificial  productions.  The 
"  Chant  Royal  "  has  been  defined  as  a  baUad  of  five  stan- 
zas of  eleven  lines  with  an  "Envoi"  of  five.  Gosse  has 
given  the  first  example  in  English,  and  with  brilliant 
success.  Here,  too,  the  rhymes,  running  through  all  the 
divisions,  play  an  important  part.  It  originally  appear- 
ed in  his  article  on  the  peculiarities  of  French  verse  in 
the  Cornhill  Magazine. 


VILLANELLE. 

Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die 

When  low-hung  fruit  is  hardly  clinging. 
And  golden  Autumn  passes  by  ? 


EDMUND   TV.  GOSSE. 


927 


If  wa  could  vauisli,  tliou  and  I, 

Wliilo  tho  last  woodland  bird  is  siugiug, 
Wouldst  thou  not  bo  content  to  die  ? 

Deep  drifts  of  leaves  in  tho  forest  lie, 

lied  vintage  tliat  tho  frost  is  Hinging, 
And  golden  Autumn  passes  by. 

Beneath  this  delicate,  rose-gray  sky, 

While  sunset  bells  are  faintly  ringing, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die  ? 

For  -wintry  webs  of  mist  on  high 

Out  of  tho  muffled  earth  is  springing, 
And  golden  Autumn  passes  by. 

Oh  no\v.  when  i)leasures  fade  and  fly, 

And  Hope  her  southward  flight  is  winging, 
Wouldst  thou  not  bo  content  to  die  ? 

Lest  Winter  come,  with  wailing  cry, 

His  cruel  icy  bondage  bringing, 
When  golden  Autumn  hath  passed  by. 

And  thou  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 

While  Life  her  wasted  hands  is  wringing, 
Shalt  pray  in  rain  for  leave  to  die 
When  golden  Autumn  hath  passed  by. 


THE   GOD    OF  W^INE. 
CHANT  ROYAL. 
I. 
Behold,  above  tho  mountains  there  is  light, 
A  streak  of  gold,  a  lino  of  gathering  fire. 
And  the  dim  east  hath  suddenly  grown  bright 

With  palo  aerial  flame,  that  drives  up  higher 
The  lurid  airs  that  all  the  long  night  were 
Breasting  the  dark  ravines  and  coverts  bare  ; 
Behold,  behold !   the  granite  gates  unclose. 
And  down  tho  vales  a  lyric  people  flows. 
Who  dance  to  music,  and  in  dancing  fling 

Their  frantic  robes  to  every  wind  that  blows. 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  Yine-god  sing. 


Nearer  they  press,  and  nearer  still  in  sight. 
Still  dancing  blithely  in  a  seemly  choir ; 

Tossing  on  high  the  symbol  of  their  rite. 
The  cone-tipped  thyrsus  of  a  god's  desire  ; 

Nearer  they  come,  tall  damsels  flushed  and  fair, 

AVith  ivy  circling  their  abundant  hair, 


Onward,  with  oven  pace,  in  stately  rows. 
With  eye  that  flaslics,  and  with  cheek  that  glows, 
And  all  the  while  their  tribute-songs  they  bring, 
,    And  newer  glories  of  tho  past  disclose, 
And  deathless  praises  to  the  Vine-god  sing. 


The  pure  luxuriance  of  their  limbs  is  white, 
And  flashes  clearer  as  they  draw  the  nighcr. 

Bathed  in  an  air  of  infinite  delight, 

Smooth  without  wound  of  thorn  or  fleck  of  mire, 

Borno  up  by  song  as  by  a  trumpet's  blare. 

Leading  the  van  to  conquest,  on  they  fare. 
Fearless  and  bold,  whoever  comes  and  goes 
These  shining  cohorts  of  Bacchantes  close, 

Shouting  and  shouting  till  the  mountains  ring, 
And  forests  grim  forget  their  ancient  woes, 

And  deathless  praises  to  the  Vine-god  sing. 


And  youths  are  there  for  whom  full  many  a  night 
Brought  dreams  of  bliss,  vague  dreams  that  haunt 
and  tire. 

Who  rose  in  their  own  ecstasy  bedight, 

And  wandered  forth  through  many  a  scourging 
brier. 

And  waited  shivering  in  tho  icy  air. 

And  wrajiped  tho  leopard-skin  about  them  there. 
Knowing  for  all  the  bitter  air  that  froze, 
The  time  must  come  that  every  poet  knows. 

When  ho  shall  rise  and  feel  himself  a  king, 
And  follow,  follow  where  the  ivy  grows. 

And  deathless  praises  to  the  Vine-god  sing. 


But  oh!  within  the  heart  of  this  groat  flight, 
Whose  ivory  arms  hold  up  tho  golden  lyre, 

Wliat  form  is  this  of  more  than  mortal  height  ? 
What  matchless  beauty,  what  inspired  ire? 

Tlie  brindled  panthers  know  the  prize  they  bear^ 

And  harmonize  their  steps  with  stately  care  ; 
Bent  to  the  morning,  like  a  living  rose. 
The  immortal  splendor  of  his  face  he  shows. 

And,  where  ho  glances,  leaf,  and  flower,  and  wing 
Tremble  with  rapture,  stirred  in  their  repose, 

And  deathless  praises  to  the  Vine-god  sing. 


Prince  of  tho  flute  and  ivy,  all  thy  foes 
Record  the  bounty  that  thy  grace  bestows, 

But  we,  thy  servants,  to  thy  glory  cling, 
And  with  no  frigid  lips  our  songs  compose, 

And  deathless  praises  to  the  Vine-god  sing. 


928 


CYCLOPJWIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  ROETRT. 


lUUl  (Tarlcton. 


AMERICAN. 

Ciirlcton,  autlior  of  "Farm  Ballads,"  etc.,  was  boni  in 
Hudson,  Lcuawce  Countj',  Mich.,  in  1845.  His  father  was 
a  pioneer  settler  from  New  Hampshire.  For  four  years 
of  his  youth  he  divided  his  time  between  attending  school, 
teaching,  and  assisting  his  fatlier  on  the  farm.  He  Avas 
graduated  from  Hillsdale  College,  Mich.,  in  1809.  Since 
then  he  has  been  engaged  in  literary  and  journalistic 
work,  and  in  lecturing.  In  1872  appeared  his  ballad  of 
"Betsy  and  I  Arc  Out,"  which  was  reprinted  with  il- 
lustrations in  llarpefs  WecJcly,  and  gave  the  author  an 
extended  reputation.  His  "Farm  Ballads"  and  "Farm 
Legends,"  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers,  attained 
great  popularity. 


OVER  THE  HILL  TO  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  I'm  trudgin'  my 

■weary  way — 
I,  a  woman  of  seveuty,  and  only  a  trifle  gray — 
I,  who  am  smart  an'  chipper,  for  all  the  years  I've 

told, 
As  many  another  woman  that's  only  half  as  old. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — I  can't  quite  make 
it  clear ! 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — it  seems  so  hor- 
rid queer! 

Many  a  step  I've  taken  a-toilin'  to  and  fro, 

But  this  is  a  sort  of  journey  I  never  thought  to  go. 

What  is  the  u.se  of  heapin'  on  me  a  pauper's  shame? 
Am  I  lazy  or  crazy  ?   am  I  blind  or  lanio  ? 
True,  I  am  not  so  supple,  nor  yet  so  awful  stout; 
But  charity  ain't  no  favor,  if  one  can  live  without. 

I  am  willin'  and  anxious  an'  ready  any  day 

To  work  for  a  decent  liviu',  an'  pay  my  honest  way  ; 

For  I  can  earn  my  victuals,  an'  more  too,  I'll  be 

bound. 
If  anybody  only  is  willin'  to  have  me  round. 

Once  I  was  young  and  han'some — I  was,  upon  my 

soul — 
Once  my  cheeks  was  roses,  my  eyes  as  black  as  coal ; 
And  I  can't  remember,  in  them  days,  of  houriu'  peo- 

l)le  say. 
For  any  kind  of  a  reason,  that  I  was  in  their  way. 

'Taint  no  use  of  boa.stin',  or  talkin'  over-free. 
But  many  a  hou.se  an'  home  was  open  then  to  me ; 
Many  a  han'some  offer  I  had  from  likely  men. 
And  nobodj'  ever  hinted  that  I  was  a  burden  then. 


And  when  to  John  I  was  married,  sure  he  was  good 

and  smart ; 
But  ho  and  all  the  neighbors   would  own  I  done 

my  part ;  [strong. 

For  life   was  all  before  me,  an'  I   was  young  an' 
And  I  worked  the  best  that  I  could  in  tryiu'  to  get 

along. 

And  so  wo  worked  together;  and  life  was  hard,  but 
gay,  [way: 

With  now  and  then  a  baby  for  to  cheer  us  on  our 

Till  wo  liad  half  a  dozen,  an'  all  growed  clean  and 
neat,  [eat. 

An'  went  to  school  like  others,  an'  had  enough  to 

So  we  worked  for  the  child'rn,  and  raised  'em  every 

one ; 
Worked  for  'em  summer  and  winter,  just  as  we  ought 

to  've  done ; 
Only  perhaps  we   humored  'em,  which  some  good 

folks  condemn ;  [them. 

But  every  couple's   child'ru's  a  heap   the  best  to 

Strange  how  much  we  think  of  our  blessed  little 

ones ! — 
I'd  have  died  for  my  daughters,  I'd  have  died  for 

my  sons ; 
And  God  he  made  that  rule  of  love  ;  but  when  we're 

old  and  gray, 
I've  noticed  it  sometimes  somehow  fails  to  work  the 

other  way. 

Strange,  another  thing  :  when  our  boys  an'  girls  was 

grown. 
And  when,  exceptiu'  Charley,  they'd  left  us  there 

alone ; 
When  John  he  nearer  an'  nearer  come,  an'  dearer 

seemed  to  be, 
The  Lt)rd  of  Hosts  he  come  one  day  an'  took  him 

away  from  me. 

Still  I  was  bound  to  struggle,  an'  never  to  cringe 

or  fall- 
Still  I  worked  for  Charley ;  for  Charley  was  now 

my  all ; 
And  Charley  was  pretty  good  to  me,  with  scarce  a 

word  or  frow^n, 
Till  at  last  he  went  a-courtin',  and  brought  a  wife 

from  town. 

She  was  somewhat   dressj',  an'  hadn't   a  pleasant 

smile — ■ 
She  was  quite  couceity,  and  carried  a  heap  o'  style ; 


WILL   CABLETON.— JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 


929 


But  if  ever  I  tried  to  be  friends,  I  did  with  her,  I 

kuow ; 
But  she  was  hard  aud  proud,  an'  I  couldn't  make 

it  go. 

She  had  an  edicatiou,  an'  that  was  good  for  her ; 
But  when  she  twitted  me  on  mine,  'twas  carryin' 

things  too  fur ; 
Au'  I  tokl  her  once,  'fore  company  (an'  it  ahnost 

made  her  sick), 
That  I  never  swallowed  a  grammar,  or  'et  a  'rithmetic. 

So  'twas  only  a  few  days  before  the  thing  was  done — 
They  was  a  family  of  themselves,  aud  I  another  one ; 
Aud  a  very  little  cottage  one  family  will  do. 
But  I  never  have  seen  a  house  that  was  big  enough 
for  two. 

An'  I  never  could  speak  to  suit  her,  never  could 

please  her  eye, 
Au'  it  made  me  independent,  an'  then  I  didn't  try; 
But  I  was  terribly  staggered,  an'  felt  it  like  a  blow. 
When  Charley  turned  ag'in  me,  an'  told  me  I  could 

go. 

I  went  to  live  with  Susan,  but  Susan's  house  was 

small. 
And  she  was  always  a-hintiu'  how  sung  it  was  for 

us  all ; 
Aud  what  with  her  husband's  sisters,  aud  what  with 

child'ru  three, 
'Twas  easy  to  discover  that  there  wasn't  room  for  me. 

An'  then  I  weut  to  Thomas,  the  oldest  son  I've  got. 
For  Thomas's  buildings   'd  cover  the  half  of   an 

acre  lot ; 
But  all  the  child'ru  was  on  me — I  couldn't  stand 

their  sauce — 
And  Thomas  said  I  needn't  think  I  was  comin'  there 

to  boss. 

An'  then  I  wrote  to  Rebecca,  my  girl  who  lives  out 

West, 
Aud  to  Isaac,  not  far  from  her — some  twenty  miles 

at  best ; 
And  one  of  'em  said  'twas  too  warm  there  for  any 

one  so  old, 
Aud  t'other  had  an  opinion  the  climate  was  too  cold. 

So  they  have  shirked  and  slighted  me,  an'  shifted 

me  about — 
So  they  have  well-nigh  soured  me,  an'  wore  my  old 

heart  out ; 

59 


But  still  I've  borne  up  pretty  well,  an'  wasn't  much 

put  down, 
Till  Charley  went  to  the  poor-master,  an'  put  me 

on  the  town. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — my  child'rn  dear, 

good-bye ! 
Many  a  night  I've  watched  you  when  only  God  was 

nigh ; 
And  God  '11  judge  between  us ;  but  I  will  al'ays  pray 
That  you  shall  never  suffer  the  half  I  do  to-day. 


Suliau  i5tttutl)ornc. 


Hawthorne,  a  son  of  the  eminent  American  author, 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  has  distinguished  himself  more  in 
prose  than  verse.  He  is  the  author  of  several  novels, 
showing  that  he  has  inherited  much  of  his  father's  pe- 
culiar genius.  He  was  born  June  22d,  1846,  in  Salem, 
Mass. ;  studied  at  Harvard  College,  and  at  the  Scientific 
School ;  also  studied  engineering  in  Germany.  He  took 
up  literature  as  a  profession  in  1871,  since  which  time 
he  has  resided  in  Germany  and  England.  Tlie  subjoin- 
ed poem,  which  appeared  originally  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Ilessenger,  is  a  vigorous  exposition  of  one  of  the  leading 
doctrines  of  Swedenborg's  theosophy. 


FREE-WILL. 

Strength  of  the  beautiful  day,  green  aud  blue  and 
white  I 

Voice  of  leaf  and  of  bird  ;  [shore; 

Low  voice  of  mellow  surf  far  down  the  curving 
Strong  white  clouds  and  gray,  slow  and  calm  in 
your  flight, 

Aimless,  majestic,  unheard, — 
You  walk   in   air   and   dissolve   aud   vanish  for 
evermore ! 
Lying  here  'midst  poppies  and  maize,  tired  of  the 
loss  and  the  gain. 

Dreaming  of  rest,  ah  !   fain 
Would  I,  like  ye,  trausmute  the  terror  of  fate  into 
praise. 

Yet  thou,  O  earth,  art  a  slave,  orderly  without  care. 
Perfect  thou  know'st  not  why. 
For  He  whose  Word  is  thy  life  has  spared  thee 
the  gift  of  Will ! 
We  men  are  not  so  brave,  our  lives  arc  not  so  fair. 
Our  law  is  an  eye  for  an  eye ; 
And  the  light  that  shines  for  our  good  we  use 
to  our  ill. 


030 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Vi\\\(\  boyhood's  hope  ere  long,  for  the  deed  still 
mocks  the  plan, 

And  the  knave  is  the  honest  man, 
And  tlms  we  grow  weak  in  a  world  created  to 
make  US  strong. 

I5ut  woe  to  the  man  who  (luails  before  that  which 
makes  him  man  I 

Thongh  heaven  be  sweet  to  win, 
One  thing  is  sweeter  yet — freedom  to  side  with 
hell! 
In  man  succeeds  or  fails  tliis  great  creative  plan  ; 
Man's  liberty  to  sin 
Makes  worth  God's  winning  the  love  even   God 
may  not  compel. 
Shall   I   then   murmur   and  bo   wroth   at  Nature's 
peace  ? 

Though  I  be  ill  at  ease, 
I  hold  one  link  of  the  chain  of  his  happiness  in 
my  hand. 


^iJgar  Jawcctt. 


Fawcett,  a  native  of  the  city  of  New  York,  was  born 
in  1847,  and  graduated  at  Columbia  College  in  1867.  lie 
lias  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  magazines,  and  a 
volume  of  bis  poems  appeared  in  Boston  in  1878.  In 
1880  be  made  a  dramatic  venture  in  bis  play  of  "A  False 
Friend,"  wbicb  was  effectively  produced  at  some  of  the 
principal  theatres.  Since  then  he  has  produced  a  comic 
drama,  also  successful. 


CRITICISM. 

"  Crude,  pompous,  tnrgid,"  the  reviewers  said  ; 

"  Sham  iiassion  and  sham  power  to  turn  one  sick  ! 
Pin-wheels  of  verse  that  sputtered  as  Ave  read — 

Rockets  of  rhyme  that  showed  the  falling  stick !" 

But  while,  assaulted  of  this  bu/.zing  band, 
Tlie  poet  quivered  at  their  little  stings, 

White  doves  of  sympathy  o'er  all  tlie  land 

Went  flying  with  his  fame  beneath  their  wings! 

And  every  fresh  year  brought  him  love  that  cheers. 
As  Caspian  waves  bring  amber  to  their  shore. 

And  it  befell  that  after  many  years, 

Being  now  no  longer  young,  be  wrote  once  more. 

"  Cold,  classic,  polished,"  the  reviewers  said  ; 

"  A  book  you  scarce  can  h)ve,  howo'er  you  praise. 
We  missed  the  old  careless  grandeur  as  we  read. 

The  iiower  and  i)assion  of  his  younger  days !" 


fjcnnj  Tlucjustiu  I3cers. 


Beers  was  born  in  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  July  2(1,  1847.  His 
family  were  residents  of  Litchfield,  Conn.  He  was  grad- 
uated at  Yale  College  in  18()9,  and  after  spending  two 
years  in  New  York  in  the  study  of  the  law,  was  appoint- 
ed tutor  in  English  at  Yale,  and  in  187.5  chosen  Assistant- 
professor  of  English.  In  1878  he  published  "  Odds  and 
Ends,"  a  volume  of  poems;  and  the  same  year,  "A  Cen- 
tury of  American  Literature."  His  "  Carjamon  "  has 
been  translated  into  the  Czech  language,  and  printed  in 
a  Prague  newspaper.  Of  bis  poetical  volume,  including 
some  comic  pieces, he  remarks:  "It  maybe  right  to  add, 
that  at  least  half  the  pieces  can  lay  claim  to  whatever 
indulgence,  if  any,  is  usually  given  to  juvenilia,  or  the 
work  of  writers  under  age." 


rSYCHE. 

At  evening  in  the  port  she  hij", 

A  lifeless  block  with  canvas  furled; 

But  silently  at  peep  of  day 

Spread  her  white  wings  and  skimmed  away, 

And,  rosy  in  the  dawn's  first  ray, 

Sank  down  behind  the  rounding  world. 

So  hast  thou  vanished  from  our  side. 

Dear  bark,  that  from  some  far,  bright  strand, 

Anchored  awhile  on  life's  dull  tide  ; 

Then,  lifting  spirit  pinions  wide. 

In  heaven's  own  orient  glorified. 

Steered  outward  seeking  Holy  Laud. 


CARQAMON. 

His  steed  was  old,  his  armor  worn, 
And  lie  was  old  and  worn  and  gray  ; 

The  light  that  lit  his  patient  eyes 
It  shone  from  very  far  away. 

Through  gay  Provence  he  journeyed  on, 
To  one  high  quest  his  life  was  true. 

And  so  they  called  him  Car^amon — 

Tlie  knight  who  seeketh  the  world  through. 

A  pansy  blossomed  on  his  shield ; 

"  A  token  'tis,"  the  people  say, 
"  That  still  acro.ss  the  world's  wide  field 

He  seeks  la  dame  dc  ses  pense'es." 

For  somewhere  on  a  painted  wall. 
Or  in  the  city's  shifting  crowd, 


HENRY  AUGUSTIN  BEEBS.— EDWARD  DOWDEX. 


931 


Or  looking  fn)in  a  casement  tall, 

Or  sbapod  of  dream  or  eveuiug  cloud — 

Forgotten  when,  forgotten  where — 
Her  face  had  tilled  his  careless  eye 

A  moment  ere  he  turned  and  passed, 
Nor  knew  it  was  his  destiny. 

But  ever  in  his  dreams  it  came 
Divine  and  passionless  and  strong, 

A  smile  upon  the  imperial  lips 

No  lover's  kiss  had  dared  to  wrong. 

He  took  his  armor  from  the  wall — 

Ah !   gone  since  then  was  many  a  day — 

He  led  his  steed  from  out  the  stall 
And  sought  la  dame  de  ses  jyensees. 

The  ladies  of  the  Troubadours 

Came  riding  through  the  chestnut  grove  : 
"  Sir  Minstrel,  string  that  lute  of  yours, 

And  sing  us  a  gay  song  of  love." 

"  O  ladies  of  the  Troubadours, 
My  lute  has  but  a  single  string; 

Sirventes  fit  for  paramours, 

My  heart  is  not  in  tune  to  sing. 

"  The  flower  that  blooms  upon  my  shield 

It  has  another  soil  and  spring 
Than  that  wherein  the  gaudy  rose 

Of  light  Provence  is  blossoming. 

"  The  lady  of  my  dreams  doth  hold 
Such  royal  state  within  my  mind. 

No  thought  that  comes  unclad  in  gold 
To  that  high  court  may  entrance  lind." 

So  through  the  chestnut  groves  he  passed, 
And  through  the  land  and  far  away  ; 

Nor  know  I  whether  in  the  world 
He  found  la  dame  de  ses  pensees. 

Only  I  know  that  in  the  South, 

Long  to  the  harp  his  tale  was  told  ; 

Sweet  as  new  wine  within  the  mouth 
The  small,  choice  words  and  music  old. 

To  scorn  the  promise  of  the  Real ; 

To  seek  and  seek  and  not  to  find ; 
Yet  cherish  still  the  fair  Ideal — 

It  is  thy  fate,  O  restless  Mind ! 


One  of  the  younger  tribe  of  Enijlish  poets,  Dowden 
was  born  about  1848.  He  has  published  "Shakspeare's 
Mind  and  Art"  (187.5) ;  and  "Poems"  (1876),  a  second 
edition  of  which  appeared  in  1877.  He  shows  the  influ- 
ence of  Tennyson,  Clough,  and  Heine  ;  but  his  poems  do 
not  lack  a  saving  oiigiual  grace.  They  show  a  profound- 
ly meditative  atfectiou  for  Nature,  with  occasional  sug- 
gestions of  the  new  Pantheism.  At  times  they  are  some- 
what obscure,  as  if  their  meaning  were  that  of  a  mo- 
mentary mood,  whicli  the  poet  himself  might  not  always 
be  able  to  explain.  Dowden  has  jiroduced  some  sixty 
sonnets,  several  of  them  of  rare  beauty. 


ABOARD   THE   "SEA-SWALLOW." 

The  gloom  of  the  sea-fronting  clifis 

Lay  on  the  water,  violet-dark. 
The  pennon  drooped,  the  sail  fell  in, 

And  slowly  moved  our  bark. 

A  golden  day ;  the  summer  dreamed 
In  heaven  and  on  the  whispering  sea. 

Within  our  hearts  the  summer  dreamed, 
The  hours  had  ceased  to  be. 

Then  rose  the  girls  with  bonnets  loosed, 
And  shiuiug  tresses  lightly  blown, 

Alice  and  Adela,  and  sang 
A  song  of  Mendelssohn. 

Oh  sweet,  and  sad,  and  wildly  clear. 

Through  summer  air  it  sinks  and  swells. 

Wild  with  a  measureless  desire, 
And  sad  with  all  farewells. 


OASIS. 


Let  them  go  by — the  heats,  the  doubts,  the  strife ; 

I  can  sit  here  and  care  not  for  them  now, 
Dreaming  beside  the  glittering  wave  of  life    * 
Once  more, — I  know  not  how. 

There  is  a  murmur  in  ray  heart,  I  hear 

Faint,  oh  so  faint,  some  air  I  used  to  sing; 
It  stirs  my  sense;   and  odors  dim  and  dear 
The  meadow-breezes  bring. 

Just  this  way  did  the  quiet  twilights  fade 
Over  the  fields  and  happy  homes  of  men. 
While  one  bird  sang  as  now,  piercing  the  shade, 
Long  since, — I  know  not  when. 


932 


CTCLOPJU)IA    OF  JIIUTISH  AND  AMElllCAX  I'OETRY. 


WISE  PASSIVENESS. 

Think  you  I  cbooso  or  that  or  this  to  sing? 

I  lio  as  patient  as  yon  wealthy  stream 

Dreaming  among  green  fields  its  summer  ilroam, 

Which  takes  wbate'er  the  gracious  hours  will  brin< 

Into  its  quiet  bosom  ;   not  a  thing 

Too  common,  since  perhaps  you  see  it  there 

Who  else  had  never  seen  it,  though  as  fair 

As  on  the  world's  first  morn  ;   a  flattering 

Of  idle  butterflies ;   or  the  deft  seeds 

Blown  from  a  thistle-bead ;   a  silver  dove 

As  faultlessly ;   or  the  large,  yearning  eyes 

Of  pale  Narcissus  :  or  beside  the  reeds 

A  shepherd  seeking  lilies  for  his  love, 

And  evermore  the  all-cncircliug  skies. 


THE   INNER  LIFE. 

Master,  they  argued  fast  concerning  Thee, 

Proved  Avhat  Thou  art,  denied  what  Thou  art  not 

Till  brows  were  on  the  fret,  and,  eyes  grew  hot, 

And  lip  and  chin  were  thrust  out  eagerly ; 

Then  througli  the  temple-door  I  slipped  to  free 

My  soul  from  secret  ache  in  solitude. 

And  sought  this  brook  ;  and  by  the  brookside  stood 

The  world's  Light,  and  the  Light  and  Life  of  me. 

It  is  enough,  O  Master,  speak  no  word ! 

The  stream  speaks,  and  the  endurance  of  the  sky 

Outpasses  speech  :   I  seek  not  to  discern 

Even  what  smiles  for  me  Thy  lips  have  stirred; 

Only  in  Thy  hand  still  let  my  haiul  lie, 

Aud.  let  the  musing  soul  within  me  burn. 


TWO  INFINITIES. 

A  lonely  way,  and  as  I  went  my  eyes 
Could,  not  unfasten  from  the  Spring's  sweet  things : 
Lusli-sprouted  grass,  and  all  that  climbs  and  clings 
In  loose,  deep  hedges,  where  the  primrose  lies 
In  her  own  fairness, — buried  blooms  sur])rise 
The  plunderer  bee  aud  stop  his  murmurings, — 
And  the  glad  flutter  of  a  finch's  wings 
Ontstartles  small  blue-speckled  butterflies. 
IJlissfully  did  oue  speedwell  plot  beguile 
My  whole  heart  long  ;  I  loved  each  separate  flower, 
Kneeling.     I  looked  up  suddenly — Dear  (iod  ! 
There  stretched  the  shiniug  plain  for  many  a  mile, 
The  mountains  rose  with  what  invincible  power! 
And  how  the  sky  was  fathomless  aud  broad ! 


Samuel  fllillcr  Cjagcmau. 

AMERICAN. 

Ilageman,  a  grandson  of  Dr.  Samuel  Miller,  Professor 
in  llie  Princeton,  N.  J.,  Tlicological  Seminary,  and  son 
of  John  J^rclinghuysen  Ilagenian,  a  well-known  lawyer, 
and  autlior  of  "  Princeton  and  its  Institutions,"  was 
born  in  that  city  in  1848.  He  began  to  write  verses  be- 
fore he  was  fifteen  years  old  ;  and  his  poem  of  "  Silence  " 
was  originally  published  in  the  Frhicctonian  when  be 
was  eighteen.  It  was  issued  in  a  volume  in  1876.  He 
was  pastor  of  the  Union  Tabernacle,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
(1880),  with  a  large  congregation.  In  reference  to  "  Si- 
lence," Miss  Jean  Ingelow  writes:  "I  have  read  the 
poem  more  than  once  with  interest  and  admiration.  I 
congratulate  the  author  on  the  beauty  of  his  work." 
Hageman  is  the  author  of  "Veiled,"  a  novel ;  also  of  a 
volume  entitled  "Protestant  Paganism  ;  or,  The  Capital 
Errors  of  Christianity." 


STANZAS  FROM   "SILENCE." 

Earth  is  but  the  frozen  echo  of  the  sileut  voice  of 
God, 

Like  a  dew-drop  in  a  crystal  throbbing  in  the  sense- 
less clod : 

Silence  is  the  heart  of  all  things,  sound  the  flutter- 
ing of  its  pulse,  [vulse. 

Which  the  fever  and  the  spasm  of  the  universe  con- 

:3fr  *  *  *  *  * 

Every  sound  that  breaks  the  silence  only  makes  it 

more  profound, 
Like  a  crash  of  deafening  thunder  in  the  sweet  blue 

stillness  drowned  ; 
Let   thy   soul  walk   softly    in  thee,  as   a   saint   in 

heaven  unshod, 
For  to  be  alone  with  silence  is  to  be  alone  with  God. 

Thus  it  was  that  as  I  wandered,  often,  on  the  yel- 
low beach. 

Day  to  day  was  uttering  knowledge,  night  to  night 
was  showing  speech  : 

Till  the  stillness  grew  oppressive,  so  that  when  I 
left  the  spot,  [heard  it  not. 

On  the  sounding  shore  the  ocean  thniulered  ;  but  I 

Stiiiiewhere  on  this  moving  planet,  in  the  mist  of 

years  to  be. 
In  the  silence,  in  the  shadow,  waits  a  loving  heart 

for  thee  ; 
Somewhere  in  the  beckoning  heavens,  where  they 

know  as  they  are  known, 
Are  the  empty  arms  above  thee  that  shall  clasp  thee 

for  their  own. 


SAMUEL  MILLER  HAGEMAX.— CHARLES  DE  EAY. 


933 


Somewhere  in  tlie  far-oft'  sileuce  I  shall  feel  a  van- 
ished hand, 

Somewhere  I  shall  know  a  voice  that  now  I  cannot 
understand  ; 

Somewhere  !  Where  art  thou,  O  spectre  of  illimit- 
able space  ? 

Silent  scene  withont  a  shadow !  silent  sphere  with- 
out a  place ! 

*  s  *  *  *  * 

Comes  there  back  no  sound  beyond  us  where  the 

trackless  sunbeam  calls  ? 
Comes   there   back   no   wraith    of  music,  melting 

through  the  crystal  walls  ? 
Comes  there  back  no  bird  to  lisp  us  of  the  great 

for  evermore, 
With  a  leaf  of  Life,  un withered,  plucked  upon  the 

fiirther  shore  ? 
****** 
Go  to  Silence  :   win  her  secret,  she  shall  teach  thee 

how  to  speak. 
Shape  to  which  all  else  is  shadow  grows  within  thee 

clear  and  bleak  ; 
Go  to   Silence  :    she   shall  teach   thee  ;   ripe   fruit 

hangs  within  thy  reach ; 
He  alone  hath   clearly   spoken,  who   hath  learned 

this :   Thought  is  Speech. 

O  thou  strong  and  sacred  Silence,  self-contained  in 

self-control, 
O  thou  palliating  Silence,  Sabbath  art  thou  of  the 

soul : 
Lie  like  snow  upon  my  virtues,  lie  like  dust  upon 

my  faults, 
Silent  when  the  world  dethrones  me,  silent  when 

the  world  exalts! 
****** 
Wisdom  ripens  unto  Silence  as  she  grows  more  truly 

wise, 
And  she  wears  a  mellow  sadness  in  her  heart  and 

in  her  eyes :  [teach. 

Wisdom  ripens  unto  Silence,  and  the  lesson  she  doth 
Is  that  life  is  more  than  language,  and  that  thought 

is  more  than  speech. 


Cljarles  i)e  Hari. 


AMERICAN. 

Charles  de  Kay  was  born  in  Washington,  D.  C,  in  the 
year  1848.  He  graduated  from  Yale  College  in  18G8.  He 
published  a  short  novel  entitled  "  The  Bohemian :  a 
Tragedy  of  Modern  Life,"  in  1878;  and  "Hesperus,  and 
other  Poems,"  in  1880. 


THE   BLUSH. 

If  fragrances  were  colors,  I  would  liken 
A  blush  that  deepens  in  her  thoughtful  face 
To  that  aroma  which  pervades  the  place 
Where  woodmen  cedars  to  the  heart  have  stricken ; 
If  tastes  were  hues,  the  blissful  dye  I'd  trace 
In  upland  strawberries,  or  winter-green; 
If  sound,  why  then,  to  shy  and  mellow  bass 
Of  mountain  thrushes,  heard,  yet  seldom  seen. 
Or  say  that  hues  are  felt :   then  would  it  seem 
Most  like  to  cobwebs  borne  on  Southern  gales 
Against  a  spray  of  jasmine.     But  the  glow 
Itself  is  found  where  sweetbrier  petals  gleam 
Through  tenderest  hoar-frost,  or  upon  the  snow 
Of  steadfast  hills  when  shadows  brim  the  vales. 


FINGERS. 

Who  will  tell  me  the  secret,  the  cause 

For  the  life  in  her  swift-flying  hands  ? 
How  weaves  she  the  shuttle  with  never  a  pause, 

AVith  keys  of  the  octave  for  strands  ? 
Have  they  eyes,  those  soft  fingers  of  her 

That  they  kiss  in  the  darkness  the  keys, 
As  in  darkness  the  poets  aver 

Lover's  lips  will  find  lips  by  degrees  ? 

Ay,  marvels  they  are  in  their  shadowy  dance. 
But  who  is  the  god  that  has  given  them  soul  ? 

Where  learned  they  the  spell  other  souls  to  entrance. 
Where  the  heart  other  hearts  to  control  ? 

'Twas  the  noise  of  the  wave  at  the  prow. 

The  musical  lapse  on  the  beaches, 
'Twas  the  surf  in  the  night  when  the  land-breezes 
blow, 

The  song  of  the  tide  in  the  reaches : 

She  has  drawn  their  sweet  influence  home 
To  a  soul  not  yet  clear  but  profound, 

W^here  it  blows  like  the  Persian  sea-foam 
Into  pearls — 
Into  pearls  of  melodious  sound. 


ON   EEVISITING  STATEN  ISLAND. 

Again  ye  fields,  again  ye  woods  and  farms, 
Slowly  approach  and  fold  me  in  your  arms! 
The  scent  of  June  buds  wraps  me  once  again. 
The  breath  of  grasses  sighs  along  the  plain. 


934 


CYCLOrJUJiA   OF  jiiirnsii  JXD  AMERICAX  rOETUT. 


Ye  elms  and  oaks  tliat  comforted  of  yore, 

I  bear  your  welcomo  as  I  heard  before ; 

The  nigbt-bliie  sky  is  etched  with  dusky  boughs, 

And  at  your  feet  tlio  white  and  huddled  cows 

Are  breathing  deeply  still.     Is  all  a  dream, 

Or  does  the  hill-side  with  a  welcome  gleam  ? 

Ye  lofty  trees,  know  ye  your  worshipper  ? 

Know  ye  a  wanderer,  ready  to  aver 

Yon  branch  leans  downward  to  his  eager  face, 

Yon  bush  seems  following  on  his  happy  trace? 

The  cedars  gossip  softly,  one  by  one, 

Leaning  their  heads  in  secret ;   on  and  on 

The  whisper  spreads  from  new-born  larch  to  tir. 

Thence  to  the  chestnut  tender  yet  of  burr. 

And  now  the  fragrant  blackl)erry  on  the  moor 

Says  the  same  word  the  white  beech  mutters  o'er. 

A  spice-birch  on  the  fringes  of  the  wood 

Has  lain  in  wait,  has  heard  and  understood  ; 

The  piny  phalanx  nods,  and  up,  away, 

Tree-tops  have  sped  the  name  to  Prince's  Bay  ! 


(Tljarlcs  €).  ^otics. 

AMERICAN. 

In  the  summer  of  1S78  a  little  volume  of  poetry  was 
published  in  Philadelphia,  entitled  "Studies  iu  Verse,  by 
Charles  Quiet."  This  was  the  pscudonyme  of  Charles 
II.  Noyes,  a  young  lawyer  of  Warren,  Pa.,  and  a  native 
of  Marshall,  Calhoun  Count}-,  Mich.,  where  he  was  born 
in  1849.  While  some  of  his  verses  bear  the  marks  of  im- 
maturity, others  arc  fervid  with  the  true  aOialuSjand  full 
of  promise. 

THE  PRODIGAL  SON  TO  THE  EARTH. 

O  mother,  wait  until  my  work  is  done! 

Loose  thy  strong  arms  that  draw  me  to  thy  breast 

Till  I  am  ready  to  lie  down  and  rest ; 
Grudge  not  to  me  the  kis.ses  of  the  sun. 

Fear  not,  fond  earth,  thy  strong  love  holds  mo  fast ; 

Thou  art  mine  heir — I  shall  be  thine  at  last. 

O  cousin  roses!   thirst  not  for  my  blood 

To  (lye  your  paling  cheeks.     O  rank,  wild  gra.ss, 
Clntch  not  with  greedy  fingers  as  I  pass. 

And  you,  great  hungry  giants  of  the  wood  ! 
Let  not  your  roots  for  my  rich  juices  yearn. 
Mine  shall  be  yours,  but  you  must  wait  your  turn. 

O  roses,  grasses,  trees !   I  am  your  kin — 

Your  prodigal  blood-cousin,  now  grown  strange 
With   many   wanderings   through    the    lands   of 
change ; 

You  lent  me  of  your  substance,  and  I've  been 


A  wasteful  steward ;  yet  I  shall  bring  back 
My  whole  inheritauce — you  shall  not  lack. 

Divide  my  all  among  yon!   'twas  but  lent 

To  me  a  while  to  use.     Part  heart  and  brain, 
Matter  and  force,  until  there  shall  remain 

Of  me  no  shadow ;  I  am  well  content. 
Order  and  chaos  wage  eternal  strife ; 
The  end  of  living  is  to  bring  forth  life. 

Guardian  of  thoughts,  inmiortal  memory! 

Keep  thou  immortal  some  good  thought  of  mine, 
Which,  in  oblivion's  dark,  may  softly  shine 

Like  the  pale  fox-fire  of  a  rotting  tree. 
If  thou  do  keep  but  one  song-child  alive, 
In  its  sweet  body  shall  my  soul  survive. 


MY   SOLDIER. 

The  day  still  lingers,  though  the  sun  is  down, 
Kissing  the  earth,  and  loath  to  say  good-bye; 

"While  night,  impatient,  shows  her  starry  crown 
Just  glinting  through  the  curtains  of  the  sky. 

I  sit  within  the  door  and  try  to  knit ; 

Some  sadness  of  the  sky  provokes  my  tears ; 
And  memory  finds  some  subtle  charm  in  it 

To  lead  me  back  throngli  melancholy  years. 

Until  she  brings  me  to  that  summer's  day, 
WHien  a  tall  shadow  fell  across  the  tloor, 

Lingered  a  moment,  and  then  stole  away. 

Following  my  soldier  tlirough  the  open  door. 

My  soldirr!     He  was  all  the  war  to  me; 

His  safety  all  the  victory  I  craved  ; 
Morn,  noon,  and  night  I  prayed  that  I  might  see 

My  soldier — I  forgot  my  country — saved. 

When  came  a  letter  full  of  lovo  and  cheer. 
Telling  of  victory  with  proud  delight, 

The  mother's  pride  o'ercame  the  mother's  fear. 
And  I  was  happy  in  my  dreams  that  night. 

But  when  none  came,  and  news  of  battles  fell 
Around  me  like  hot  flakes  of  fire  instead — 

O  God!   if  I  have  loved  my  boy  too  well. 
Put  against  that  tho.se  days  of  awful  dread. 

My  soldier !   and  it  seems  but  yesterday 

His  baby  gums  were  mumbling  at  my  breast. 

I'm  half  persuaded  now  he's  out  at  play. 

And  I  have  slept  within  and  dreamed  the  rest: 


CHARLES  H.  NOTES.— MRS.  ROSA  H.  THORPE. 


935 


For  it  docs  seem  so  strange  to  mo  that  he, 
My  baby,  rosy-cheeked  aud  azure-eyed — 

The  cherub  boy  I  dandled  on  my  knee — 
ShouUl  have  become  a  hero  and  have  died. 

My  chubby  baby,  prattling  to  his  toys ! 

My  stalwart  soldier  kissing  me  good-bye! 
My  heart  will  have  it  she  hath  lost  two  boys, 

And  lends  to  grief  a  twofold  agonj'. 

Aud  day  by  day,  as  the  dear  form  I  miss, 
Fierce  longing  burns  within  me  like  a  flame. 

Till  all  the  world  I'd  barter  for  a  kiss. 

And  walk  through  fire  to  hear  him  call  my  name. 

'Twere  not  so  sad  could  I  have  watched  his  face, 
Soothed  his  last  hours,  aud  closed  his  dear,  dead 

Aud  it  would  comfort  me  to  mark  the  place  [eyes; 
With  a  ■wild  rose-bush  whore  my  darling  lies. 

But,  knowing  nothing,  save  that  he  is  dead, 
I  long  'ueath  yonder  daisy-dotted  knoll 

To  rest  in  peace  my  old,  grief--\vhiteued  head  ; 
Earth  hath  no  crnmb  of  comfort  for  my  soul. 


illrs.  Uosa  C).  iJ^ljorpe. 

AMERICAN. 

Eosa  Hartwick,  by  marriage  Thorpe,  was  born  July 
IStli,  1850,  in  ■^lishawaka,  lud.  After  ber  marriage  in 
1871  she  went  to  reside  in  Fremont,  Ind.,  but  subsequent- 
ly removed  to  Litchfield,  Mich.  She  wrote  ber  popular 
ballad  of  "  Curfew  must  not  Ring  To-night"  when  she 
was  sixteen  years  old,  but  it  was  not  till  1870  that  it 
was  published :  then  it  first  appeared  in  the  Detroit 
Commercial  Adverlmr.  It  has  since  repeatedly  under- 
gone revision,  ilrs.  Thorpe  has  much  of  the  spirit  and 
simplicity  of  the  old  ballad-writers,  and  excels  in  realis- 
tic narrative  illumined  with  poetical  flashes.  It  may  be 
that  her  best  work  is  to  come. 


DOWN   THE   TRACK. 
AN    ACTUAL    INCIDENT. 

In  the  deepening  shades  of  twilight 

Stood  a  maiden  young  and  fair ; 
Rain-drops  gleamed  on  cheek  and  forehead, 

Rain-drops  glistened  iu  her  hair. 
Where  the  bridge  had  stood  at  morning 

Yawned  a  chasm  deep  and  black ; 
Faintly  came  the  distant  rumbling 

From  the  train  far  dowu  the  track. 

Paler  grew  each  marble  feature, 

Faster  came  her  frightened  breath,— 


Charlie  kissed  lier  lips  at  morning, — 
Now  was  rushing  dowu  to  death  ! 

Must  she  stand  and  see  him  perish? 
Angry  waters  answer  hack : 

Louder  comes  the  distant  rumbling 
From  the  train  far  down  the  track. 

At  death's  door  faint  hearts  grow  fearless; 

Miracles  are  sometimes  wrought, 
Springing  from  the  heart's  devotion 

In  the  forming  of  a  thought. 
From  her  waist  she  tears  her  apron, 

Flings  her  tangled  tresses  back, 
Working  fast,  and  praying  ever 

For  the  train  far  dowu  the  track. 

See !   a  lurid  spark  is  kindled, 

Right  and  left  she  flings  the  flame, 
Turns  and  glides  with  airy  fleetness 

Downward  toward  the  coming  train  ; 
Sees  afar  the  red  eye  gleaming 

Through  the  shadows  still  aud  black  : 
Hark!  a  shriek  prolonged  aud  deafening,- 

They  have  seen  her  down  the  track ! 

Onward  comes  the  train — now  slower, 

But  the  maiden,  where  is  she  ? 
Flaming  torch  and  flying  footsteps 

Fond  eyes  gaze  iu  vain  to  see. 
With  a  white  face  turned  to  Heaven, 

All  the  sunny  hair  thrown  back. 
There  they  found  her,  one  baud  lying 

Crushed  and  bleediug  on  the  track. 

Eager  faces  bent  above  her. 

Wet  eyes  pitied,  kind  lips  blessed; 
But  she  saw  no  face  save  Charlie'.s — 

'Twas  for  him  she  saved  the  rest. 
Gold  they  gave  her  from  their  bounty ; 

But  her  sweet  eyes  waudered  hack 
To  the  face  whoso  love  will  scatter 

Roses  all  along  life's  track  ! 


"CURFEW  MUST   NOT  RING   TO-NIGHT." 

Slowly  England's  sun  was  setting 

O'er  the  hill-tops  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  -with  beauty 

At  the  close  of  one  sad  day ; 
And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead 

Of  a  man  and  maiden  fi^ir — 
He  with  footsteps  slow  aud  weary. 

She  with  sunny,  floating  hair; 


936 


CYCLOr^WIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful, 
She  with  lips  all  cold  and  white, 

Struggling  to  keep  hack  the  murmur, 
"  Curfew  must  uot  riug  to-night !" 

"Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered, 

Pointing  to  the  prison  old, 
With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy, 

With  its  walls,  dark,  damp,  and  cold, — 
"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison, 

Doomed  this  very  night  to  die 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew, 

And  no  earthly  help  is  nigh  : 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset," 

And  her  face  grew  strangely  white 
As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper : 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night !" 

"  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton — 

And  his  accents  pierced  her  heart 
Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow, 

Like  a  deadly  poisoned  dart, — 
"  Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  Curfew 

From  that  gloomy  shadowed  tower ; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset. 

It  has  told  the  twilight  hour; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever, 

Tried  to  do  it  just  and  right ; 
Now  I'm  old,  I  still  must  do  it : 

Curfew,  girl,  must  ring  to-night!" 

W^ild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features, 

Stern  and  Avhite  her  thoughtful  brow. 
And  within  her  secret  bosom 

Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow  ; 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges 

Kead,  without  a  tear  or  sigh, 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew, 

Basil  Underwood  must  die  !" 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster. 

And  her  eyes  grew  large  and  bright — 
As  in  undertone  slio  niurnuired : 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night !" 

With  quick  step  she  bounded  forward, 

Sprang  within  the  old  church  door, 
Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly 

Paths  he'd  trod  so  oft  before  ; 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden. 

But  with  eye  and  cheek  aglow. 
Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower, 

Where  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro ; 
As  she  climbed  the  dusty  ladder. 

On  which  fell  no  ray  of  light, 


Up  and  up,  her  white  lips  saying, 
"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !" 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder. 

O'er  her  hangs  the  great  dark  bell. 
Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her. 

Like  the  pathway  down  to  hell ; 
Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging, 

'Tis  the  hour  of  Curfew  now. 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom. 

Stopped  her  breath  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?     No,  never ! 

Flash  her  eyes  with  sudden  light. 
And  she  springs  and  grasps  it  tirmlj-: 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !" 

Out  she  swung,  far  out,  the  city 

Seemed  a  speck  of  light  below ; 
She,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended. 

As  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro ! 
And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope. 

Old  and  deaf,  heard  not  the  bell. 
But  he  thought  it  still  was  ringing 

Fair  young  Basil's  funeral  knell. 
Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly. 

And  with  trembling  lips  and  white, 
Said,  to  hush  her  heart's  wild  beating, 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !" 

It  was  o'er :   the  bell  ceased  swaying. 

And  the  maiden  stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder,    . 

Where,  for  hundred  years  befoi'e, 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted; 

But  the  brave  deed  she  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after : — 

Often  as  the  setting  sun 
Should  illume  the  sky  with  beauty, — 

Agdd  sires,  with  heads  of  white. 
Long  should  tell  the  little  children. 

Curfew  did  not  riug  that  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ; 

Bessie  sees  him,  and  her  brow. 
Full  of  hope  and  full  of  gladness, 

Has  no  anxious  traces  now. 
At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story, 

Shows  her  hands  all  bruised  and  torn  ; 
And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading, 

Yet  with  sorrow  pale  and  worn. 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity, — 

Lit  his  eye  with  misty  light : — 
"  Go,  your  lover  lives,"  said  Cromwell : 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !" 


F.  WYVILLE  ROME.— GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


937 


I.  llljjuillc  C)omc. 


"Songs  of  a  Wayfarer,"  is  the  title  of  a  volume  by 
Home,  published  by  Piclvering  &  Co.,  London,  in  1879. 
Tlie  following  is  the  Dedication  :  "To  my  father,  in  ac- 
knowledgment that  the  best  work  I  can  do  is  owed  to 
him."  Home  belongs  to  the"modern  scliool  of  poetrj', 
to  the  shaping  of  whose  strains  Tennyson  lias  contrib- 
uted so  mucli. 


A    CHOICE. 

QUESTION. 

Answer  me :  Peace  or  Love  ? 

Which  do  yon  take  for  your  part? 
Choose  one  or  the  other  hereof, 

You  cannot  have  both,  O  heart ! 

For  Peace  is  passion's  decease, 
Her  blood  is  pallid  and  ashen  ; 

But  Love  is  a  breaker  of  Peace, 

His  inilse  is  the  heart-beat  of  passion. 


Let  Love  and  Passion  bo  rife, 
So  long  as  I  draw  my  breath  ; 

For  Love  is  the  leaven  of  life, 
But  Peace  the  endearer  of  death. 


FROM   "ODE  TO  THE   VINE." 

Again,  O  Vine,  I  turn  to  thee  and  take 

Assurance  from  thy  deathless  loveliness, 
That  Love  and  Beauty  ever  are  awake 

At  Life's  veiled  fountain-head :   and  who  Avould 
press  [twain : 

Tow'rd   Truth   must   go   with    guidance    of  these 
To  whom  with  faith  made  whole 
I  dedicate  my  soul, 
Trusting  to  them  to  lay  a  silver  skein 

Between  my  hands  to  guide  me  to  the  goal 
W^here  dawn  shall  break,  and  from  mine  eyes  the 
darkness  roll. 


(George  JJarsons  Catljrop. 

AMERICAN. 

The  son  of  a  ph}'sician  and  citizen  of  the  United  States, 
Lathrop  was  born  Aug.  25th,  1851,  at  Honolulu,  Oahu, 
Hawaiian  Islands.  He  received  his  education  in  New 
I'ork  and  Germany.    In  1875-'77  he  was  assistant  edi- 


tor of  the  Atlantic  3IontMy.  His  first  volume  of  poems, 
"Rose  and  Koof-tree,"  appeared  in  1875;  "A  Study  of 
Hawthorne"  (1876).  He  is  the  author  of  two  published 
novels.  His  occupation  is  that  of  a  journalist.  In  1878 
he  assumed  the  editorship  of  the  Boston  Courier.  As  a 
lecturer,  and  a  contributor  to  our  best  magazines,  he  is 
also  favorably  known.  His  wife  is  a  daughter  of  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne  (180i-18G4). 


MUSIC  OF  GROWTH. 

Music  is  in  all  growing  things; 
And  underneath  the  silky  wings 

Of  smallest  insects  there  is  stirred 
A  pulse  of  air  that  must  be  heard  ; 
Earth's  silence  lives,  and  throbs,  and  sings. 

If  poet  from  the  vibrant  strings 
Of  his  poor  heart  a  measure  flings, 
Laugh  not,  that  he  no  trumpet  blows : 
It  may  be  that  Heaven  hears  and  knows 
His  language  of  low  listenings. 


SONNET:   THE   LOVER'S   YEAR. 

Thou  art  my  morning,  twilight,  noon,  and  eve, 
My  Summer  and  my  Winter,  Spring  and  Fall ; 
For  Nature  left  on  thee  a  touch  of  all 
The  moods  that  come  to  gladden  or  to  grieve 
The  heart  of  Time,  with  purpose  to  relieve 
From  lagging  sameness.     So  do  these  forestall 
In  thee  such  o'erheaped  sweetnesses  as  pall 
Too  swiftly,  and  the  taster  tasteless  leave. 
Scenes  that  I  love,  to  me  always  remain 
Beautiful,  whether  under  summer's  sun 
Beheld,  or,  storm-dark,  stricken  across  with  rain. 
So,  through  all  humors  tbou'rt  the  same,  sweet  one : 
Doubt  not  I  love  thee  well  in  each,  who  see 
Thy  constant  change  is  changeful  constancy. 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  EYES. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

(O  still,  celestial  beam !) 
Whatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  suushino  of  thine  eyes, 

Oil,  let  it  fall  on  me ! 
Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

I  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee ! 


938 


CYCLOI'JCDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


Jrancis  IV.  Souri^iillon. 

Bourdillon.one  of  theyoiini^cr  Eiii^lish  jjocts,  was  boni 
in  1832.  While  j-et  an  uiuleifiradmite  at  Worcester  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  he  won  reputation  as  a  poet  bj'  two  grace- 
ful stanzas,  eight  lines  in  all,  entitled  "Light."  They 
were  speedily  translated  into  the  principal  languages  of 
Europe.  Rarely  has  a  poet  won  his  spurs  on  so  small  a 
venture  in  verse.  Bourdillon  is  the  author  of  "Among 
the  Flowers,  and  other  Poems,"  a  volume  of  170  pages, 
published  in  London,  in  1878,  by  Marcus  Ward  &  Co. 
A  native  of  AVoolbedding,  in  Sussex,  he  dedicates  his 
poems  to  it  as  embracing  "  the  influences,  memories,  and 
aflections  that  for  all  men  haunt  the  name  of  home." 


LIGHT. 


The  night  Las  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  snn. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  its  day  is  done. 


c.*:li. 


If  stars  were  really  watching  eyes 
Of  angel  armies  in  the  skies, 
I  should  forget  all  watchers  there, 
And  only  for  your  glances  care. 

And  if  your  eyes  were  really  stars. 
With  leag^ues,  that  uoue  can  mete,  for  bars 
To  keep  me  from  their  longod-for  day, 
I  could  not  feel  more  far  away. 


THE   HOME   OF   MY   HEART. 

Not  here,  in  the  populous  town, 

In  the  playhouse  or  mart, 
Not  here,  in  the  ways  gray  and  brown, 
But  afar,  on  the  green  swelling  down, 

Is  the  home  of  my  heart. 

There  the  hill-side  slopes  down  to  a  dell, 

Whence  a  strcandet  has  start. 
There  ai-o  woods  and  sweet  grass  on  the  swell, 
And  the  south  winds  and  west  know  it  well  ; 

There's  the  home  of  my  heart. 


There's  a  cottage  o'ershadowed  by  leaves, 

Growing  fairer  than  art, 
Wluire,  under  the  low  sloi)ing  eaves 
No  false  hand  the  swallow  bereaves ; 

'Tis  the  home  of  my  heart. 

And  there,  on  the  slant  of  the  lea, 

AVhere  the  trees  stand  apart. 
Over  grassland  and  woodland,  maybe 
You  will  catch  the  faint  gleam  of  the  sea 

From  the  home  of  my  heart. 

And  there  in  the  rapturous  spring. 

When  the  morning  rays  dart 
O'er  the  plain,  and  the  morning  birds  sing, 
You  may  see  the  most  beautiful  thing 

In  the  home  of  my  heart ; 

For  there  at  the  casement  above, 

Win-ns  the  rose-bushes  part. 
Will  blush  the  fair  face  of  my  love: — - 
All,  yes!   it  is  this  that  will  prove 

'Tis  the  home  of  my  heart. 


THE   DIFFERENCE. 

Sweeter  than  voices  in  the  scented  hay. 
Or  laughing  children  gleaning  ears  that  stray. 
Or  Christmas  songs  that  shake  the  snows  above, 
Is  the  first  cuckoo,  when  he  comes  with  love. 

Sadder  than  birds  on  sunless  summer  eves, 

Or  drip  of  rain-drops  on  the  fallen  leaves. 

Or  wail  of  wintry  waves  on  frozen  shore. 

Is  Spring  that  comes,  but  brings  ns  love  no  more. 


LET  US  LOVE. 

Love,  let  us  love !     AVhat  have  we  else  to  do  f 
Who  cannot  count  one  hour  of  life  to  come; 

Who  only  know  the  present  to  be  true. 

The  voice  that  now  we  hear  to  be  not  dumb  ; 

To  whom,  as  on  a  barren  beach  wo  stand, 

The  jiast  and  future  are  the  tide-whelmed  sand. 

Love,  let  ns  love!  For  love  and  life  and  death  — 
What  else  ? — wo  know  are  real ;  and  as  we  must 

Uy  nature's  force  both  liold  and  yield  our  breath. 
So  let  us  take,  not  forced,  but  as  in  trust, 

Upon  ourselves  the  tliird  reality. 

And  love  so  long  as  love,  life,  death  shall  be. 


MAHY  A.  BARE. 


939 


iHarn  vl.  Sarr. 

Born  in  Glass^ow,  Scotland,  Miss  Ban-  was  broiioiit  to 
ibis  countrj-  in  cliildhood,  and  her  traininff  and  intellect- 
ual development  have  been  distinctively  American.  Her 
poems  are  full  of  thought  and  tenderness.  They  have 
been  contributed  to  our  principal  mag-azines,  and  are 
■worthy  to  be  gathered  into  a  volume. 


WHITE    POPPIES. 

O  mystic,  mighty  flower,  "u'Lose  frail  white  leaves, 
Silkj'  and  crumpled  like  a  bauuer  furled. 

Shadow  the  black  mysterious  seed  that  gives 
The  drop  that  soothes  aud  lulls  a  restless  world; 

Xepeuthes  for  our  woe,  yet  swift  to  kill, 

Holding  the  knowledge  of  both  good  aud  ill. 

The  rose  for  beauty  may  outshine  thee  far. 
The  lily  hold  herself  like  some  sweet  saiut 

Apart  from  earthly  grief,  as  is  a  star 
Apart  from  any  fear  of  earthly  taint ; 

The  suowy  poppy  like  an  angel  stands. 

With  consolation  in  her  open  hands. 

Ere  History  was  boru,  the  poets  sung 

How  godlike  Thone  knew  thy  compelling  power, 

Aud  ancient  Ceres,  by  strange  sorrows  wrung, 
Sought  sweet  oblivion  from  thy  healing  flower. 

Giver  of  Sleep  !  Lord  of  the  Laud  of  Dreams ! 

0  simple  weed,  thou  art  not  what  man  deems. 

The  clear-eyed  Greeks  saw  oft  their  God  of  Sleep 
Waudering  about  through   the   black   midnight 
hours, 

Soothing  the  restless  couch  with  slumbers  deep, 
And  scattering  thy  medicated  flowers, 

Till  hands  were  folded  for  their  fiual  rest. 

Clasping  White  Poppies  o'er  a  pulseless  breast. 

We  have  a  clearer  A'ision  ;   everj'  hour 

Kind  liearts  and  hands  the  poppy  juices  meto. 

And  panting  sufferers  bless  its  kindly'  power, 
Aud  weary  ones  invoke  its  peaceful  sleep. 

Health  has  its  Rose  and  Grape  and  joyful  Palm, 

The  Poppy  to  the  sick  is  wine  aud  balm. 

1  sing  the  Poppy !     The  frail  snowy  weed  ! 
The  flower  of  Mercy!   that  within  its  heart 

Doth  keep  "  a  drop  serene  "  for  human  need, 

A  drowsy  balm  for  every  bitter  smart. 
For  hapi>y  hours  the  Rose  will  idly  blow — 
The  Poppy  hath  a  charm  for  pain  and  woe. 


OUT   OF  THE  DEEP. 

Under  tlu;  stormy  skies,  whoso  wan,  white  light 
Fell  slant  and  cold  upon  the  surging  wave — 
Upon  the  sad  road  of  the  cruel  wave — 
There  was  a  little  boat  which  day  aud  night 
Had  held  its  dead  and  dying  in  the  sight 
Of  Him  who  dwelleth  in  Eternity. 

Out  of  the  shuddering  cold,  out  of  the  deep. 
Into  the  warmth  of  life,  and  love,  and  rest — 
Into  the  sweet  content  of  grateful  rest — 
They  came.     The  watchful  angels  did  not  sleep 
Who  had  a  charge  concerning  souls  to  keep: 
The  saving  ship  liad  followed  their  behest. 

Poor  weary  souls!  If  their  eyes  could  have  seeu 
The  shining  footsteps  on  the  deep,  wet  ways — 
Making  so  still  the  deep  and  perilous  ways — 

Ah,  then  how  calm  their  troubled  hearts  had  been  ! 

The  chafing  surge  aud  winds  had  heard  between 
Their  hideous  roar  a  sigh  of  human  praise. 

Dear  soul,  this  is  a  parable.     Tliou  hast 

Been  shipwrecked  oft  upon  life's  stormy  sea — 
Left  all  alone  upon  life's  stormy  sea — 
And  yet  some  saving  vessel  always  passed, 
And  to  thy  trembling  hands  the  life-line  cast : 
And  as  it  has  been,  so  it  still  shall  be. 


A   HAKVEST-HOME. 

It  is  not  long  since  we  with  happy  feet 

Stood  ankle-deep  in  grasses,  fresh  and  green  ; 

While  in  the  apple-blossoms,  pink  and  sweet, 
Tlie  singing  birds,  with  flashing  wings,  were  seen. 

It  is  not  long  ago — not  long  ago — 

Since  the  glad  winds  ran   through  the  tasselled 
corn  : 
This  way  and  that  way,  swaying  to  aud  fro, 

The  golden  wheat  waited  the  harvest  moru. 

Now  all  the  silent  fields  are  brown  and  bare, 
Aud  all  the  singing  birds  are  gone  awqy  ; 

But  peaceful  calm  is  in  the  hazy  air. 

And  we,  content,  can  watch  the  sweet  decay. 

For  so  the  hay  is  saved,  the  corn,  the  wheat. 
The  Iiouey  from  a  thousand  scented  bowers, 

W^hile  russet  apples,  delicately  sweet,         [flowers. 
Hang  where   once  liung   the  pink -white  apple- 


940 


CYCLOPEDIA    OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


So  we  iu  our  life's  autumu  stilly  miiso 
Upon  the  harvest  of  our  gathered  years, 

Fiiuliiig  the  hopes  that  once  we  feared  to  lose 
Gi'owu  perfeet  through  our  toil  and  love  aud  tears, 

And  saying,  gratefully,  "Although  their  flower 
Was  strangely  fair  and  sweet,  from  cup  to  root, 

'Tveas  best  they  changed  with  us  from  hour  to  hour, 
For  better  than  the  Blossom  is — the  Fruit." 


fllarji  (!:.  Daubriuc. 


AMERICAN. 

Miss  Vandyne  is  a  native  of  Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  and  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  our  periodical  literature. 


WHEN   I  WENT   FISHIXG  WITH   DAD. 

When  I  was  a  boy — I'm  an  old  man  now ; 
Look  at  the  lines  across  ray  brow; 

Old  Time  has  furrowed  them  there. 
My  back  is  bent  and  my  eyes  are  dim ; 
He  has  placed  his  finger  on  every  limb. 
And  pulled  out  most  of  my  hair. 
But  if  life  has  reached  December, 
I'm  not  too  old  to  remember 
When  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

We  would  each  of  us  shoulder  his  part  of  the  load, 
Aud  joyfully  start  along  the  road — 
But  dad's  was  the  heaviest  share. 
Out  of  the  village  about  a  mile, 
Over  a  meadow,  across  a  stile, 
And  then  we  were  almost  there. 
Dear  old  brook,  I  can  see  it  still, 
The  mossy  bank  and  the  old  gray  mill, 
AVhere  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

We  would  wander  about  for  a  little  space 
To  find  the  cosiest,  shadiest  place, 

Before  we  went  to  work. 
Then  dad  would  arrange  his  rod  and  line. 
And  tell  me  just  how  to  manage  mine 
When  the  fish  began  to  jerk. 

If  I  only  could  feel  as  I  used  to  then ! 
If  the  days  conld  only  come  back  again, 
When  I  went  fishing  with  dad! 

Wo  armed  our  hooks  with  the  wriggling  bait. 
Then  seated  ourselves  on  the  bank  to  wait 
And  see  if  the  fish  would  bite. 


Sometimes  they  would  only  take  a  look, 
As  if  they  thought  there  might  bo  a  hook, 
But  couldn't  be  certain  quite. 

There  was  one  old  perch  that  I  used  to  think 
Would  always  look  at  the  line  and  wink, 
When  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

And  so  we  fished  till  the  sun  was  high. 
And  the  morning  hours  were  all  gone  by. 

And  the  village  clock  struck  one. 
"I  am  hungry,  Jim,"  then  dad  would  say; 
"Let's  give  the  fishes  a  chance  to  play 
Until  our  lunch  is  done." 

Oh,  nothing  has  ever  tasted  so  sweet 

As  the  big  sandwiches  I  used  to  eat 

When  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

Then  dad  aud  I  would  lie  on  the  grass 
And  wait  for  the  heat  of  the  day  to  pass : 

How  happy  I  used  to  feel! 
And  what  wonderful  stories  he  would  tell 
To  the  eager  boy  that  ho  loved  so  well, 
After  our  mid-day  meal ! 

And  how  I  would  nestle  close  to  his  side 
To  hear  of  the  world  so  big  and  wide, 
When  I  went  fishing  with  dad! 

For  I  eagerly  listened  to  every  word; 
And  then  among  men  of  whom  I  heard 

IIow  I  longed  to  play  a  part ! 
What  wonderful  dreams  of  the  future  came. 
What  visions  of  wealth  aud  an  honored  name, 
To  fill  my  boyish  heart ! 

There  is  no  dream  like  the  old  dream. 
There  is  no  stream  like  the  old  stream 
Where  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

Then  back  again  to  our  sport  we'd  go. 
And  fish  till  the  sunset's  crimson  glow 

Lit  up  the  dying  day; 
Then  dad  would  call  to  me,  "Jim,  we'll  stop; 
The  basket  is  full  to  the  very  top ; 
It's  time  we  wei'e  on  our  way." 

There  are  no  ways  like  the  old  ways, 
There  are  no  days  like  the  old  days 
When  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

Then  we  took  our  way  through  the  meadow-land, 
And  I  clung  so  tight  to  his  wrinkled  hand. 

As  happy  as  I  could  be. 
And  when  the  old  house  came  in  sight, 
The  smile  on  his  old  face  grew  so  bright 

As  ho  looked  down  at  me. 


MA  BY  E.   VANDYXE.— ELAINE  AND  DORA    GOOD  ALE. 


941 


And  no  one  smiles  as  bo  nsed  to  smile  ; 
And,  ob,  it  seems  sucb  a  long,  long  wbile 
Since  I  went  lisbing  witb  dad. 

It  is  'way,  'way  back  in  tbe  weary  years 
Tbat  witb  acbing  heart  and  falling  tears 

I  watcbcd  dad  go  away. 
His  aged  bead  lay  on  my  breast 
Wben  tbe  angels  called  bim  bome  to  rest — 
He  was  too  old  to  stay. 

And  I  dug  a  grave  'neatb  tbe  very  sod 
Tbat  ray  boyish  feet  so  often  trod 
When  I  went  fishing  witb  dad. 

Tbe  world  has  given  me  wealth  and  fame, 
Fulfilled  my  dreams  of  au  honored  name. 

And  now  I  am  weak  and  old  ; 
The  land  is  mine  wherever  I  look ; 
I  can  catch  my  fish  with  a  silver  hook ; 
But  my  days  are  almost  told. 

Uncheered  by  tbe  love  of  child  or  wife, 
I  would  spend  the  end  of  ray  lonely  life 
"Where  I  went  fishing  with  dad. 

INIy  limbs  are  weary,  my  eyes  are  dim ; 
I  shall  tell  them  to  lay  me  close  by  bim, 

Whenever  I  come  to  die ; 
And  side  by  side,  it  will  be  my  wish, 
Tbat  there  by  the  stream  where  they  used  to  fish. 
They  will  let  the  old  men  lie. 
Close  by  him  I  would  like  to  be, 
Buried  beneath  tbe  old  oak-tree 
Where  I  sat  and  fished  with  dad. 


({:U^abctij  €)t\\x\}  illillcr. 


Born  in  Lexington,  Va.,  Dec.  2cl,  1859,  Miss  Miller  can 
count  among  her  ancestry  some  historic  names  :  on  her 
father's  side,  that  of  Jonathan  Dickinson,  founder  and 
lirst  President  of  Princeton  College;  while  her  mother, 
a  daughter  of  Governor  McDowell  of  Virginia,  and  niece 
of  William  C.  Preston,  the  eloquent  South  Carolina  Sen- 
ator, had  for  grandfather  the  gallant  Gen.  William  Camp- 
bell, who  won  the  battle  of  King's  Mountain  inlTSo;  and 
for  grandmother,  Elizabeth  Henry,  a  sister  of  Patrick 
Henry,  of  whom  every  school-boy  knows.  Miss  Henry 
was  quite  as  remarkable  in  intellectual  respects  as  her 
illustrious  brother,  whom  she  resembled  in  many  of  her 
traits.  Thus  Miss  Miller,  who  was  named  after  her,  may 
be  said  to  be  entitled  to  her  intellectual  endowments  by 
the  law  of  heredity.  The  specimen  of  her  poems  which 
we  subjoin  was  written  by  her  before  she  bad  reached 
her  twelfth  year. 


KOW  AND   EVER. 

Ask  what  you  will,  my  own  and  only  love ; 

For  to  love's  service  true. 
Your  least  wish  sways  me  as  from  worlds  above. 

And  I  yield  all  to  you 

Who  art  tbe  only  she, 
And  in  one  girl  all  womanhood  to  rae. 

Yet  some  things  e'en  to  thee  I  cannot  yield, — 

As  tbat  one  gift  by  which 
On  the  still  morning  on  the  woodside  field 

Thou  mad'st  existence  rich, — 

Who  wast  the  only  she. 
And  in  one  girl  all  womanhood  to  me. 

We  had  talked  long,  and  then  a  silence  came  ; 

And  in  the  topmost  firs 
To  bis  nest  a  white  dove  floated  like  a  flame. 

And  my  lips  closed  on  bei's 

Who  was  the  only  she. 
And  in  one  girl  all  womanhood  to  me. 

Since  when,  my  heart  lies  by  her  heart — nor  now 

Could  I,  'twixt  hers  and  mine. 
Nor  the  most  love-skilled  angel  choose ;   so  thou 

In  vain  wouldst  ask  for  thine, 

Who  art  the  only  she, 
And  in  one  girl  all  womanhood  to  me. 


(Jrlainc  anb  Dora  ©ootialc. 

AMERICANS. 

Among  the  precocious  poets,  Elaine  Goodale  (born 
Oct.  9tli,  1SG3),  and  Dora  Read  Goodale  (born  Oct.  29th, 
1866),  will  long  be  remembered.  Their  home,  which  bears 
the  appropriate  name  of  "Sky  Farm,"  is  in  South  Egre- 
mont,  Mass.,  on  the  very  summit  of  the  higliest  of  the 
Berkshire  Hills.  Both  mother  and  father  have  the  poet- 
ical gift ;  but  the  songs  of  the  cliildren  have  been  as  un- 
prompted as  those  of  the  young  thrush.  Their  first  vol- 
ume, "Apple-blossoms:  Verses  of  Two  Children,"  was 
published  in  1878  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York.  In 
the  Preface,  the  parents  saj':  "  Tliese  verses  are,  above 
all  else,  fresh  and  spontaneous,  the  almost  unconscious 
outllow  of  two  simple,  wholesome  lives,  in  their  earliest 
youth." 

PAPA'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Elaine  Goodale. 
O  dear  Sky  Farm !     O  rare  Sky  Farm ! 

Rejoice,  to-day,  rejoice ! 
Unite  your  many  tongues  to  ours 

In  cue  harmouious  voice ; 


942 


CYCL01\EL)IA    OF  BRITISH  AM)  AMEUICAN  rOEIEY. 


Yc  wiiisoiiKi  warbliTS  of  the  wood, 
Poiii-  foitli  your  clarion  lays, 

Anil  welcome  to  tlio  luii)i)y  earth 
This  happiest  of  day.s  ! 

For  'tis  the  anniversary 

Of  his  auspicious  birth, 
Wiio  singled  out  from  all  the  world 

This  cherished  spot  of  earth  ; 
Who  brought  a  loved  and  loving  wife 

To  grace  its  hauuts  so  Avild, 
And,  with  its  blessing,  thrice  became 

The  father  of  a  child. 

It  is  his  birthday  Avho  has  tilled 

Its  acres  broad  and  fair, 
Has  reai)ed  its  golden  harvest-fields, 

And  breathed  its  balmy  air; 
Whoso  holy,  happy  home  it  is, 

With  mother,  children,  wife, 
Whose  vine-clad  cottage  crowns  the  hill, 

Brimful  of  health  and  life. 

O  dear  Sky  Farm !     O  rare  Sky  Farm ! 

Break  out  in  brighter  bloom, 
And  waft  o'er  all  the  emerald  fields 

Your  incense  of  perfume  ! 
Deep  heavens  of  celestial  blue, 

AVatcli  o'er  him,  guard  and  bless 
Through  many  a  sunlit  birthday  more 

Of  love  and.  happiness  ! 

May  warmer  union  bind  our  hearts 

Together  from  this  hour, 
And  draw  us  closer  to  our  farm 

With  deep  and  sacred  power! 
Grant  every  highest,  purest  joy. 

Protect  from  every  harm, 
The  planter  of  our  precious  home, 

The  founder  of  fSky  Farm  ! 


ASHES   OF   ROSES. 
Elaine  Goodale. 

Soft  ou  the  sunset  sky 
Bright  daylight  closes, 
Leaving,  when  light  doth  die, 
Pale  hues  that  mingling  lie, — 
Ashes  of  roses. 

When  Love's  warm  sun  is  set. 
Love's  brightness  closes; 


Eyes  with  hot  tears  are  wet, 
In  hearts  there  linger  yet 
Ashes  of  roses. 


KIl'E   GKAIX. 
Dora   Read  Goodale. 

<)  still,  white  face  of  perfect  peace, 

I'ntouehcd  by  passion,  freed  from  paiu,- 

Ile  who  ordained  that  work  should  cease 
Took  to  Himself  the  ripened  grain. 

O  noble  face!   your  beauty  bears 

The  glory  that  is  wrung  from  pain, — 

The  high,  celestial  beauty  wears 
Of  finished  work,  of  ripened  grain. 

Of  human  care  you  left  no  trace. 
No  lightest  trace  of  grief  or  pain, — 

Ou  earth  an  empty  form  and  face — 
In  Heaven  stands  the  ripened  grain. 


APRIL!   APRIL!   ARE   YOU  HERE  f 

Dora  Read  Goodale. 

April  I   Ajiril !   are  you  here? 

Oh,  how  fresh  the  wind  is  Idowing! 
See!   the  sky  is  bright  and  clear. 

Oh,  how  green  the  grass  is  growing! 
April !   April !   are  you  here? 

April!  April!   is  it  you? 

See  how  fair  the  iiowers  are  springing! 
Sun  is  warm  and  brooks  are  clear, 

Oh,  how  glad  the  birds  are  singing ! 
April !   April !   is  it  you  ? 

April !  April !   you  are  here  ! 

Though  your  smiliug  turn  to  weeping, 
Though  your  skies  grow  cold  and  drear. 

Though  your  gentle  winds  are  sleeping, 
April!   April!   you  are  here! 


W^HAT  IS  LEFTf 

Dora  Read  Goodale. 

Tiie  trees  are  barren,  cold  and  brown, 
The  snow  is  white  on  vale  and  hill. 

The  gentian,  aster  too,  are  gone, 
Is  there  no  blossom  with  us  still? 


DOHA  MEAD   GOODALE.—UESTER  M.  POOLE. 


943 


Oil,  look  upou  tlio  bazel  bongh! 

The  tiowers  there  are  bright  as  gold, 
Tliongb  all  is  cold  and  wintry  now, 

Their  little  petals  still  nnfuld. 

The  apples  red  have  fallen  down, 

And  silent  is  the  joyous  rill; 
The  robin  and  the  thrnsh  have  flown, — 

Is  there  no  bird  to  glad  ns  still  ? 

Hark !   don't  you  hear  a  gladsome  song, 
A  merry  chirp  from  tiny  throat  ? — 

The  snow-bird  all  the  winter  long 
Will  cheer  ns  with  his  happy  note. 

i^estcr  ilT.  |)oolc. 

AMERICAN. 

A  native  of  Georgia,  Vt.,  Miss  Hunt  was  married  to 
C.  D.  Poole,  of  New  York  city ;  but  her  present  home  is 
Metuchen,  N.  J.  X^-ova  a  child  she  has  had  literary  tastes, 
but  it  is  only  recently  that  her  poems  have  appeared  in 
print.     As  a  prose  writer  she  is  favorably  known. 


AX  OCTOBER   SCENE. 

An  azure  sky,  a  soft,  transparent  mist 

Veiling  the  distance,  glimmering  in  the  sheen 
Of  an  October  day :   low  winds  that  kissed 

The  tender,  fading  green  ;  [sheaves, 

The   wheat   fields  brown   and   sere  without   their 

The  loitering  kine  that  seek  the  sunny  shed. 
The  idly  falling  drift  of  withered  leaves, 
Their  gold  and  crimson  dead ; — 

The  cricket's  plaintive  chirp  ;   a  warning  hush 

O'er  all  the  tender  sadness  of  the  scene,— 
Proclaim  throughout  our  beauteous  laud  the  death 

Of  summer's  glorious  sheen. 

Soon  numbing  winter  stills  the  bounding  life 

Now  flowing  free,  and  holds  iu  deadly  chill 

The  steady  upward  beat,  the  march,  the  strife 

Which  Nature's  pulses  thrill. 

O  wondrous  change!    The  spring  shall  come  again. 

The  blood  shall  course  through  man  and  plant  and 

A  rest,  a  pause,  a  seeming  death, — and  then   [tree: 

The  joyous  earth  shall  see 
Its  soul  awaken  to  a  fresher  day: 

A  fuller,  richer  dawn  shall  surely  come. 
Takf.  heart,  O  mourner !     Leave  the  pulseless  clay. 
Look  upward  to  thy  home. 

The  heart  that  beat,  the  brain  that  ranged  at  will 
O'er  fields  of  thought  aud  garnered  plenteous  store. 


Gleans  now  in  fiiirer  fields  and  loves  thee  still, — 
Grim  Death  triumphant  o'er! 

And  when  the  spring  breaks  o'er  that  mystic  sea 
That  flows  so  wintry  cold  beyond  earth's  strand. 

There  shall  thy  loved  one  wait  to  welcome  thee 
In  that  blessed  Sunmier-land ! 


A  LITTLE   WHILE. 

A  little  while,  my  friend,  a  little  while. 

And  sullen  winter  yields  his  frigid  sway. 
Though  now  there  comes  a  long  and  dreary  file 

Of  leadeu  days,  and  o'er  our  heads  no  smile 
Of  the  pale,  sickly  suu  lights  up  our  way. 
Sometime,  to  you  and  me 
Come  hours  so  bright  and  free 
That  we  can  wait,  aud  waiting,  sing  alway! 

Dear  heart!   be  patient  but  a  little  while. 

For  now  all  things  take  their  long  night  of  rest : 
Without,  the  snow  is  stretching  many  a  mile 

O'er  desolate  hills,  whose  rocky,  ice-bound  crest 
Hold  uo  warm  nook,  no  flowers,  nor  feathery  nest 
Of  gladsome  singing-bird. 
Whose  trills,  whenever  heard, 
Awoke  iu  us  such  youthful,  jocund  zest. 

A  little  while,  dear  one,  a  little  while! 

Wo  only  Avait  the  comiug  of  our  s[)ring; 
And  though  the  path  be  long,  let  us  beguile 

The  way  with  hope;  let  Faith  bear  us  on  wing 
So  strong  she  falters  not,  until  she  bring, 
W^ith  love's  compulsion  sweet, 
A  life  so  full, 'tis  meet  [ding- 

That,  watching  for  that  hour,  we  care  to  glad  wings 

A  little  while,  my  friend,  a  little  while 

The  earth  bears  seeds  deep  iu  her  faithful  heart, 
In  the  dark  mould  they  lonely  wait,  meanwhile, 

For  the  glad  sun,  through  the  long  weeks  apart; 
Then,  when  they  feel  the  swift,  electric  smart 
Of  the  God's  rapturous  kiss. 
That  wakes  to  life  and  bliss. 
Each  softly,  slowly  climbs  the  other's  heart. 

A  little  while,  dear  one,  and  we  shall  bloom: 

Our  lives  will  find  their  fulness  in  the  spring 
Which  nature  gives  to  all.     Is  there  not  room 

In  the  eternities  above,  for  gloom 
Somewhat  to  shadow  with  its  darkling  wing 
The  rapturous  flood  of  joy  which  love  shall  bring, 
When  Death  has  lost  his  sting. 
As   on  victorious  wing 
We  soar  to  iiiu1,  in  Heaven,  perpetual  spring? 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES,  Etc. 


A  l):iby  was  sleeping Lover.  5(iT 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong Curtis.  T94 

A  brace  of  sinners  for  no  good Wulcot.  221 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highhnids  bonnd Campbell.  335 

A  clond  la}'  cradled  near  the  setting  sun J.  Wilson.  375 

A  flawless  jiearl T.W.  Hipginson.  T91 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by Wordsworth.  292 

A  form  not  always  dark Miss  Bates.  923 

A  good  man  there  was  of  rcligionii Chancer,      2 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand Hawker.  5S4 

A  good  that  never  satislies  the  mind Drunimond.    50 

A  grace  though  melancholy,  manly  too //.  Taylor.  505 

A  harmless  fellow  wasting  useless  days G.  Arnold.  S58 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave h'.  Sargent.  716 

A  little  bird  flew E.  Sargent.  717 

A  little  while,  Tiiy  friend,  n  little  while Poole.  943 

A  lonely  wanderer  upon  earth  am  I H.  Co'eridge.  498 

A  lonely  way,  and  as  I  went  my  eyes Dowden.  932 

A  lovely  sky,  a  cloudless  sun Street.  701 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade Dt/ron.  403 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell AUingham.  S25 

'•A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  Scene  from..  ..Massinger.    4S 

A  nook  within  the  forest Street.  701 

A  place  in  thy  inenmry,  dearest Griffin.  583 

A  2>oet  .'—lie  hath  put  his  heart  to  school Wurdswurth.  293 

A  rhyme,  a  rhyme Mahony.  598 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion Mrs.  Norton.  G4G 

A  song  for  the  oak Charley.  042 

A  squad  of  regular  infantry Hay.  893 

A  steed,  a  steed  of  matchless  speed Motherwell.  499 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house Mrs.  Knox.  845 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous Thackeray.  C9C 

A  sun-burst  on  the  bay Sir  A  uhrey  de  Vere.  394 

A  thing  of  lieauty  is  a  joy  forever . .  Keats.  491 

,\  view  of  present  life  is  all  thou  liast McKnight.  901 

A  volant  tribe  of  bards Wordsivorth.  292 

A  weary  weed  tossed  to  and  fro Fenner.  780 

A  wee  bird  cam'  to  our  ha'  door G-Vcm.  411 

A  wet,  sheet  and  a  flowiiitr  sea Cunningham.  30(i 

A  wild  wet  night !  the  driving  sleet 537 

A  winter  night !  the  stormy  wind Barton.  309 

A  wish  to  my  lips  never  sjirung Mowatl-Ritchie.  770 

A  wolf-like  stream  without  a  sound ./.  Miller.  914 

Abide  not  in  the  land  of  dr(?anis liurleigh.  705 

Abide  with  me  !  fast  falls  the  even-tide Lyte.  445 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Hunt.  371 

Above  the  city  of  Berlin Mrs.  Hooper.  877 

Abram  and  Zimri  owned  a  field  together Ciarcnce  Cook.  823 

Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint King.    5S 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit Mrs.  Thaxler.  802 

Ae  day  a  clock  wad  brag  a  dial Ramsay.  139 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ISarns.  200 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride I'ringle.  407 

Afloat ;  we  move Cloiigh.  7.55 

Again,  again  she  comes Herney.  001 

Again  has  come  the  si)ring-time ...S'.  Longfellow.  706 

Again,  how  can  she  but  immortal  be Davics.    45 

60 


PARE 

Again,  O  Vine,  I  turn  to  thee  and  take Home.  937 

Again  the  flowers  we  loved  to  twine Date.  499 

Again  the  Lord  of  life  and  lii;ht Mrs.  Darbauld.  228 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days Elliott.  361 

Again  to  the  battle,  Achaians Cav\phell.  334 

Again  ye  fields,  again  ye  woods  and  farms De  Kay.  933 

Ages  have  rolled Dlanco  White.  325 

A h,  Ben  !  say,  how  or  when Herrick.    54 

Ah,  Freedom  is  a  noble  thing Barbour.      3 

Ah  !  friend,  to  dazzle  let  the  vain  design Pope.  149 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go .Mrs.  Spofford.  863 

Ah,  I  remember  well— and  how  can  1 Daniel.    21 

Ah,  Jennie  dear,  'tis  half  a  year Mrs.  Woolson.  888 

Ah,  many  a  time  we  look ()'.  Alexander.  797 

Ah  me  !  full  sorely  is  my  heart Shenstone.  ISl 

Ah  I  my  heart  is  weary  wailing McCarthy.  749 

Ah  !  sweet  Kitty  Neil Waller.  C74 

Ah  !  what  a  weary  race T.  Warton.  204 

All,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race Landor.  329 

Alas  1  and  alas,  my  sorrow 538 

Alas,  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see Shelley.  430 

Alas  !  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there Shal.speare.    31 

Alfied,  I  would  that  you Ilallam.  695 

All  before  us  lies  the  way Emerson.  593 

All  day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown Miss  Proctor.  839 

All  hail  !  thou  noble  land Allston.  350 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died Longfellow.  032 

All  I  am  sure  of  Heaven  is  this Patmore.  790 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored Gay.  151 

All  moveless  stand G.  Arnold.  8.^8 

All  praise  to  thee,  my  God,  this  night Ken.  120 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac Mrs.  Beers.  818 

All  round  us  lie R.  Rea'f.  SCO 

All  things  once  are  things  forever Milnes.  059 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights Coleridge.  306 

All  throuirh  the  afternoon A.  P.  Miller.  8S5 

All  travellers  at  first  incline Swift.  125 

All  victory  is  struggle,  using  chance 536 

Alleii-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning Sc.olt.  299 

Aloft  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag O'Brien.  832 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street Piatt.  864 

Alone  with  God Miss  Clemmer.  891 

Althoiigli  I  enter  not Thackeray.  696 

Am  I  in  Italy  ?    Is  this  the  !Mincius? Rogers.  268 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say linnim.  504 

An  ancient  sage  <nice  on  a  lime Mr.^.  Conant.  895 

An  azure  sky,  a  soft,  transi)arcnt  mist Poole.  943 

An'  O  !  may  I  never  live  single  again Laing.  382 

And  are  ye  sine  the  news  is  true Mickle.  217 

And  is  there  care  iu  heaven, and  is  there  love Spenser.    13 

And  is  this  life Mrs.  E.  O.  Smith.  619 

And  now  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe Falconer.  205 

And  now  unveiled  the  toilet  stands  displayed Pope.  145 

And,  oh  beloved  voices Mrs.  Browning.  070 

And,  oh  tlie  longing,  burning  eyes Lclnnd.  796 

And  one  there  was  a  dreamer  born Whittier.  63S 

And  shall  we  never  see  each  other Ta'fuurd.  470 


946 


IXDJJX  OF  FIRST  LINES,  ETC. 


And  thou  art  Roiio,  most  loved Allston.  3f>0 

And  thou  h:ist  walked  about //.  Smith.  3.V2 

And  thou,  too,  ^'oiie lilackif.  Cii7 

And,  lliouirli  foi-  her  sake Wither.    .V) 

And  what  is  ^o  rare  as  a  day  in  June Lowell.  703 

And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary Ilotoitt.  590 

And  where  is  he  ?    Not  by  the  side Xeele.  833 

And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire .Misn  lilamire.  233 

An^'els  of  lisht il/jx.s  Procter.  805 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky Kmerisiin.  5(»2 

Answer  me,  burning  stars  of  night Mrx.  Uemans.  448 

Answer  me :  Peace  or  Love Home.  937 

April !  April !  are  you  here D.  li.  Goodalc.  942 

Artcvelde  and  Klena //.  Taijlor.  507 

As  a  fond  mother Iiowifellow.  C32 

As  a  twig  trembles  wliich  a  bird Lowell.  764 

As  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat //.  More.  229 

As  die  the  embers  on  the  hearth htrkxon.  770 

As  dyed  in  blood  the  streaming  vines  appear .lA.s.s  liatcx.  923 

As  fearless  as  a  cherub's  rest Clare.  452 

As  I  came  down  through  Cannobie 527 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 150 

As  I  went  forth  to  take  the  air 162 

As  little  children  running  on  before Miss  Hates.  924 

As  near  Porto-Bello  lying Glover.  179 

As  one  arranges  in  a  single  vase liethune.  010 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part Roscoe.  244 

As  one  who  leaves  a  prison  cell Conant.  SSO 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn C.7\  Turner.   049 

As  Rochefoucaiilt  his  maxims  drew Swift.  124 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve  that  lay Clovjh.  754 

As  swayeth  in  the  summer  wind Mrs.  Gustafnon.  900 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes A  hlrich.  SOS 

As  when  a  little  child A.  P.Miller.  SS5 

As  when  on  Carmel's  sterile  steep J.  U.  Bryant.  627 

As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night Pope.  150 

Ascent  of  Being,  The 1  kenside.  IS" 

Ask  me  no  more Tennyson.  CSl 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows Carew.    53 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here Ilerrick.    57 

Ask  what  you  will,  my  own  and  only  love Miss  Miller.  941 

At  dead  of  night  a  south-west  breeze T.  Hill.  751 

At  evening  in  the  i)ort  she  lay lieers.  930 

At  last  she  chanced  by  good  hap  to  meet Spenser.    12 

At  midnight,  from  the  sullen  sleep Martin.  739 

At  midnight  in  his  guarded  teut Halleck.  470 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada Lockhart.  4.55 

At  the  stent  o'  my  string Ainslie.  441 

Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear Macaulay.  502 

Autumn  hath  all  the  summer's  fruitful  treasure .An.s/i.    38 

Ave  Maiia  !  blessi-d  be  tlie  I'.our Ilyron.  39S 

Awake,  my  St.  John,  leave  all  meaner  things Pope.  143 

Awake,  ye  saints,  and  raise  your  eyes Doddridge.  172 

Away  !  let  naught  to  love  displeasing 158 

Awful  power!  whose  birthplace  lies Greg.  COO 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down Holmes.  053 

Ay,  there  ye  shine,  and  there  have  shv)ne 544 

Bachelor's  Hall !  what  a  quarc-lookin'  place Finley.  603 

Backward,  turn  backward Mrs.  Allen.  850 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth Keats.  490 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 71 

Be  patient,  oh  be  patient Trench.  040 

Be  that  sad  .vear,  O  poet,  very  far Miss  JSates.  023 

Be  this  our  trust Davy.  342 

Beautiful,  beautiful  youth • Gallagher.  051 

Beautiful  Kvclyn  Hope  is  dead Drowning.  710 

Beautiful  realm  beyond  the  western  main De  V'ere.  393 

Beautiful  river,  goldenly  shining Elliott.  300 

Beautiful  world Ulackie.  066 

Be^'one,  dull  care,  I  prithee  begone  from  me Gosse.    SO 

Behave  yninser  before  folk Rodger.  SOS 

Behold,  above  the  mountains  there  is  light Gosse.  927 

Behold  men's  judgments Townshcnd.  5S7 

Beliold  the  rocky  wall Holmes.  0.55 

Behold  the  western  evening  light I'eahody.  5J2 

Behold  1  the  wintry  ruins  are  past De  Vere.  72S 


l*ACB 

Behold  this  ruin  !    'Twas  a  skull 540 

Believe  me  If  all  those .Moore.  345 

Believe  ni)t  that  your  inner  eye Milnes.  or.'J 

Beloved  friend,  they  say C.  A.  Dana.  757 

Beneath  a  mountain's  brow,  the  most  remote Home.  192 

Beneath  the  sheltering  walls, Mrs.  Jackson.  843 

Beside  that  mile-stone  where  the  level  sun Whittier.  037 

Between  the  circling  mountains  and  the  sea Symonds.  910 

Beware  of  doubt Mrs.  K.  V.  Smith.  019 

Bird  of  the  wilderness Hogg.  2S1 

Blame  not  the  times Symonds.  912 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he Philips.  120 

Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  trod De  Vere.  72S 

Blessed  is  the  man  whose  heart Symonds.  912 

Blt)W,  blow  thou  winter  wind Shakspeare.    2S 

Blue  Gulf  all  around  us JJrownell.  775 

Bobolink:  that  in  the  meadow Hill.  751 

Bonny  Kilmeny  g.ied  up  the  glen Hogg.  277 

Bowing  adorers  of  the  gale Clare.  452 

Breathe,  trumpets,  breathe G.  Liint.  022 

Bright  star  !  would  I  were  steadfast Keats.  493 

Bright  things  can  never  die 530 

Briglitest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning Heber.  364 

Brother,  my  arm  is  weaker McKnight.  901 

Bruised  and  bleeding,  jiale  and  weary Brooks.  712 

Buckingham  delineated  as  Zimri Dryden.  1  IS 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride Hamilton.  173 

But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue Landor.  328 

But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song I'oije.  142 

But  one  short  week  ago J.  Todhunter.  S.'jO 

But  two  events  dispel  ennui Mrs.  Osgood.  70S 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell Ueattie.  219 

But  yonder  comes  the  jjowerful  king  of  day Thomson.  107 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill Heber.  3(!4 

By  Logan's  streams  that  rin  sae  deep Mayne.  202 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain Mrs.  Alexander.  S3C 

By  the  brink  of  the  river 543 

By  the  rude  bridge Emerson.  594 

By  turns  transformed Churchill.  20S 

Caesar's  Lamentation  over  Vompey.. Beaumo7it  and  Fletcher.    40 

"  Caius  Gracchus,"  Passages  from 3Irs.  McCord.  070 

Caltmthe,  here  ! Banim.  505 

Call  for  the  robin-redbieast  and  the  wren . .   Webster.    34 

Call  me  not  dead  when  1  indeed  have  gone Gilder.  925 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm Bonar.  C50 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  <if  niLrht Sears.  679 

Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould Milton.    96 

Can  dissolution  build Symoiids.  911 

Can  I  see  another's  woe Blake.  250 

Captive  King,  The James  I.      5 

Care-charming  Sleep Beaumont  and  Fletcher.    47 

"Catiline,'"  Scene  from  Croly's 358 

Celebrity  by  some  great  accident Kinney.  SIO 

Change  not,  change  not  to  me,  my  God 547 

Chatham,  Lord,  Character  of. Coicper.  214 

Child  of  my  heart B.  11'.  Procter.  386 

Christ,  whose  glory  fills  the  skies C.  Wexley.  177 

Christmas  is  here Thackeray.  697 

Clang,  clang  !  the  massive  anvils  ring 540 

Clasp  closer,  arms  ;  press  closer,  lips Mrs.  Hooper.  S76 

Close  his  eyes :  his  work  is  done Bokcr.  791 

Columbus,  Three  Sonnets  on Sir  A.de  Vcre.  393 

Come  a  little  nearer.  Doctor Willson.  S74 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I Holmes.  6.53 

Come,  Evening,  once  again Cowper.  211 

Come,  follow,  follow  me,  you  fairy  elves 159 

I'.ime  from  my  First,  ay,  come Pracd.  670 

Come,  gentle  sleej),  attend  thy  votary's  prayer Wolcot.  221 

Come  hither,  come  hither Joyce.  S82 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning Davis.  719 

Come  into  the  gardin,  Maud Tennyson.  6S2 

Come,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue C.  Wesley.  176 

Come,  listen  to  another  song Aytoun.  713 

Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free 81 

Come  live  with  me;  and  be  my  love Martoirc.    20 

Come,  oh  thou  traveller  unknown C.  Wesley.  175 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES,  ETC. 


947 


"  Come,  poor  child,"  say  the  Flowers Jlrs.  GmtafHon.  1)07 

Come,  see  ihe  Dolphui's  anchor  forged Fergtmoti.  611 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy ISeaumont  and  Fletcher.    47 

Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace Sidney.    17 

Come,  Sunshine,  come  !  thee  Nature  calls Vincent.  542 

Come,  sweep  the  harp Mi:i.  J.  G.  llnxiks.  SOS 

Come,  then,  with  all  thy  grave  beatitudes Munby.  SS4 

Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  O  my  God Maedonald.  798 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree Mrs.  Hemans.  450 

Come,  uncles  and  cousins //.  Ware.  450 

Come,  while  the  blossoms W.  G.  Clark.  600 

Come,  ye  disconsolate Moore.  340 

Comes  something  down  with  even-tide Burbidge.  74S 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  raouruer Landor.  320 

Commit  thou  all  thy  griefs J.  Wesley.  173 

Companionship  of  the  Muse Wither.    50 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine S.  Johnson.  178 

Confide  ye  aye  iu  Providence Ballantine.  642 

Consider  the  lilies Miss  Rossetti.  834 

Could  1  but  return Joaquin  Miller.  914 

Could  then  the  babes  I'rom  you  unsheltered  cot Rvssell.  207 

Could  this  ill  warld  ha'c  been  contrived Hogg.  553 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me Mrs.  Craik.  812 

Couldst  thou  iu  calmness  yield Miss  Coleridge.  325 

Courage,  my  soul!  now  learu  to  wield Marvell.  112 

Craumer,  Sonnet  on Sir  A.de  Vere.  393 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid Dryden.  117 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men Milton.    99 

"Crude,  pompous,  turgid,''  the  reviewers  said Fawcett.  930 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played Tjilly.    40 

Cyriac,  this  three-years-day Milton.  100 

"  Damon  and  Pythias,"  Scene  from Banim.  505 

Damon,  let  a  friend  advise  you D'Urfey.  150 

Darkness  was  deepening  o'er  the  seas Miss  Pardoe.  620 

Darlings  of  the  forest Mrs.  Cooke.  819 

Dashing  in  big  drops  on  the  narrow  pane Burleigh.  705 

Daj--duty  done,  Pve  idled  forth Mrs.  Preston.  837 

Day  follows  day ;  years  perish Hayne.  849 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying Mrs.  Brooks.  475 

Day  is  dying  !    Float,  O  song Mrs.  Cross.  771 

Day  on  the  mountain Swain.  585 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes H.  Smith.  354 

Days  of  my  youth,  ye  have  glided  away Tucker.  238 

Dear  as  thou  wert,  and  justly  dear Dale.  409 

Dear  child,  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame Sterling.  619 

Dear  friend,  is  all  we  see  a  dream  ? Bell.  609 

Dear  little  hand  that  clasps  my  own L.  Morris.  854 

Dear  noble  soul,  wisely  thy  lot C.  A.  Dana.  756 

Dear  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  pop Prior.  123 

Dear  Tom,  my  brave,  free-hearted  lad Kenney.  529 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some Donne.    42 

Death  is  a  road Hunt.  372 

Death  of  the  Strong  Man Blair.  155 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low Landor.  329 

Deathless  principle,  arise Toptady.  224 

Deceiving  world,  that  with  alluring  toys R.  Greene.    19 

Deep  calleth  nnto  deep Symonds.  911 

Deep  ill  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove Peidval.  4S2 

"  Deflnitions,"  Couplets  from W. ./.  Linton.  703 

Detached  passages  from  the  Plays Shakspeare.    33 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly Constable.    40 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day D.  Gray.  889 

Distichs Barten  Hulyday.    59 

Do  and  suffer  naught  iu  vain E.  Elliott.  361 

Do  I  regret  the  past Southey.  3'-'3 

Do  you  know  you  have  asked Mrs,  Browning.  670 

Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear Bryant.  467 

Dost  thou  remember  that  autumnal  day Mrs.  Whitman.  583 

Down  in  my  solitude  under  the  snow.. '. Miss  Gould.  530 

Down  on  the  Merrimac  River G.  Lunt.  621 

Dow's  Flat.    That's  its  name Harte.  877 

Diink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes .Jonson.    4.'5 

Dulce  it  is  and  decoru m Clough.  754 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo Burns.  260 

Each  leaf  upon  the  trees ^1.  Smith.  835 


Each  Orpheus  must  to  the  depths  descend M.  Fuller.  678 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair Wordsworth.  293 

Earth  holds  no  fairer,  lovelier  one  than  thou Pcrcival.  482 

Earth  is  but  the  frozen  echo Ilageman.  932 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood Shelley.  433 

Earth  swoons,  o'erwhelmed ...Kimball.  858 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills A.  Cary.  768 

E'en  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal Young.  130 

Elegance  floats  about  thee  like  a  dress S.  P.  Willis.  625 

Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme Aldrich.  868 

Enjoy  the  present  smiling  hour Dryden.  113 

Epigrams  from  the  German Lytton.  60T 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade Coleridge.  .309 

Ere  the  last  stack  is  housed D.  Gray.  889 

Ere  the  morn  the  East  has  crimsoned Calverley.  844 

Eternal  and  omnipotent  Unseen //.  Smith.  3.54 

Eternal  Spirit !  God  of  truth Pollok.  510 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chaiuless  mind Byron.  404 

Even  as  a  nurse Vaughan.  108 

Ever  let  the  fancy  roam Keats.  493 

"  Evil,  be  thou  my  good  "—in  rage Merivale.  343 

Eyes  that  outsmiled  the  morn Mrs.  Hooper.  876 

Fainter  her  slow  step  falls Mrs.  Xorton.  047 

Fair  as  unshaded  light,  or  as  the  day Davenant.    87 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see Uerrick.    54 

Fair  is  my  love,  and  cruel  as  she's  fair Daniel.    21 

Fair  is  thy  face,  Nantasket Miss  Clemmer.  800 

Pair  lady  with  the  bandaged  eye Drake.  473 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree Herrick.    55 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France Drayton.    24 

Fair  simrmer  droops Xash.    39 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  were  questioned Byrom.  153 

False  world,  thou  liest Quarles.    57 

Fantasies  of  Drunkenness Heywood.    36 

Far  greater  numbers  have  been  lost  by  hopes Butler.  104 

Far  in  a  wild  unknown  to  public  view Parnell.  132 

Far  out  at  sea— the  suu  was  high 537 

Farewell  awhile  the  city's  hum Mrs.  Gilman.  458 

Farewell !  but  whenever Moore.  347 

Farewell,  Life,  my  senses  swim Hood.  511 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and  farewell,  my  Jean Ramsay.  139 

Farewell,  ye  soft  and  sumptuous  solitiules M.  Fuller.  077 

Father,  I  will  not  ask  for  wealth  or  fame T.  Parker.  090 

Father  of  all,  in  every  age Pope.  140 

Father  of  earth  and  heaven,  I  call  thy  name T.  Korner.  542 

Father,  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand Very.  713 

Faustus,  Death  of Marlowe.    25 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun Shakspeare.    29 

Few  know  of  life's  beginnings Miss  Landon.  577 

Fierce  raged  the  combat Mrs.  Osgood.  707 

First  at  the  dawn  of  lingering  day Luttrell.  297 

First,  find  thou  Truth,  and  then Shurtleff.  5.50 

Fine  bumblebee  !  fine  bumblebee Emerson.  802 

Five  years  have  passed  ;  five  summers Word.tworth.  285 

Flag  of  my  country,  in  thy  folds W.  P.  Lunt.  613 

Flow  gently,  sweet  A fton Burm.  261 

Flutes  in  the  sunny  air Hervey.  602 

Fly  fro  the  press  and  dwell  with  soothfastness — Chaucer.      3 

Fool  !  I  mean  not Darley.  379 

Forbid,  O  Fate,  forbid  that  I Mrs.  Clive.  569 

For  England  when  with  favoring  gale 533 

For  one  long  term,  or  e'er  her  trial  came 275 

For  Spring,  and  flowers  of  Spring E.  Elliott.  860 

For  sure  in  all  kinds  of  hypocrisy Grcville.    18 

For  the  dead  and  for  the  dying Blood.  897 

For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee Mrs.  Hemans.  4.50 

For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind Southey.  275 

Forever  gone  !  I  am  alone,  alone Conrad.  611 

Forever  thine A.  A.  Watts.  519 

Forever  with  the  Lord Montgomery.  303 

Forget  thee,  if  to  dream  by  night Moultrie.  515 

Fonl  canker  of  fair  virtuous  action Marston.    41 

Freedom  !  beneath  thy  banner Tuckerman.  715 

Fresh  clad  from  heav(Mi  in  robes  of  white Lamb.  327 

Fresh  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood J.H.  Briiant.  626 

Fresh  moruiug  gusts  have  blown  away  all  fear Keats.  492 


948 


lyniLX  OF  FiiisT  lim:s,  etc. 


TARR 

Frioii(lslii|),  like  love,  is  but  a  imine Gay.  l.VJ 

Friend  of  my  soul,  for  us  iio  more K.  A  rmntroiiri.  913 

Frienils  !  I  come  not  here  to  talk Misit  Mit/ord.  3S2 

From  nil  llint  dwell  beneath  the  skies /.  Wattn.  KlI 

From  (ireeiihuulV  icy  niomitiiins Ileber.  304 

From  head  and  heart  alike Mrs.  McCord.  C7(j 

Fronj  heaven  what  fancy  stole LijUon.  6t»« 

From  her  own  fair  dominions Trowbridge.  820 

From  merciless  invaders 100 

From  the  climes  of  the  sun Gillespie.  331 

From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  still  tir-groves 3(iG 

From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  withered  hill Thomson.  16G 

From  the  liio  Grande's  waters Pike.  65T 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  sprin;;; Shakspeare.    30 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen Shakspeare.    80 

Gay,  guiltless  pair Spragxie.  415 

(iayly  and  greenly  let  my  seasons  run lUanchnrd.  5S2 

Genteel  in  personage Fielding.  160 

Gently,  gently  yet,  young  stranger nianrhard.  582 

Get  u|),  get  up,  for  shame llerrick.    56 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  bodj- 533 

Give  me  a  sjjirit  that  on  life's  ron^h  sea Chapman.     19 

Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain Carew.    53 

Give  me  my  scalloj)  shell  of  quiet Raleigh.    16 

Give  me,  oh  give  me  back  the  days Anster.  442 

Give  me,  O  indulgent  Fate Countes.i  of  Winchelsea.  140 

Give  place,  you  ladies  all CO 

"Give  us  a  song,"  the  soldier  cried B.  Taylor. 

Go,  forget  me,  why  should  sorrow Wolfe. 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend Mrs.  Bvtta. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel Mrs.  Drowning. 

Go,  glorious  day Miss  Clemmer. 

Go,  lovely  rose Waller. 

Go  not,  happy  day ». Tennyson. 

Go  now,  ingenuous  youth Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith. 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  d'ye  see C.  Dibdin. 

Go,  sit  by  the  summer  sea 

Go  soul,  the  body's  guest Raleigh. 

Go,  then,  and  join  the  roaring  city's  throng Hoivles. 

Go,  triflers  with  God's  secret R.  Duchanan. 

Go  when  the  morning  shinelh Mrs.  Simpson. 

God  bless  the  king  !— I  mean,  etc liyroin. 

God,  give  us  men Holland. 

God  gives  not  kings  the  style  of  gods  in  vain James  I. 

God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains W.  li.  O.  I'cabody. 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  King 

God  save  our  gracious  King 

"God  wills  but  ill,"  the  doubter  said Dennett. 

Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead Miss  Ijoten. 

Gone  were  but  the  winter  cold Cunningham. 

Good-bye,  i)roud  wi)ild Emer.ion. 

Good-night?  ah  no,  the  hour  is  ill Shelley. 

Good-night  to  thee,  lady  I  though  many I'raed. 

Going — the  great  round  Sun E.  A.  Jenks. 

Great  God  of  Nations,  and  their  Right 

Great  is  the  folly  of  a  feeble  brain iJanne. 

Great  Monarch  of  the  woild Charles  I. 

Great  though  thou  art,  awake Lytlon. 

Greek  Anihology,  From  the -1  ustin. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee Halteck. 

Grown  to  man's  stature,  O  my  little  child Mrs.  Dorr. 

(Jnest  from  a  holier  world Laighton. 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning D.  Taylor. 


Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed Sheridan. 

Had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove Miss  A  ird. 

Had  one  ne'er  seen  the  miracle Savage. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove Lngan. 

Hail,  Columbia,  happy  land Ilopkinson. 

Hail,  holy  love Pollok. 

Hail,  iicw-wakcd  atom 

Hail  thou,  the  ever  young Lgtton. 

Hail  to  Ihee,  blithe  spirit Shcllei/. 

Haifa  league,  linlf  a  league Tennyson. 

Happiness  that  ne'er  was  fading Mrs.  McCord. 

Happy  the  niau  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife J.  Philips. 


SOT 
414 
770 
070 
800 

ss 

CSl 
235 
228 
534 

14 
265 
909 
700 
154 
706 

3S 
525 

62 
158 
772 
829 
367 
592 
426 
576 
840 
685 

41 

86 
600 
041 
476 
809 
827 
807 

237 
732 
909 
234 
295 
617 
62S 
007 
423 
084 
075 
131 


PAGB 

Hajjpy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care Pope.  142 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I Vanghan.  107 

Hark  I  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. .  .Shakspeare.    29 

Hark  that  sweet  carol Street.  702 

Hark  the  bell  !  it  sounds  midnight Lewis.  328 

Hark  the  glad  sound  !  the  Saviour  comes Doddridge.  172 

Hark  I  the  night's  slumberous  air Reade.  010 

Haik  to  the  measured  mtirch Lytton.  €06 

Hark  to  the  shouting  wind //.  Timrod.  828 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bauds Cutter.  722 

H;irry,my  little  blue-eyed  boy W.  H. Timrod.  420 

Has  the  old  glory  passed J.  K.  Cooke.  838 

Has  thy  pursuit  of  knowledge  been  confined McKnight.  899 

Hast  Ihoii  a  chaiin  to  stay  the  morning-star Coleridge.  307 

Hast  thou  not  seen,  impatient  boy /.  Watts.  130 

Haste  !  open  the  lattice,  Gitilia Dimitry.  SS6 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought Hedge.  615 

Haven't  you  seen  her Mrs.  Preston.  837 

Have  you  not  oft  in  the  still  wind Darleg.  37S 

Having  this  day  my  horse Sidney.    17 

He  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee Dobson.  897 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth Longfellow.  629 

He  is  gone— is  dust Coleridge.  309 

He  is  gone,  O  my  heart,  he  is  gone Mrs.  Moulton.  863 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain .SiV  Walter  Scott.  301 

He  liveih  long  who  liveth  well Donar.  650 

He  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower Mrs.  Adams.  009 

He  spake,  and  drew  the  keen-edged  sword Drgant.  460 

He  taught  the  cheerfulness  that  still  is  ours Rlunchard.  581 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek Carew.    52 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind Daniel.    20 

He  was  a  man  whom  danger De  Vere.  393 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic S.  Duller.  104 

He  was  one  of  many  thousand Taylor.  567 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends £,'.  Arnold.  851 

He  who  loves  best  knows  most Townshend.  583 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells Poe.  062 

He.ir  what  Highland  Noi a  said ...Sir  Walter  Scott.  302 

Heard  ye  the  arrow  hurtle  in  the  sky? Milman.  417 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound Holland.  760 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights Deaumont  and  Fletcher.    46 

Hence,  loathed  Jlelancholy Milton.     !I0 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys Milton.    91 

Her  closing  eyelids  mock  the  light ,1  Idrn.  SSI 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thae Herrick.    ."iS 

Her  foiin  was  as  the  Morning's Tennant.  367 

Her  suftering  ended  with  the  day J.  .lldrich.  691 

Her  thick  hair  is  golden Gibson.  79S 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks Dri,ant.  463 

Here  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  I  look English.  76S 

Here  goes  Love  !    Now  cut  him  clear R.  T.  S.  Lowell.  741 

"  Here  I  am  I" — and  the  house  rejoices 539 

Here  is  a  little  golden  tress Mrs.  Welby.  77!) 

Here's  a  bank  with  rich  cowslips Darley.  37!) 

Here's  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie Moultrie.  515 

Here,  take  my  likeness  with  you Cowley.  109 

Hie  upon  Ilielauds,  and  low  iii)on  Tay 84 

High  name  of  poet !  sought  in  every  age Brydges.  204 

High  walls  and  huge Garrison.  614 

His  joyous  neigh,  like  the  clarion's  strain Duricage.  727 

His  steed  was  old,  his  armor  worn Beers.  930 

Historic  mount !  baptized  in  flame Prentice.  579 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race Halleck.  479 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea Dobell.  794 

Ho  !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake Hulcroft.  229 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred Stoddard.  803 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord Addison.  Ii9 

How  aromatic  evening  grows Hillhou.<ie.  410 

Hnw  beautiful  is  Night .Vok'/icj/.  322 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain Longfellow.  631 

How  beautiful  it  was Lnnnfelloic.  633 

How  can  I  cease  to  pray  for  thee Mrs.  Dorr.  809 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scone Crahanie.  270 

How  dear  to  this  heart Wimilworth.  377 

How  delicious  is  the  winning Campbell.  338 

How  few  are  f.iund  (on  Murphy) Clnircltill.  2US 

Uow  gallantly,  how  merrily U.  W.  Procter.  385 


I^DEX  OF  FIliST  LIXES,  Etc. 


943 


PA(jK 

IIow  happy  is  he  born  and  tanght Wotton.    39 

IldW  high  tliose  tones  are  beating Miss  Hates.  923 

IIow  little  recks  it  where  men  die liarrii.  554 

How  long,  great  God,  how  long  must  I Xarns.  122 

How  long  I  sailed ." //.  ColcriiUje.  49T 

How  long  shall  man's  imprisoned  spirit  groan Cotton.  352 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour Mrs.  Henians.  451 

IIow  many  days  with  mute  adieu T.  Miller.  G58 

How  many  men  have  passed  the  flames A.  P.  Miller.  88G 

IIow  many  thousands  of  my  poorest  subjects.  ..Shakftpearc.    33 

IIow  many  wait  alone Mrs.  Conant.  S95 

IIow  often  I  repeat  their  rage  divine Young.  136 

How  pleasant  a  sailor's  life  passes 159 

IIow  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man Coleridge.  SOS 

IIow  shall  a  man  foredoomed //.  Coleridge.  498 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere Bryant.  405 

How  shall  my  love  to  God Garrison.  615 

How  shall  we  learn  to  sway A  nMer.  443 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest Collins.  ISS 

How  soft  the  i)ause Mrs.  Tighc.  313 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth Milton.    99 

How  stands  the  glass  around 163 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day Grahame,  209 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  t)f  afternoon F.  Tennyson.  610 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps Shalcspeare.    32 

How  strange  is  death  to  life Sterling.  620 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze Marvell.  113 

How  various  his  employments  whom. Comper.  211 

Hues  of  the  rich,  unfolding  morn Kehle.  436 

Hush,  heart  of  mine Si/monds.  912 

Hush  !  her  face  is  chill Eastman.  739 

"  I  always  see  in  dreams,"  she  said Frothingliam.  445 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray O^Keefe.  233 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying Lytle.  814 

I  am  in  Rome  1    Oft  as  the  morning  ray Rogers.  268 

I  am  not  concerned  to  kuow /.  Watts.  130 

I  am  not  one  who  mnch  or  oft  deliglit Wordsworth.  294 

I  am  !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares Clare.  453 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee Shelley.  426 

I  ask  not  that  my  bed  of  death M.  Arnold.  783 

I  asked  the  heavens — what  foe Montgomery.  304 

I  bring  fresh  showers Shelley.  421 

I  bring  the  simplest  pledge  of  love Holmes.  655 

I  cannot  make  him  dead Pierpont.  3S0 

1  cannot — no Taylor.  567 

I  cannot  tell  you  if  the  dead Laighton.  827 

I  cannot  think  the  glorious  world  of  mind Leighton.  786 

I  care  not.  Fortune,  wliat  you  me  deny Thomson.  169 

I  care  not  though  it  be Xorris.  122 

I  cliiubed  the  dark  brow Sir  Walter  Scott.  300 

I  dare  not  echo  those  who  say Mrs.  Mason.  788 

I'd  be  a  butterfly Bayly.  502 

I  do  not  believe  the  sad  story Curry.  605 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods Tennyson.  685 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  evcrj'  gale Percival.  4S2 

I  till  this  cup  to  one  made  up Pinkney.  572 

I  found  beside  a  meadow-brooklet  bright McKnight.  901 

I  hae  seen  great  anes Elizabeth  Hamilton.  252 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound J.  Scott.  205 

I  have  been  sitting  alone M.  Collins.  817 

I  have  examined,  and  do  tind Katharine  Phillips.  119 

I  have  had  i)laymates C.  Lamb.  327 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea Coffin.  815 

1  have  told  a  maiden Lucretia  M.  Davidson.  644 

I  hear  it  often  in  the  dark Gann/itt.  898 

I  know,  Justine,  you  speak  me  fair Saxe.  736 

I  know  my  body's  of  so  frail  a  kind iJiiries.     46 

I  know  that  the  world D.  Barker.  742 

I  kuow  thou  art  gone Hcrrey.  602 

I  know  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side Gilder.  924 

1  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfn'  friend Burng.  256 

I  l.iy  me  down  to  sleep .Mrs.  Hoivland.  549 

I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company Mrs.  Browning.  671 

I  long  have  been  puzzled  to  guess Saxe.  735 

I  look  through  tears  on  Beauty  now li.  H.  Dana.  383 

I  looked  upon  u  plain  of  green Sterling.  620 


love  (and  have  some  cause  to  love) Quarles.    5S 

love  it,  I  love  it Miss  Cook.  746 

love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this S.  P.  Willis.  624 

love  to  rise  ere  gleams  the  tardy  light Aniia  Seward.  523 

loved  thee  long  and  dearly P.  P.  Cooke.  7.36 

loved  thee  once,  I'll  love  no  more Ayton.    85 

11  have  no  glittering  gewgaws Tobin.  275 

II  rob  the  hyacinth  and  rose Dawes.  589 

II  tell  you,  IViend,  what  sort  of  wife Frisbie.  369 

m  bidden,  little  Mary Mrs.  Southey.  3SS 

in  sittin'  on  the  stile.  Alary Lady  Duferin.  671 

ni  wearin'  awa,  John Carolina  SairM.  271 

mat ked  at  morn  the  thirsty  earth Mrs.  Sigourney.  418 

met  a  man  in  Kegent  Street Bayly.  502 

nuist  away  to  wooded  hills G.  Arnold.  859 

need  not  i)raise  the  sweetness  of  liis  song Lowell.  763 

ne'er  could  any  lustre  see Sheridan.  237 

never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away Mrs.  Browning.  671 

not  believe  that  the  great  Architect Sglvester.    23 

once  saw  a  poor  fellow Bowring.  440 

own  I  like  not  Johnson's  turgid  style Wolcot.  221 

pity  from  my  soul  unha|)py  men Roscommon.  120 

played  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing Peacock.  534 

pray  thee  by  thy  mother's  face Brainard.  4S5 

press  niy  cheek  against  the  windinv-pane. . .  .Mrx  Prcxton.  837 

remember,  1  remember Hood.  51  ii 

remember,  I  remember Praed.  577 

remember  the  time,  thon  roaring  sea Mackay.  726 

said  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm Mrs.  Stoddard.  387 

sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd-maiden Munby.  684 

saw  from  the  beach Muore.  349 

saw  thee  once— once  only Poe.  661 

say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat Trench.  640 

scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature Timrod.  829 

see  thee  still Sprague.  416 

see  them  on  their  winding  way  Heber.  364 

sliot  an  arrow  into  the  air Longfellow.  630 

sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel Barlow.  246 

sit  beneath  the  api)le-tree Miss  Phelps.  925 

sought  for  wisdom  in  the  morning-titne Penney.  570 

sought  Thee  round  about Heywood.    37 

sprang  to  the  stirrup Browning.  709 

stand  upon  the  mountain's  top E.  Peabody.  623 

thank  my  God,  because  my  hairs  are  gray H.  Coleridge.  407 

think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint Mrs.  Browning.  668 

ve  a  proposal  here  from  Mr.  Murray Frere.  274 

ve  heard  them  lilting Miss  Elliot.  193 

ve  often  wished  that  I  could  write  a  book Frere.  273 

've  seen  the  smiling .Ifrs.  Cockburn.  194 

ve  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  yon  see Dwight.  718 

ve  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west Motherwell.  500 

wait Miss  Ckmmer.  889 

walked  beside  the  evening  sea Curtis.  794 

wandered  by  the  brook-side Milnes.  660 

wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud Wordsworth.  282 

was  a  scholar :  seven  useful  springs Marston.    41 

watched  the  swans  in  that  proud  [Kirk Parsons.  760 

weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead Shelley.  427 

will  not  praise  the  often  flattered  rose Dotiblcday.  413 

will  sing  as  I  sh.iU  please Wither.    51 

wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 86 

won  a  noble  fame Tilton.  864 

would  be  quiet,  Lord Mrs.  Dorr.  SOS 

would  not  have  believed  it  then Weeks.  898 

would  not  live  alway Muhlenberg.  551 

fall  our  life  were  one  broad  glare 552 

f  all  tlie  world  and  Love  were  young Marlowe.    26 

f  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  nong Collins.  189 

f  by  any  device  or  knowledge Palgrave.  797 

f  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chained Keats.  492 

f  dead,  we  cease  to  be Coleridge.  308 

f  doui.'hty  deeds  my  lady  please R.  Graham.  235 

f  dumb  too  long  the  drooping  Muse Tickell.  141 

f  fr.agrances  were  colors,  I  would  liken De  Kay.  933 

f  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died Wolfe.  414 

fin  these  thoughts  of  mine McKnight.  899 

f  it  must  be .' D.  Gray.  889 


950 


INDEX  OF  FlliSr  LINKS,  ETC. 


If  love  were  what  the  rose  is Swinbiirnc  873 

ir  mail  ^ilee|)s  on,  uiuaiiLjht  by  what  he  sees i'ounrt.  l^ii 

If  on  a  child  of  Nalurc  Ihou  bestow McKniijht.  Sli9 

If,  sittini:  with  this  little,  worn-out  shoe.  .Mrs.  M.  Ji.  Smith.  916 

If  stars  were  really  watching  eyes Jiourdillon.  93S 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight 160 

If  thou  mnst  love  me .Mrs.  lirmnnng.  071 

If  thon  Shalt  be  in  heart  a  chilil L.  Morris.  8S3 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love Heber.  363 

If  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love Mrs.  Whitman.  6S3 

If  ye  have  precious  truths  that  yet  remain MrKnir/ht.  900 

In  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down Ilurhanan.  90S 

In  darker  days  and  nights  of  storm T.  I'arker.  690 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly Ilri/dr/es.  2C4 

In  full-blown  dignity  see  Wolsey  stand Johnson.  179 

In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again Cowper.  214 

In  hope  a  king  doth  go  to  war Alison.    22 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  iu  man Cowper.  210 

"In  Memoriam,"  Stanzas  from Tennyson.  68.5 

In  mids  of  June,  that  Jolly,  sweet  seasonn iienrtjson.      5 

In  purple  robes  old  Sliavnamon Joyce.  8S2 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay Dimond.  35G 

In  spite  of  outward  blemishes  she  shone Churchill.  2US 

In  summer  when  the  days  were  long 546 

In  that  desolate  land  and  lone Lonn.fellow.  630 

In  the  deepening  shades  of  twiliirlit Mrs.  Thorpe.  935 

In  the  greenest  growth  of  the  May-lime Swinburne.  872 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress Herrick.    55 

In  the  molten-golden  moonlight li.  Lytton.  845 

In  the  tenipest  of  life Laicrence.  620 

In  thee,  O  blessed  God,  1  hope Dlackic.  660 

In  their  ragged  regimentals McMaster.  830 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awlul  colls I'ope.  147 

Iu  w^iiiton  sport  my  Doris Merivale.  344 

In  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  cauld 6T 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies • Collins.  1S9 

Indolent  !  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent Mrs.  Cooke.  819 

Intent  the  conscious  mountains  stood Mrs.  Dodfje.  903 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls Miss  Lacoste.  915 

"  Ion,"  Talfourd's,  Scene  from 470 

Is  it  all  vanity Lytton.  607 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty Burns.  25S 

Is  there  then  hope  that  thou Symonds.  912 

Is  this  the  stately  Syracuse Motley.  723 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child Byron.  395 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair Holmes.  65G 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear Sears.  CSO 

It  chanceth  once  to  every  soul Miss  Phelps.  925 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free Wordsworth.  292 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned Mrs.  Browning.  608 

It  is  a  si)ectral  show— this  wondrous  world 546 

It  is  a  sultry  day  ;  the  suu  has  drunk Bryant.  465 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner Coleridge.  310 

It  is  enough  :  I  feel  this  golden  morn Mrs.  Preston.  837 

It  is  hope's  spell  that  glorifies E.  Bruute.  743 

It  is  most  true  that  eyes  arc  formed  to  serve Sidney.    17 

It  is  night ;  I  am  alone Macplwrson.  222 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand 84 

It  is  not  death  to  die Bethnne.  610 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree Jonson.    45 

It  is  not  long  since  we  with  happy  feet Miss  Barr,  939 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood Wordsworth.  293 

It  is  the  fairest  sight C.  T.  Turner.  649 

It  is  the  loveliest  day  that  we  have  had Hunt.  371 

It  is  the  midnight  hour J.  Wilson.  375 

It  is  the  soul  that  sees Crabbc.  240 

It  lies  annmd  us  like  a  cloud Mrs.  Stowe.  706 

It's  hame,  and  it's  hanie Canniitghani.  366 

It's  rare  to  see  the  morning  biee/e Ainslie.  442 

It  must  be  so — Plato,  Ihou  reason'sl  well Addison.  129 

It  seems  so  lonely  in  the  nest Mrs.  Tuttle.  892 

It  singeth  low  in  every  heart Chadwick.  901 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray Percy.  202 

It  was  a  summer  evening Southey.  320 

It  was  au  eve  of  autumn's  holiest  mood Pollok.  517 

It  was  an  old  distorted  face Mrs.  Whitney.  795 

It  was  merely  the  bud Powers.  S16 


It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease Thomsyn   108 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night Domett.  734 

It  was  the  time  when  'gainst  the  breaking  day Fairfax.    27 

It  was  the  wild  midnight Croly.  356 

Jenny  kissed  nie  when  we  met Hunt.  372 

Jcrusaletn,  my  happy  home Sf> 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John Burns.  260 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled Stedman.  855 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen Cowper.  214 

Jonson,  Hen,  Ode  to  himself. 44 

Joy  to  the  world  !  the  Lord  is  come Wntts.  131 

Judge  not,  because  thou  canst  not  judge  :\T\'.:\\l..Tt)wnshend.  5?7 
Julius,  how  many  hours  have  we Landor.  329 

Keep  faith  in  love A.  P.  Miller.  8S6 

Ken  ye  aught  of  brave  Lochiel 529 

Kuow'si  thou  the  laud W.  H.  Channing.  079 

Lady,  there  is  a  hope Jr.  E.  Channiny.  744 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed Howard.      0 

Laud  of  the  brave  '  where  lie  innriied Brooks.  .503 

Langsyne  1— how  doth  the  word  come  back Moir.  506 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium ■ Macau'ay.  5.57 

Last  Garrick  came Churchill.  2(0 

Late  at  e'en,  drinking  the  wine 7S 

Late,  late,  so  late Tennyson.  684 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid Perkins.  689 

Laud  the  first  spring  daisies Youl.  550 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you Praed.  574 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father,  virtuous  son Milton.  100 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse Beaumont  and  Fletcher.    4S 

Leave  me  not  yet Mrs.  Uemans.  450 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dast Sidney.    17 

Leona,  the  hour  draws  nigh J.  G.  Clark.  834 

Let  it  not  grieve  thee,  dear -J.  A.  \obte.  .5.55 

Let  me  count  my  treasures 550 

Let  me  not  deem  that  I  was  made  in  vain //.  Coleridge.  49S 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds Shakspe^ire.    31 

Let  no  man  fear  to  die Beaum»nt  and  Fletcher.    47 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small Stoddard.  803 

Let  them  go  by Dowden.  931 

Let  us  escape  !  this  is  our  holiday Simms.  618 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go Tannahill.  324 

Let  us  haste  to  Kelvin  grove Lyle.  419 

Life  and  the  universe .1/.  Collins.  SI 7 

Life  answers  "Nol" Lytton.  007 

Life,  believe,  is  not  a  dream C.  Bronte.  742 

Life!  I  know  not  what  thou  art Mrs.  Barbauld.  220 

Life  is  a  sea  ;  like  ships  we  meet C.  T.  Brooks.  711 

Life  is  uu u tterably  dear Miss  Bates.  923 

Life  will  be  gone  ere  1  have  lived C.  Bronte.  743 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  afflicted  soul .Montgomery.  304 

Lift  your  glad  voices //.  Ware.  459 

Like  as  the  armed  knight innc  .iskew.      7 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see Waste'l.    81 

Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the  pebbled Shak.y>enre.    30 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star King.    59 

Lily,  on  liquid  roses  floating Kenyon.  .S60 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen 08 

Little  charm  of  placid  mien A.  Philips.  126 

Little  drops  of  water Mrs.  Osgood.  70S 

Little  Grctchen,  little  Gretcheii Mrs.Howitt.  594 

Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few Holmes.  655 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth .1/;-^.  Charlotte  Smith.  235 

Little  store  of  wealth  have  I Mrs.  Dorr.  80S 

Live  ill  that  Whole J.  F.  Clarke.  679 

"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say. . . .  Doddridge.  172 

Lo  !  o'er  the  e.arth  Davy.  341 

Lo,  Yates  1    Without  the  least  linesse  of  art Churchill.  207 

Lochiel  I  Lochiel  I  beware  of  the  day Campbell.  332 

Long  swollen  in  drenching  rain Wilcox.  461 

Long  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child H.  Coleridge.  496 

Look  nt  mc  with  thy  large  brown  e}-es Mrs.  Craik.  812 

Look  back  !  a  thought  which Churchill.  207 

Look,  mother,  the  mariner's  rowing Mangan,  5S9 

Look  off,  dear  Love Lanier.  910 


JMJEX   OF  Fin^T  LIXFS,  FTC. 


951 


PAGE 

Look,  soul,  how  swiftly  all  tilings  onward  tenA...  McKiiight.  901 
Look  there  !  the  beacon's  crimson  light. . .  W.  B.  O.  Peabudi/.  522 

Look  up,  j^weet  wile,  through  happy  tears M.  Barr.  S4S 

Look,  William,  how  the  morning  mists Southeij.  322 

Lord  !  come  away Jeremy  Taylor.  105 

Lord,  fur  the  erring  thought Hotvells.  STl 

Lord,  from  thy  hles^ed  throne yicull.  719 

Lord  of  earth  !  thy  bounteous  hand Grant.  iiTS 

Lord,  thou  kiiowest Pierpont.  3S0 

Lord,  what  am  I  ?  a  worm,  dust,  vapor,  uothing Hall.    40 

Lord  1  who  art  merciful  as  well  as  just SmUlicy.  322 

Lord,  what  a  change Trench.  040 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band Prior.  123 

Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder Cherry.  263 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind Mrs.  Craik.  812 

Louisa,  did  you  never  trace W.  B.O.  Peabody.  523 

Love  ?    I  will  tell  thee  what  it  is  to  love Swain.  5S5 

Love  is  the  happy  privilege Bailey.  734 

Love,  let  us  love Bourdillon.  93S 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long S3 

Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low J.  Miller.  914 

Love  mistress  is  of  many  minds Southu'cll.    22 

Love  not,  love  not Mrs.  Xurton.  C4S 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 103 

Love  thee,  O  thou,  the  world's Milman.  41S 

Love  within  the  lover's  breast Meredith.  826 

Low  hung  the  moon,  the  wind  was  still Miss  Proctor.  838 

Magnificent  creature,  so  stately  and  bright ./.  Wilson.  374 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part Byron.  404 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  friend Mrs.  .4.  lien.  850 

Man— the  external  world Townsheiid.  5S8 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave Mrs.  A  vstiii.  451 

Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penned Byron.  405 

Many  years  have  floated  by Mrs.  Conant.  895 

March,  march,  Etlrick  and  Teviotdale Scott.  301 

Mark  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  cuts  ihe  air Cowley.  110 

Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees.  .Rogers.  267 

Maud  MuUer,  on  a  summer  day H'hittier.  634 

Mary!  I  want  a  lyie  with  other  strings Cowpir.  214 

Master,  they  argued  fast  concerning  thee Dowden.  932 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bounie Douglas.  164 

J[ay  nevermore  a  selfish  wish  of  mine McKnight.  900 

May,  queen  of  blossoms Thurlow.  359 

Mcthinks  it  is  good  to  be  here U.  Knowles.  504 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  voaia.... Payne.  439 

'Mid  the  flower-wreathed  tombs  I  stand Higginson.  792 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  battle Maclagan.  69S 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire White.  377 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour. . .  Wordsworth.  293 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory Mrs.  Howe.  758 

Mine  eyes— that  may  not  see  thee  smile Hervey.  COS 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey  of  Madison  Square Butler.  799 

"More  poets  yet !"  I  hear  him  say Dobson.  89C 

More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song Mrs.  Lippiticott.  790 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear Beaumont.    47 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  life,  that  on  this  day Spenser.    13 

Most  intellectual  master  of  the  art Fulicr-Ossoli.  677 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn Smollett.  191 

Mourn,  O  rejoicing  heart 157 

Mournfully  listening  to  the  w-aves'  strange  talk.  ...Xewto^i.  552 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold Keats.    18 

Music,  and  frankincense Faiie.  822 

Music,  how  strange  her  power Street.  702 

Music  is  in  all  growing  things Lathrop.  937 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore Byron.  404 

My  day  and  night  are  in  my  lady's  hand Payne.  918 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  past Southey.  321 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray James  flraham.  103 

My  eye  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys Denham.  104 

My  fairest  child Kingslcy.  765 

My  father,  take  my  hand Bobbins.  707 

My  friend,  thou  sorrowest Bryant.  468 

My  God  !  I  heard  this  day Herbert.    60 

My  God,  I  thank  thee :  may  no  thought Sorton.  381 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains Keats.  494 

My  heart  is  sair,  I  darena  tell Burns.  261 


I'Ar.K 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach Thoreau.  745 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose Wilde.  412 

My  Utile  son,  who  looked Patmorc.  790 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend Burns.  253 

]My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is Sir  Edward  Dyer.      8 

My  oldest  friend,  mine  from  the  hour ././/.  ^eioman.  572 

My  only  love  is  always  near Locker.  77S 

My  own,  it  is  time  yon  were  coming 545 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares Tychborn.    84 

My  sister  !  with  this  mortal  eye M.Davidson.  646 

My  songs  are  all  of  thee , Gilder.  925 

My  soul  has  grown  too  great  to-day Sirs.  Maaon.  788 

My  soul  to-day Read.  780 

My  soul  was  dark Croswell.  604 

My  spirit  longeth  for  thee Byrom.  153 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his Sidney.    17 

My  untried  muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume Bloomjield.  271 

My  wee  wife  dwells  in  yonder  cot Hume.  658 

Myself  I  found  borriC  to  a  heavenly  clime Wilcox.  461 

Mysterious  Niglit !  when  our  first  jjarcnt  knew White.  325 

Nay,  shrink  not  from  the  word  farewell Barton.  309 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee Sarah  F.  Adams.  608 

Needy  knife-grinder,  whither  are  yon  going Canning.  275 

Never,  my  heart,  wilt  thou  grow  old Mrs.  Hall.  580 

New  being  is  from  being  ceased Savage.  910 

Night  of  the  tomb  !  he  has  entered  thy  \)(nia\. .  .E.  Sargent.  717 

Night  overtook  me  ere  my  race  was  rioi Harris.  785 

No  actor  ever  greater  heights  (on  Quin)  Churchill.  203 

No,  I  never  till  life Bowles.  265 

No :  I  shall  pass  into  the  Morning  Laud M.  Collins.  817 

No  monument  of  me  remain Habington.    88 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby Wordsworth .  294 

Nor  fame  I  slight,  nor  for  her  favors  call Pojte.  150 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us Dobell.  795 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds Cowper.  210 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note Wolfe.  413 

Not  as  it  looks  will  be  thy  coming  state McKnight.  900 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day Scott.  298 

Not  here,  in  the  populous  town Bourdillon.  938 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments Shakspeare.    30 

Not,  my  soul,  what  thou  hast  done Lombard.  852 

Not  that  her  blooms  are  marked T.  Warton.  204 

"  Not  to  myself  alone' Partridge.  674 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  iny  soul Southey.  322 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must.  .■ .Stoddard.  804 

Not  worlds  on  worlds  in  phalanx  deep Good.  269 

Not  yet : — along  Ihe  purpling  sky Mrs.  Mason.  788 

Not  yet, — the  flowers  are  in  my  path Miss  Landon.  578 

Now  Antumn's  fire  burns  slowly A  llingUam.  825 

Niiw  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts Macaulay.  563 

Now,  if  to  be  an  April-fool M.  Collins.  817 

Now  it  belongs  not  to  my  care Baxter.  100 

Now  Spring  returns Bruce.  231 

Now  Summer  finds  her  perfect  prime Miss  Proctor.  839 

Now  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crowned  height Darioin.  206 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger Milton.  100 

Now  the  noisy  winds  arc  siill Mrs.  Dodge.  905 

Now,  trumpeter  I  for  thy  clo^e Wliitman.  755 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  voom.  Wordsworth.  201 

Nurse  of  the  Pilgrim  sires,  who  sought. .' Elliott.  361 

Nymph  of  the  rock Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith.  235 

O  bairn,  when  I  am  dead Buchanan.  907 

O  beauteous  Southland O'Reilly.  922 

O  blessed  morn,  whose  ruddy  beam II'.  Wilson.  570 

O  blessing  and  delight Ilnllam.  095 

O  blithe  new-comer !  I  have  heard Wordsworth.  282 

O  brooding  spirit • H'.  R.  Hamilton.  613 

<)  brother,  who  for  us T.  Parker.  689 

O  clouds  and  winds  and  streams Mrs.  Botla.  770 

O  curfew  of  the  setting  sun  '.    O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! . .  Longfellow.  634 

O  Day  !  he  cannot  die K.  Bronte.  743 

O  dear  Sky  Farm E.  Goodalc.  941 

O  Domine  Dens  !  spcravi  in  le Mary  Stuart.  677 

O  fair  bird,  singing  in  the  woods L.  Morris.  854 

O  friend  !  whose  name  is  closely  bouud Miss  Bates.  923 


952 


IXJJKX   OF  FinST  LIXFS,  FTC. 


PACK 

O  frieiidn,  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod Whittier.  6H8 

O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  all .1 .  llroiite.  744 

O  God,  I  he  giver  of  all Linton.  704 

O  (Jod,  thou  niithfiil  God Fiothin<iham.  44(5 

O  (iod  ;  whose  ihoii<:hts  are  brightest  light I-'abei:  733 

O  God,  whoiie  thunder  phiikes  the  sky rhnttertim.  243 

O  hni)|)y  glow  !  O  smi-balhed  tree  ! Mrx.  Webster.  itl3 

O  keen,  pelhicid  air V.T.  Turner.  G4'J 

O  lady  I  we  receive  bnt  what  we  give Coleridge.  309 

O  Law,  fair  forni  of  Liberty Cutler.  S4G 

O  Love,  come  back Marsttm.  916 

O  Love  Divine tluntinnton.  700 

O  loving  God  of  Nature A.  P.  Miller.  SS5 

O  meiancholy  bird Thurlow.  359 

O  mistress  mine,  where  arc  you  roaming Sliakxpeare.    33 

O  messenger,  art  thon  the  king  or  I Mrs.  Jackxon.  S43 

O  mother,  wait  until  my  work  is  done Soi/en.  934 

O  murmuring  waters Lady  Scott.  740 

O  my  hive's  like  a  red,  red  rose Burns.  261 

O  mystic,  mighty  flower Miss  liarr.  939 

O  Nature  !  all  thy  seasous  please  the  eye Grahame.  270 

O  only  Source  of  all  our  light Clnugli.  753 

O  i)erfect  Light,  which  shaid  away Huiiie.    35 

O  Power,  more  near  my  life Lowell.  764 

O  reader,  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see Southey.  321 

O  river  Beautiful Plimpton.  S33 

O  sacred  star  of  evening,  tell O.  W.  li.  Peabody.  524 

O  saw  ye  bouuie  Lesley Uiirns.  259 

O  soul  of  mine Chadwick.  902 

O  spirit  of  the  summer-time illinrjham.  S25 

O  Stella  !  golden  star  of  youth }yalker.  409 

O  still,  v'hite  face  of  perfect  peace T>.  li.  Goodah:  942 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore .1/.  .4 mold.  7S4 

O  summer-time,  so  passing  sweet  Miss  Pfeiffer.  926 

O  suns  and  skies  aud  clouds  of  June Mrs.  Jackson.  S44 

O  sweet  and  fair  '.  O  rich  and  rare 535 

O  sweet  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow Gilder.  924 

O  Swily.erlaud  !  my  country  !  'tis  to  thee John  Xeal.  443 

O  thou  eternal  One  !  whose  presence  bright Botmnsr.  439 

O  thou  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death Youmj.  137 

O  thon  great  Reins !  what  thou  art Hums.  256 

O  Thou  great  Friend T.  Parker.  6S9 

O  thou,  so  early  lost .W.  Davidson.  644 

O  thou  that  rollest  above Macpherson.  222 

O  Thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine Ciovfjh.  753 

O  time  and  death  !  with  certain  jiace Sands.  521 

O  Time  I  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay Bowles.  265 

O  truth  of  the  earth Whitman.  750 

O  vale  and  lake Mrs.  Hemnns.  449 

O  weary  heart,  there  is  a  rest */;•«.  Ellet.  749 

O  weel  may  the  boatie  row lolm  Ewen.  224 

O  wild  atid  stormy  Lammermoor Lady  .Scott.  740 

O  wild,  enchanting  horn Mellen.  525 

O  wild  west  wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn's  being Shelley.  425 

O  Willie's  gaue  to  Melville  Castle 100 

O  winter,  wilt  thou  never,  never  go D.  Gray.  SSS 

O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time  ! Shelley.  427 

O  ye  dead  poets  who  are  living  still Lonnfelloro.  C32 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kitigs Aiken.  552 

Occasiotis  drew  me  eai  ly  to  the  city .  .  .Milton.     95 

Odors  of  Spring,  my  sense  ye  charm Mrs.  Fiijhe.  317 

O'er  meadows  greeti Horne.  681 

O'er  wayward  childhood .S'.  T.  Coleridge.  309 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart Carey.  105 

Of  all  the  human-helping  soiig< Weiitz.  903 

t)f  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind Lowell.  764 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are Mrs.Browniiifi.  669 

Of  idle  hopes  and  fancies  wild .Wrx.  Halt.  6S0 

Of  old,  when  Scarroii Giddsmitb.  200 

or  Nelson  and  the  North Campbell.  338 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  tbst Dryden.  118 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  unnw. . . Drummond.    49 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark Merrick.  1S5 

Oft  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths Laiphton.  827 

Oft  in  the  after-days Fane.  822 

Oft  in  the  stilly  nii:ht Moore.  346 

Oh, a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  grteii Dickens.  706 


PACK 

Oh,  Artevcldc //.  Taylor.  566 

Oh,  beautiful  the  streams J.  Wilson.  374 

Oh,  blest  of  heaven Akenside.  188 

Oh,  breathe  not  his  name Moore.  340 

Oh,  bright  presence  of  to-day Tapper.  091 

Oh  '.  by  thai  gracious  rule Mrs.  Southey.  389 

Oh,  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours Moore.  347 

Oh,  darling  of  the  year,  delicious  May Townshend.  688 

Oh,  did  yon  see  him  riding  down Miss  Perry.  921 

Oh,  ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  we  love.  ...J/i'*8  Williams.  262 

Oh,  fair  shines  the  sun  ou  Glenara Joyce.  SS3 

Oh,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  fortui;e  chide Shakspeare.    31 

Oh,  fear  not  thou  to  die 3Irs.  Southey.  892 

Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce Beattic.  218 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous Shakspeare.    30 

Oh,  how  the  Swans  of  Wilton 544 

Oil,  is  there  not  aland Mrs.  Bnrbauld.  220 

Oh,  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die Pereical.  481 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God Faber.  732 

Oh,  it  is  pleasant  with  n  heart  at  ease Coleridge.  308 

Oh,  leave  thyself  to  God Burbidge.  747 

Oh,  let  nie  alone Key.  343 

Oh  !  listen,  man  !  a  voice A'.  //.  Dana.  383 

Oh  listen  to  the  howling  sea Curtis.  794 

Oh  !  lives  there.  Heaven,  beneath  thy  wide Campbell.  340 

Oh,  loosen  the  snood Halpine.  S33 

Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home Kingsleij.  705 

Oh,  Master  and  I^Iaker Clarke.  677 

Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible Mrs.  Cross.  771 

Oh,  my  bosom  is  throbbing  with  joy M.  Davidson.  044 

Oh,  never  did  a  mighty  truth Talfoitrd.  472 

Oh,  not  in  vain Linton.  704 

Oh  now,  my  true  and  dearest  bride Barnes.  073 

Oh,  saw  ye  the  lass 527 

Oh,  saw  you  not  fair  Ines Hood.  510 

Oh  say  !  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light Key.  342 

Oh,  say  not  so  1  a  bright  old  age Barton.  30S 

Oh  I  say  not  thou  art  all  alone A.  A.  Watts.  518 

Oh  say  not  woman's  heart  is  bought Peacock.  634 

Oh,  say,  what  is  that  thing  called  light Cibber.  127 

Oh,  sweet  Adare  !  oh,  lovely  vale Griffin.  580 

Oil,  sweet  is  thy  current H.  B.  Wallace.  740 

Oh,  that  1  were  the  great  soul  of  a  world Kennedy.  520 

Oh,  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place Byron.  397 

Oh,  th:U  those  lips  had  language Cutcper.  212 

Oh,  the  charge  at  Balaklava Meek.  721 

Oh,  the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright Moore.  349 

Oh,  there's  a  dream  of  early  youth 5.55 

Oh  !  thou  bright  and  beautiful  day Simms.  018 

Oh,  thou  conqueror Beaumont  and  Fletcher.    40 

Oh  thou  great  Movement  of  the  universe Bryant.  467 

Oh,  Thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear Moore.  349 

Oh  !  vex  me  not  with  needless  cry W.  Smith.  555 

Oh,  waly,  waly,  up  the  bank 82 

Oh,  water  for  me E.  Johnson.  553 

Oh  !  what  a  marvel  of  electric  might Miss  Bates  924 

Oh,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arins Keats.  491 

Oh,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do Hogg.  281 

Oh,  where,  tell  me  where Mrs.  ,4 nne  Grant  247 

Oh,  wherefore  come  ye  forth Macaulay.  501 

Oh,  who  shall  lightly  say  that  Fame Miss  Baillie.  266 

Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud Knox.  4)0 

Oh  ye  wild  groves,  oh  where Beattie.  219 

<lh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west Scott.  298 

Oh,  to  be  home  again Fields.  748 

Oh,  weary  heart!  Ihou'rt  half-way  home Willis.  625 

Old  Grimes  is  dead;  that  good  old  man Greene.  578 

Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true Clough.  753 

Old  wine  to  drink B.  H.  Messinger.  693 

On  a  night  like  this  how  many Brownell. 

On  Carron's  side  the  primrose  pale Langhorne.  218 

On  Lcven's  banks  while  free  to  rove Smollett.  192 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low Campbell.  335 

On  lips  of  Ulodining  youth Mrs.  Conant.  895 

On  iiaient  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child /ones.  232 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore Milnes.  660 

Ou  the  deei)  is  the  mariner's  danger Brainard.  484 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES,  ETC. 


953 


On  the  field  in  fioiit  of  Fiastenz J.O.  Sargent.  7ii3 

On  thy  fiiif  bosom,  silver  lake Percival.  4S-1 

On  \vh:it  foiiiidution  stands  the  waiiioi's  piide.  .S.Juhnnon.  ITS 

Once  at  the  anirelus  (ere  I  \v:is  dead) Dobson.  897 

Onee  in  the  llijrlit  of  aj;es  past Montgomery.  3U3 

Once  in  the  leafy  prime  of  spring Fiehln.  74S 

Once,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land Glider.  9-24 

(Jnco  on  my  mother's  breast IloircUs.  STl 

Oiice  this  soft  tiirf,  this  rivniel's  sands I'.njmit.  406 

Once  upon  a  midnii^ht  dreary I'oi'..  C(!3 

One  da}',  niirli  weary  of  the  irksome  way Spenser.    11 

One  more  tin  fortunate Hood.  50S 

t)ne  morn,  what  time  the  sickle  "ir""  <•"  P'^O' Drydrien.  '2G4 

One  night  came  on  a  hnrricane IHtt.  532 

One  of  the  stairs  to  head  to  heaven Linton.  703 

One  saith  "The  world's  a  stage" Si/inonds.  912 

One  sweetly  solemn  thonght 1'.  Carij.  769 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned Shclleij.  427 

Only  a  baby  small M.  liCirr.  848 

Only  a  shelter  for  my  head'  I  soiiulu Lilian  Clarke.  678 

Only  the  beautiful  is  real Linton.  704 

Only  wailing  till  the  shadows Mm.  Mace.  SG7 

Onward  forever  flows  the  tide  of  life Symonds.  911 

Onward  I  throw  ail  terrors  off Jloivrinrj.  440 

Ostera  !  spirit  of  spring-time Mrs.  Mace.  SCO 

Our  bugles  sang  truce Campbell.  336 

Our  gentle  Charles  has  passed  away Ta/fourd.  471 

Onr  gnde  man  cam'  haine  at  e'en 161 

Our  life  is  like  a  cloudy  sky Davy.  342 

Onr  life  is  twofold Ilyron.  401 

Our  native  land — onr  native  vale Pringle.  408 

Onr  oats  they  are  howed,  and  our  barley's  reaped 157 

Out  from  cities  haste  away Dennett.  772 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass Mins  Osgood.  905 

Out  of  tlie  Deep,  my  child Tcnny.wn.  683 

Out  of  thine  azure  depths , Powers.  816 

Outside  the  open  gate  a  spirit  stood Meredith.  826 

Over  that  solemn  i)ageaut  mute Milnian.  417 

Over  the  billows  and  over  the  brine Ifood.  514 

Over  the  hill  to  the  ijoor-house Carleton.  92S 

Over  the  mountains  and  under  the  waves 75 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me Mrs.  Wakefield.  861 

Pack  clonds  away,  and  welcome  day Heyirood.    37 

i'assiug  from  Italy  to  Greece,  the  tales Ford.    40 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams Raleigh.    15 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  ns Mrs.  Osgood.  70S 

Peace  to  all  such  !  but  were  there  one  whose  fires Pope.  151 

Pedants  shall  not  tie  my  strings Wither.    51 

Peojde  have  teased  and  vexed  me Martin.  740 

"  Philip  Van  Artevelde,"  Extract  from //.  Taylor.  566 

Phillips !  whose  touch  harmonious S.  .Johnson.  179 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  pibroch  of  Donuil Scott.  301 

Pilgrim,  burdened  with  thy  sin Crubbe,  245 

Pilie,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year .Um.v  Kimball.  857 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spiay. .   . .  Westwood.  730 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild ISlake.  251 

Place  we  a  stone  at  his  head  and  his  feet Kennedy.  520 

Pleasui es  lie  thickest  where lUanehard.  582 

Pleasures  of  Imagination Akenside.  187 

Poet  and  saint !  to  thee  alone  are  given Cowley.  Ill 

Po(-i,  if  on  a  lasting  fame  the  bent  Timrod.  S29 

Poor  little  Willie Massey.  826 

Poor  lone  Hannah Miss  Larcom.  S14 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth Shaksjieare.    31 

I'raise  of  the  wise  and  good Ilrydges.  264 

Prepare  thee,  soul,  to  quit  this  spot Ileravd.  519 

Preserve  thy  sighs,  unthrifty  girl Darenant.    87 

Pride  of  the  British  stage Campbell.  337 

Piide,  self-adoring  pride PoUnk.  516 

l^rinces  ! — and  you  most  valorou< Dobson.  896 

Piisimer!  willuji  these  gloomy  walls  close  pent. ..Garrison.  C14 

Prune  thou  thy  words ././/.  Xewnian.  571 

Pshaw !  away  with  leaf  and  berry Hood.  513 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair Tonson.    44 

Queen  of  fresh  flowers Heber.  365 


PACK 

Rarely,  rarely  comest  thou Shelley.  426 

Reed  of  the  stagnant  waters Higginsun.  792 

Reflected  in  the  lake  I  love Townshend.  5SS 

Rejoice,  ye  heroes Tatfonrd.  470 

lieligion,  which  true  policy  befriends Mrs.  Phillips.  119 

Remember  thee?    Yes,  while  there's  life Moore.  347 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow Goldsmith.  199 

Reliie:— the  world  shut  out ' Young.  138 

Rise,  rise  !  Lowland  and  Highland  men Imlah,  526 

Rise,  then,  Aristo's  son,  assist  my  Muse Henry  More,  105 

River  is  ti me  in  water ;  as  it  came Ilolyday.    59 

River  !  river  !  little  river Mrs.  Southey.  388 

Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me Toplady.  224 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep ^/;-.s.  Williird.  384 

Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river Mnngan.  590 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on Gilbert.  871 

Rose-cheeked  Latira,  come Campion.    85 

Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch Mrs.  Grant.  225 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade Holmes.  654 

Sad  is  onr  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going De  Vcre.  728 

Sad  soul,  whom  God,  resuming  what  he  gave. .  Jr.  C,  Roscoe.  787 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,— ah,  bitter  chill  it  was Keats.  48G 

St.  Philip  Keri,  as  old  readings  say liyrom.  1.53 

Saw  ye  my  wee  thing Macneill.  230 

Say  there  !  P'r'ai)S Jhet  Harte.  878 

Say,What  is  Freedom?   What  the  right  orsoids.//.Coien'rf(7e.  498 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised Akenside.  1S6 

Science  may  sneer  at  Faith Hall.  571 

Scion  of  a  mighty  stock A.H.Everett.  412 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet,  critic Wordsworth.  292 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled Burns.  257 

Sea-king's  daughter  from  over  the  sea Tennyson.  681 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness Keats.  495 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ Miss  Procter.  806 

See  how  the  orient  dew Marvell.  113 

See  1  how  Avith  thundering  fiery  feet T.  TayUrr.  251 

Seeing  our  lives  by  Nature  now  are  led McKnight.  900 

Seek  not  the  spirit  if  it  hide Emerson.  592 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love Jtaisnn.    43 

Self-taucrht,  unaided,  poor,  reviled Garrison.  614 

Set  cue  I  fold  my  arms  and  wait Burroughs.  872 

Sliakspcaie,  Detached  Passages  from .33 

Shall  he  whose  birth,  maturity,  and  a;;e Beattie.  220 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  sinumer's  day Shakspeare.    29 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love Wm.  Broirne.    53 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair Wither.    .V2 

She  bounded  o'er  the  graves Mrs.  Gilman.  4.58 

She  comes,  she  comes!  the  sable  thrmie  behold Pope.  1.51 

She  died  in  beauty!  like  a  rose Silh-ry.  630 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view H.  Coleridge.  496 

She  of  whose  soul  if  we  may  say  'twas  gold Donne.    42 

She  passed  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire Locker.  Ill 

She  pulls  a  rose  from  her  rose-tree Piatt.  864 

She  stood  breast-liigh  amid  the  corn Hood.  513 

She  walketh  up  and  down  the  marriage  mart .5.30 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night Byron.  400 

She  was  a  i)hantom  of  delight Wordsworth.  283 

She  was  indeed  a  pretty  little  creature Barker.  372 

She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses Bayly.  602 

Shed  no  tear  !    Oh,  shed  no  tear Keats.  493 

Shining  sickle,  lie  thou  there McGee.  805 

Should  anid  acquaintance  be  forgot Bums.  259 

Shrink  not,  O  human  spirit 528 

"Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John."  fatigued  I  saiil Pope.  144 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more .Shakspeare.    28 

Silence  augmenteth  trrief Grerille.    IS 

Silent  com|)anion8  of  the  lonely  hour Mrs.  Norton.  64S 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye Dyer.  170 

Since,  dean^st  friend,  'lis  your  desire  to  see Cowley.  110 

Since  Nature's  works  be  good,  and  death  doth  ferve.. Sidney.  K! 
Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part  —  Drayton.  24 
Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  th'wgg.. Hannah  More.  230' 

Sing  again  the  song  you  suni-- Curtis.  794 

Sing  aloud  I  Ilis  praise  rehearse Henry  More.  106 

Sinir  lullabies,  as  women  do Gascoigne.      9 

Sink  to  my  heart,  bright  evening  skies Perkins.  688 


954 


IMJEX  OF  FinUT  LINES,  ETC. 


Sir  Marmndtike  wns  a  liearty  kiiijjht George  Culman.  203 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  iiiiiie Leiidcn.  Hid 

Slayer  of  the  winter,  ml  tlioii  here  airain H'.  MurriM.  SC2 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee Uiiut.  B70 

Sleep,  little  baby,  sleep Mis.  SautUcy.  Bid 

Sleep,  love,  sleep Mrs.Juilmn.  "4T 

Sleep  sweetly  iu  your  humble  Ri'iives Timrod.  828 

Sleet,  and  hail,  and  tliuuder. . .'. Hood.  513 

Slow  toilinsj  ujiward  from  the  misty  vale IIol mes.  054 

Slowly  alon<:  the  crowded  street  I  ;,'o ('.A.  Dana.  757 

Slowly  Eu<;laud'8  sun  was  setting ^fl■s.  Thorpe.  935 

Soft  be  thy  sleep  as  mists  that  rest Mrs.  Ilrooks.  475 

Soft  on  the  sunset  sky E.  Cioodale.  942 

So  here  hath  been  dawning Carli/le.  476 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath />'.  U'.  Procter.  3S0 

Soft  ou  this  April  morning T.  Hill.  752 

So  grieves  the  adventurous  merchant Careu:    52 

So  many  years  I've  seen  the  eun Gambold.  538 

Some  day,  some  day  of  days Xora  Perry.  921 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  i)riuces  of  the  land Dryden.  IIS 

Some  love  the  verse  that  like  Maria's  tlows Gilford.  249 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet Timrod.  828 

Songs  are  like  painted  window-panes Duirring.  SIS 

Songs  arc  snug  in  my  mind Curtis.  794 

So  now  my  summer  task  is  ended,  Mary Shelley.  434 

So  pitiful  a  thing  is  Suitor's  stale Spenner.    13 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing. .  .Sora  Perry.  92(1 

Soul,  get  thee  to  the  heart Lanier.  91G 

Soul  of  my  soul,  impart E.  Sargent.  717 

Soul,  The  high-born Akenside.  187 

Soul's  Aspirations,  The Davies.    45 

Speak,  for  thy  servant  hcaieth Mrs.  Howe.  75S 

Speeciiless  sorrow  sat  with  me Miss  Kimball.  857 

Spring  flowers,  spring  birds,  spring  breezes.  ...Montgomery.  304 
Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king. ..iVa«/i.    3S 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air Timrod.  828 

Square  and  rough-hewn Pickering.  362 

StafTa,  I  scaled  thy  summit  hoar Sotheby.  249 

Stand  up — erect !  thou  hast  the  form Gallagher.  O.")! 

Stars,  that  on  your  wondrous  way lane  Taylor.  305 

.'Jtalely  as  bridegroom  to  a  feast Thornhary.  824 

Steer,  hither  steer  your  winged  pines I)';;;.  Krowne.    54 

Step  in,  pray,  Sir  Toby,  my  picture  is  here Lewis.  328 

Slern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God Wordsirorth.  2S3 

Still  here — thou  hast  not  faded Hallam.  695 

Still  sighs  the  world  for  something  new Hoyt.  672 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest .Lonmn.    45 

Still  young  and  fine Vaughan.  107 

Stoop  ti>  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove Willis.  025 

Stop,  mortal,  here  thy  brother  lies Elliott.  362 

Stop  on  the  Appiau  Way ?.lrs.  Stoddard.  804 

Storm  upon  the  mountain Westivood.  729 

Strange  looked  that  lady  old,  reclined Simmoiis.  700 

Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me Phnehc  Cary.  769 

Strength  of  the  beautiful  day /.  Hawthorne.  920 

Strength,  too  !  thou  surly,  and  less  gentle  boast litair.  155 

Strew  all  their  graves  with  flowers Very.  713 

Strive;  yet  I  do  not  jjromise Miss  Procter.  806 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole HInry.  752 

Struggle  not  witl.  thy  life Mrs.  Kemhle.  094 

Suicide:  From  "Ethelstan  " Darley.  370 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blessed Adams.  635 

Swans  sing  before  they  die S.  T.  Coleridge.  555 

Sweet  Auburn  I  loveliest  village  of  the  plain Goldsmith.  195 

Sweet  bard  of  Eltrick's  glen Mrs.  Inglis.  324 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes Herrick.    66 

Sweet  Corrin  I  how  softly Sinivums.  COS 

Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright Herbert.    01 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town Tennyson.  CSO 

Sweet  evening  hour Lyte.  445 

Sweet  flowers  !  that  from  your  humble  beds Gifford.  248 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure  itself  cannot  spoil Vwight.  717 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Virtue  dies Mrs.  Barbanld.  227 

Sweet  letters  of  the  angel  tongue Ballon.  772 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wouldst  charm  my  sight H'.  Jones.  232 

Sweet  tyrant,  love  !  but  hear  me  Jiow J.  Thomson.  B31 

Sweet-voiced  Hope,  thy  flue  discourse Wasson.  787 


Sweeter  than  voices  in  the  scented  hay llonrdillon.  938 

Swift  o'er  the  sunny  grass Mrs.  Dodge.  904 

Swift  through  some  trap  mine  eyes Lanier.  917 

Swifter  far  than  swallow's  flight J.  Aldrich.  C91 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth Simmons.  C90 

Take  back  these  vain  insignia  of  command. .Wr  yl.rfc  y'ere.  394 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear Mason.  V.i'i 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away Beaumont  and  Fletclier.    47 

Tanjzled  I  was  in  Love's  snare Wyatt.      0 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King Herbert.    61 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not Tennyson.  CSS 

Tell  him  I  love  him  yet  Praed.  675 

Tell  me,  friend— as  yon  are  bidden Clarke.  078 

Toll  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind Lovelace.  W.t 

Tell  me,  now,  tny  saddened  soul (^reg.  001 

Tell  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary  form Barker.  742 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow 3f.  Arnold.  7S4 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined Waller,    bs 

That  which  makes  us  have  no  need Crashaw.  101 

The  air  is  while  with  snow-flakes  clinging Payne.  91S 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  {o\Ci... Byron.  403 

The  autumn  time  is  with  us Gallagher.  052 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power Shelley.  435 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing Montgomery.  3u5 

The  birds  are  singing  by  Avon  bridge Bell.  009 

The  birds  must  know :  who  wisely  sings Mrs.  .Jackson.  843 

The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  may Tal.fuurd.  471 

The  blue  waves  gently  kiss  the  strand Fenner.  779 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck Hemans.  44S 

The  bread  of  life  we  bring Waason.  7S0 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high Mrs.  Hemans.  448 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by Verii.  713 

The  bud  is  in  the  bough //.  Smith.  354 

The  bud  will  soon  become  a  flower .  Very.  712 

The  callow  young  were  huddling  in  the  nests .-1.  Smith.  835 

The  ceaseless  hum  of  men,  the  dirty  streets Burleigh.  705 

The  city's  shining  towers Mrs.  Wakejield.  SOI 

Tlie  clouds  are  scudding  across Bayard  Taylor.  807 

The  color  from  tlie  flower  is  gone Shelley.  427 

The  crimson  sun  was  sinking  down Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere.  393 

The  curlew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day Gray.  1S2 

The  curved  strand .' Chadirick.  902 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary Longfellow.  631 

The  day  is  ended  :  ere  I  sink  to  sleep Miss  Kimball.  S5S 

The  day  still  lingers  though  the  sun  is  down Xoyes.  934 

The  day  was  daik,  save  when  the  beam Elliott.  362 

The  days  of  youth  !     The  days  of  glad  ]\{u-'j^n\u..Mc  Knight.  899 

The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk Brainard.  484 

The  dead  leaves  their  rich  mosaics .V.  LonnAllow.  760 

'i'hc  Death  of  Faustus Marlowe.    25 

The  deep  afl'ections  of  the  breast Campbell.  339 

The  despot's  heel  is  ou  thy  slicu'e Itandall.  892 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer's  greenest  grass  Xicnll.  720 

The  evening  star  rose  beauteous Callanan.  409 

The  expense  of  spirit  iu  a  waste  of  shame Shakspcare.    31 

The  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel O'Jieilly.  922 

The  feathered  songster  chanticleer Chattcrton.  239 

The  forces  that  prevail  eternally McKnight.  900 

The  garden  trees  are  busy  with  the  shower Hallam.  0'.i5 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state Shirley.    00 

The  gloom  of  the  sea-fronting  cliffs Dowden.  931 

The  goddess  gasped  for  breat h Hir.'<t.  7 1  s 

The  good— they  drop  around  us /.  Williams.  549 

The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land Browning.  710 

The  groves  of  Blarney Milliken .  272 

The  hands  of  my  watch  point  to  midnight Conant.  8S0 

The  harp  that  once  through  Taras  halls Moore.  340 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed Scott.  302 

The  high-born  soul  disdains  to  rest .iken.'iide.  1S7 

The  honey-bee  that  wanders  all  day  long Mrs.  Botta.  770 

The  hours  are  iiast.  love Mr.').  Kemble.  694 

The  hours  on  the  old  piazza Story.  752 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away B.H.  Dana.  384 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece Byron.  398 

The  .jackdaw  sat  on  the  cardinal's  chair Barham.  405 

The  joy-bells  are  ringing  in  gay  Malahide Griffin.  5S0 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES,  ETC. 


955 


PAGE 

The  king  sits  in  DiuifeiTiiline  town 65 

The  hike  lay  hid  in  mist,  mid  to  the  saud S30 

The  hirk  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky .1.  ISmitli.  SSr> 

The  little  comer's  coming Aird.  f)SO 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last Lowell.  T(i2 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again Southwell.    2:5 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  pre])are Addison.    12S 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day liossetti.  S22 

The  loved  of  early  days li.  Miller.  G'Jl 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close //.  Coleridge  497 

The  mightie>t  of  the  Hebrew  seers Briiant.  46S 

The  morning  breaks  bonny  o'er  monntaiii Thorn.  409 

The  muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime Berkelcij.  13"J 

The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone Byron.  399 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes Uourdillon.  938 

The  night  is  come :  like  to  the  day Sir  T.  Browne.    ST 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower Miss  Ingelow.  S-10 

The  opal-hned  and  many-perfumed  morn 53(5 

The  ordcars  fatal  trumpet  sounded Campbell.  33S 

The  other  shape,  if  shape  it  might  be  called Milton.    90 

The  pilgrim  fathers,  where  are  they Pierponl.  3T9 

The  poetr3'  of  earth  is  never  dead Keats.  493 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room A  Idrich.  803 

The  rain  is  o'er:  how  dense  and  bright Norton.  SSI 

The  rain's  come  at  last 531 

The  reasoning  faculty,  and  that  we  name Merivale.  344 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained Shakspeare.    32 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful,  far,  to  the  eye James.  855 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea Procter.  385 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast Lontrfelloiv.  633 

The  silver  moon's  enamored  beam /.  Cunningham.  '2(i4 

The  sky  is  bright— the  breeze  is  fair Moore.  350 

The  sluggish  smoke  cnils  up Thoreau.  745 

The  soul  leai>s  up  to  hear  this  mighty  sound Calvert.  5!il 

The  soul  of  man  is  hirger  thau  the  skj' H.  Coleridge.  497 

The  spacious  Armament  on  high Addisun.  128 

The  spearmen  heard  ihe  bugle  sound Spencer.  295 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls Ten7iyson.  CSS 

The  spring  is  here— the  delicate-footed  May Willis.  625 

The  stars  shed  a  dreamy  light Hosmer.  731 

The  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes Wilcox.  402 

The  summer  sun  was  sinking Anstcr.  442 

The  snn  descending  in  the  west Blake.  250 

The  sun  has  gane  down Tannahill.  324 

The  sun  is  careering  in  glory  and  might Miss  Mit/ord.  382 

The  sun  is  up,  and  'tis  a  morn  of  May Hunt.  S71 

The  sun  is  up  betimes A.C.  Cnxe.  750 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear Shelley.  422 

'i'he  sun  sank  low  ;  beyond  the  harbor  bar Collier.  917 

Tlie  sun  sets  in  niglit Mrs.  Anne  Uunter.  225 

Tlie  sunshine  of  thine  eyes Lathrop.  937 

Tile  sweetest  flower  that  ever  saw  the  light Al/ord.  692 

The  tattoo  beats,  the  lights  are  gone If.  Jt.  Jackson.  77S 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my Brainard.  4S5 

The  time  will  come  full  soon Mrs.  Moulton.  863 

The  trees  are  barren,  cold,  and  biown D.  R.  Goodale.  942 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine Moore.  340 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds  flew  by Mrs.  Welhij.  779 

The  very  pulse  of  ocean  now  was  still E.  Sargent.  710 

The  vicomte  is  wearing  a  brow  of  gloom Durivagc.  727 

The  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem Wither.    51 

The  waters  are  flashing Shelley.  423 

The  waves  came  moaning  up  the  shore Collier.  91S 

The  waves  of  light  are  drifting Robbim.  707 

The  weather-leech  of  the  top-sail  shivers Mitchell.  813 

The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  Ihe  West Ilnrney.  853 

The  Wind  one  mornini;  s))rang  up  from  sleep Howilt.  4S3 

The  world  is  too  mnch  with  us Wordsworth.  292 

The  world  may  change  from  old  to  new Mrs.  Adams.  (;09 

The  world  of  nnUler,  with  its  various  fiirms Voung.  137 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever  now Shakspeare.    30 

Then  Shakspeare  rose Spragne.  415 

Then  the  master,  with  a  L'esture  ofcommand. .  .Lonn/eHoiP.  029 

Then  welcome,  Death  !  thy  dreaded  harbingers A'oung.  137 

There  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make C.  Cotton.  114 

There  came  three  men  out  of  Ihe  West 75 

There  came  to  the  beach Campbell.  337 


PJkGK 

There  hangs  a  sabre,  and  there  a  rein , Durivage.  72T 

There  have  been  poets  that  in  verse  display...//.  Coleridge.  497 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face A  tinon.    22 

There  is  a  glorious  ciiy  in  the  sea Rogers.  26S 

"I'here  is  a  happy  land A.  i'oung.  65S 

There  is  a  saucy  rogue  well  known Coimnt.  S80 

There  is  May  in  books  forever Hunt.  371 

There  is  no  death  ;  the  common  end Wcntz.  9U3 

There  is  no  remedy  for  time  misspent iJc  Vere.  3'.i3 

There  is  no  unbelief 550 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world Moore.  345 

There  lives  a  young  lassie Imlah.  520 

There  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock Ludlow.  S.S3 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied Whittier.  637 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar 157 

There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Leith Maginn.  440 

There  was  a  season  when  the  fabled  name Keats.  492 

There  was  a  slumberous  silence  in  the  air Home.  581 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night Btjron.  390 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and...  Wordsworth.  289 

There  was  never  a  castle  seen Hay.  894 

There  was  not  on  that  day  a  speck  to  stain Sonthey.  321 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city Thackeray.  090 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r 77 

Thereof  it  comes  that  these  fair  souls  which  have.  .Spenser.    13 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys Maclcay.  725 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse Xoel.  52T 

There's  uever  an  always  cloudless  sky Savage.  910 

These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  good Milton.    97 

These  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these Thomson.  107 

These  songs  of  mine,  the  best  that  I  have  sung Stoddard.  803 

These  times  touch  moneyed  worldlings Wordsworth.  294 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light Vaughan.  107 

They  are  flown,  beautiful  fictions Carrington.  341 

They  gave  mo  advice  and  counsel Heine,  by  Martin.  740 

They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side Mrs.  Hemans.  447 

They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die Southey.  320 

They  speak  of  never-withering  shades Mrs.  Barbauld.  227 

They  tell  me  first  and  early  love Heddcricick.  729 

They  tell  us,  love,  that  you  and  1 547 

They  were  two  princes  doomed  to  death Mrs.  Piatt.  805 

They'll  talk  of  him  for  years  to  come Mahony.  599 

Things  of  high  import  snuiid  I  in  thine  ears E.  Pcabody.  623 

Think  in  how  poor  a  prison  thou  didst  lie Donne.    42 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude Emerson.  593 

Think  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big J.  A.  Alexander.  667 

Think  upon  Death  ;  'tis  good  to  think //.  Coleridge.  498 

Think  you  I  choose  or  that  or  this  to  sing Dowden.  932 

This  day  beyond  all  contradiction Praed.  575 

This  figure  that  thou  here  seest  put Jonson.    44 

This  gentleman  and  I Hcywood.    36 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was Jios.tetti.  822 

This  is  my  little  sweetheart  dead Xora  Perry.  920 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl Holmes.  654 

This  motley  piece  to  you  I  send M.  Green.  154 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie Cowley.  lU 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle.  ..Shakspeare.    32 

This  sweet  child  which  hath  climbed Real/.  859 

This  world  a  hunting  is Drunimond.    50 

This  world  I  deem Whytehead.  701 

Thou  art  the  rest,  the  languor  sweet Mrs.  Conant.  895 

Thoii  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew Bryant,  467 

I'hou  must  not  niidervalne  what  thou  hast Chapman.    19 

Thou  say's-t,  my  fiiend  (Sonnet) E.  Sargent.  717 

Thou  still  niiravished  bride  of  quietness Keats.  495 

Thon  who  didst  deny  to  me Vaughan.  10-i 

Thou  who  didst  put  to  flight i'tmng.  135 

Though  haid  surroundings,  like  unsparing  (oes..  Me  Knight.  699 

Though  short  thy  space Canning.  276 

Though  when  I  loved  thee  thou  wert  fair Stanley.  114 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech Cranch.  714 

Those  evening  bidls  !  those  evening  bells Moore.  347 

Those  we  love  truly  never  die O'Reilly.  922 

Thou  art  coine  from  the  spirits'  land Mrs.  Hemans.  449 

'J'hou  art  my  morniii;:,  twilight,  noon,  and  eve Lathrop.  937 

Thou  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  liu'lit Moore.  348 

Thon  art  plucking  si)ring  loses,  Genie Mrs.  Fletcher.  5CS 


956 


IMJEX   OF  I'lKST  LI.\E;S,  ETC. 


PAOR 

Thou  linppy,  liappy  elf flond.  513 

Thou  liiijjfiiii",'  hlar,  with  lesseniiij,'  lay /itirns.  'J59 

Thou  ><!iy'st,  "  'J'ake  up  thy  cross  " J>al<irnve.  796 

Thou  siufjest  by  ihc  gk-amiiij;  isles Mdrich.  SUT 

Thou  that  (Irawesl  aside  the  curlaiii I  lice  Can/.  T09 

Tliou  wilt  never  grow  old Mrn.  Howarth.  547 

Thou  wouldst  be  loved?— Ilieu  let  thy  licMit I'oe.  005 

'J'hree  days  lhroui;h  .sapphire  seas  we  wii led Ilrownell.  773 

Three  tishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West KinfjMvy.  705 

Three,  only  three,  my  darling b'At 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's  ha' 664 

Through  every  age A kennide.  1S7 

Through  love  to  light !    Oh,  wonderful Gitder.  924 

Throughout  the  world,  if  it  were  sought Wi/nlt.      0 

Throw  thyself  on  ihy  God Ileinrlicl.  441 

Thus  doth  Beauty  dwell Akeimde.  187 

Thus  far  have  1  |)ursiied  my  solemn  Iheuie //.  K.  White.  877 

Thus  it  fell  upon  a  nisht Oowcr.      3 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream Lofinn.  234 

Thy  cheek  is  o'  the  rose's  hue Gall.  330 

Thy  memory  as  a  spell ilacniah.  573 

Thy  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays Walker.  409 

Thy  will  be  done,  Almighty  God Mr-f.  McCiird.  674 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright Dlake.  250 

Time  hall;,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back Shakspearc.    31 

Time  moveih  not ;  our  being 'tis U.K.  White.  377 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter-time Emstvmn.  738 

'Tis  Autumn,  and  my  steps I.  II.  /lii/ant.  627 

'Tis  gone,  that  bright  and  orbed  blaze Kcble.  437 

'Tis  morn  :  the  sea-breeze  seems  to  bring Prentice.  57S 

'Tis  not  every  day  that  I Herrick.    54 

'Tis  not  for  golden  eloquence  I  i)ray F.  Tennyxnn.  617 

'Tis  strange  what  awkward  tigures Hood.  511 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  the  pure,  ethereal  being Ilarham.  407 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  live  to  sis /.  Smith.  330 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer Monre.  348 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night Drake.  473 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood Hayne.  849 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved Bijron.  400 

'Tis  Winter,  cold  and  rude Cowper.  212 

To  bring  a  cloud  upon  the  summer  day. ...   Tai/lor.  507 

To-day,  what  is  there  in  the  air Marzials.  926 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspcare,  on  thy  name Jon.mn.    43 

To  France  trudged  homeward  two  grenadiers.  .C  7'.  Brooks.  711 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds Bryant.  404 

To  learned  Athens,  led  by  fame Mrx.  Bttrbaiild.  227 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  naught .}fangan.  590 

To  Loudon,  once  my  steps  I  bent Ltidijate.      4 

To  sea  !  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er Beddoes.  591 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  1  relire Sheiistone.  182 

To  the  oceau  now  I  fly Milton.  1<»0 

To  the  sages  who  spoke,  to  the  heroes Spraqnc.  415 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art Pope.  150 

To  whom  our  Saviour  calmly  thus  replied Milton.    98 

To  whom  the  wingi'd  hier.irch  replied Miltun.    9S 

To  thine  eternal  arms,  O  God Hiiiqini>on.  791 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight Chaucer.      2 

To  you  the  beauties  of  the  autumnal  year Sonthey.  323 

Toll  for  the  brave Cowper.  214 

To-morrow,  didst  thou  s.iy S.  Cotton.  175 

Too  feebly  nerved  for  so  severe  a  trial. .  .Sir  Robert  de  I'ere.  393 

Too  soon  so  fair,  fair  lilies ^frn.  Webnter.  913 

Too  lovely  and  too  early  lost O.  IC.  B.  Peabody.  524 

Too  late  I  stayed,— forgive  the  crime .Spencer.  295 

Too  young  thou  art  to  re.id .V/m.  McCord.  070 

Touch,  for  your  life,  no  single  viand  costly Minn  Preston.  919 

Touch  once  more  a  sober  measure Lockhart.  453 

Touch  us  gently,  Time />.  H'.  Procter.  3'^6 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men Wordsirorth.  293 

"Trailor?"    I  go— but  I  return Croly.  358 

Tramp!  tramp!  tramp!  tramp! H.  B.Sarcieut  778 

Tread  soft iy— bow  the  head Mrn.  Southey.  391 

Triumphal  arch,  that  Jill'st  the  sky Campbell.  339 

True  happiness  had  no  localities Pollok.  517 

True  il  is  that  clouds  and  mist 540 

True  Poet  !  — Back,  thou  dreamer Linton.  704 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel Tennyson.  0S4 


'Twas  amid  a  scene  of  blood  Charlton,  li-i 

"I'was  April  ;  'twas  Sunday J.  /•'.  Clarke.  t7S 

"I'w.is  at  the  royal  feast  for  I'ersia  won iJryden.  115 

'Twas  the  day  when  God's  Anoin:ed Uedf/e.  613 

"I'was  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  mountain's Boirlen.  205 

'Twas  morn  :  the  rising  splendor  rolled Croly.  867 

'Twas  the  day  beside  the  Pyramids Thornbury.  824 

'Twasthe  night  before  Christmas C.C.Moore.  351 

'Twas  whispered  in  heaven,  'twas Min.1  FanaUarce.  530 

Twelve  years  ago,  1  knew  thee,  Knowles Lamb.  327 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matfliew  Lee li.  IL  Dana.  384 

'Twas  needful  that  with  life  of  low  degree McKni'jht-  900 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  i)lain Thompnon.  7S9 

Two  went  to  pray  ?    Oh,  rather  say Craahaw.  102 

Under  the  stormy  skies,  whose  wan Minn  Barr.  939 

Lender  lliis  stone  dolli  lie Villiers.  502 

Undernealh  this  sable  hearse Jonnon.  45 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn Campbell.  340 

Unlike  those  feeble  gales  of  praise Moore.  34S 

irnmercifiil !  whose  oflice  teacheth  mercy Knouhn.  457 

Up  from  the  meadows  i ich  with  corn Whittier.  036 

Up  from  tlie  South  at  break  of  day Head.  781 

Up!  pilgrim  and  rover,  redouble  Ihy  haste Cronicell.  003 

Upon  God's  throne  there  is  a  seat  for  me Craitch.  714 

Upon  the  hill  he  turned Bayly.  601 

Upon  the  white  sca-saud Frances  Brown.  741 

Vane,  young  in  years,  but  in  sage  counsel  old Milton.  99 

Various  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms Crabbe.  245 

"Venice  Preserved,"  Scene  from Oticay.  121 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp Wyatt.      0 

"  Virginius,"  Knowles's,  Scene  fri)m 456 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame Pope.  146 

Wake  from  thy  nzure  ocean-bed 64'* 

Wake  not,  O  mother!  sounds  of  lamentation Heber.  803 

Wake  now,  my  Love,  awake ;  for  it  is  time Spenser.    10 

Walk  with  the  be.auiiful Bitrrinnton.  551 

W'as  ever  sorrow  like  to  our  sorrow Lady  Wilde.  842 

Waves,  waves,  ^vaves  ! 11'.  vl  lexander.  797 

'Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  Kibber Foster.  810 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep Procter.  3!S0 

We  are  living— we  are  dwelling A.C.  Coxe.  75(t 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I Trowbridge.  820 

We  be  soldiers  three 104 

We  break  tlie  glass  whose  sacred  wine Pinkney.  573 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest Holmes.  656 

We  every-day  bards  may  "  .4  nonymons  "  sign J.  Smith.  3:iO 

We  have  met  again  to-night Everett  Peabody.  622 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair Sirinbnnw.  873 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  mom ,4  Idrich.  868 

We  know  not  what  it  is,  dear Mrs.  Dodfje,  904 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years Bailey.  735 

We  sail  tow.ird  evening's  lonely  star .l/r.x.  Thaxt  r.  862 

We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep Tenny.ton.  6SS 

We  see  them  not— we  cannot  fear Ilaicker.  5"*5 

We  talked  with  o|)en  heart  and  tongue Wordsworth.  2S5 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night Hood.  514 

We  were  not  many,  we  who  stood IIofTman.  617 

Weaiy  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking .1/.  Arnold.  7S3 

Webster's  "  Duchess  of  Malti,"  Scenes  from 34 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  tlower Burn.i.  257 

Wee  Willie  Winkie W.  Miller.  692 

Weep  nut  for  me /.  //.  .Winnan.  572 

Well  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies McLcllan.  09;i 

Weie  I  as  base  as  is  (be  lowly  plain Sylvester.    23 

What  action  wouldst  thou  wish  to  have  in  hand  . .  Chapman.     19 

What  can  a  poor  man  do  but  love  and  i)ray H.  Coleridge.  498 

What  constiluies  a  State Sir  Wm.  Jones.  232 

What  dost  thou  bring  tome  Mrs.  Dorr.  809 

What  dost  thou  see,  lone  watcher  on  the  tower Mackay.  724 

Wh.-it  dream  of  beauty  ever  equalled  this Howitt.  483 

What  heartache— ne'er  a  hill Lanier.  917 

What  is  hope  ?     A  smiling  rainbow Carlyle.  475 

What  is  that,  mother Doane.  51S 

What  makes  a  hero  ?_not  success //.  Taylor.  565 

What  needs  my  Shak.speare  for  bis  liuuored Xiou^s... Milton.    99 


IXDEX  OF  FIBST  LINES,  ETC. 


957 


PAGE 

Wli;it  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  cau  destroy Pope.  14T 

What  siicrilice  of  tlianks licauuwnt  ami  Fletcher.    43 

What  shall  I  do  lest  life  in  ^ilence  pass  639 

What  shall  I  do  to  be  forever  known Coioley.  110 

What's  hallowed  gronnd  ?    Has  earth  a  clod Campbell.  333 

What's  this  dull  town  to  me Ladij  Keppel.  220 

What  stars  have  faded  from  our  sky C.C.  Cox.  737 

What  tlioiigli  I  sing  no  other  song Winter.  870 

What  though, Valclusa,  the  fond  bard  be  fled RtiKsell.  2G6 

Wiu'U  all  is  done  and  said Lord  Vaux.      7 

When  all  tliy  meicies,  O  my  (>od Addison.  127 

When  Britain  liisl,  at  Heaven's  command Thomson.  160 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay Byron.  404 

When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears Li/ttelton.  177 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view Canninri.  276 

When  Faith  and  Love,  which  parted  from  thee  never.il/j7ton.  lOO 
When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands. . . .  Wordsworth.  291 

When  gathering  clouds  are  darkly  round Mrs.  Sewall.  75S 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train E.  Everett.  459 

When  I  a  verse  shall  make Herrick.    57 

When  I  beneath  the  cold,  red  earth  am  s.\eepiug.MotherweU.  5iil 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent Milton.    99 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved tScott.  301 

When  I  was  bound  apprentice 150 

When  I  was  still  a  youthful  wight Goethe.  SIS 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall Shakspeare.    29 

When  Lettie  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad  year.. ri«-ner.  G50 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings Lovelace.  109 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young Collins.  190 

When  Philocteies  in  the  Lemnian  isle Wordsworth.  203 

Wlien  Robin  Hood  in  the  greenwood  lived 79 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again 15S 

When  the  British  warrior-queen Cowpcr.  211 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me 542 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover Kinney.  Sll 

M'hen  the  hunter's  moon  is  waning Mrs.  Mace.  SC6 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld A  line  Barnard.  230 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray Parsons.  759 

W'hen  to  my  Charles  this  book  I  send Lewis.  32S 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought . .  .Shakspeare.    29 

When  we  two  parted Byron.  403 

When  wliispering  strains  with  creeping  wind Strode.    01 

When  Yankees,  skilled  in  martial  rule Trumbull.  237 

When  youthful  faith  hath  fled Lockhart.  454 

AVhereas  in  ward  full  oft  I  would James  I.  of  Scotland.      5 

Where  is  the  sea  ?— I  languish  here Mrs.  Hemans.  451 

\\here  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I Shakspeare.    28 

AVhere  now,  where,  O  spirit  pure Crunch.  715 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray Miss  Paye.  8S7 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear Macdonald.  797 

^\'here  dost  thou  careless  lie Johnson.    44 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride Marvell.  Ill 

Where  waitest thou E.Arnold.  S52 

Where,  where  will  be  the  birds  that  sing W.  G.  Brown.  546 

Where,  then,  shall  Hope  and  Fear ,S'.  Johnson.  170 

AVherever  I  wander,  up  and  about Buchanan.  907 

Which  I  wish  to  remark Harte.  S79 

While  roses  are  so  red Mi.'<s  Rossetti.  S34 

While  thee  I  seek,  jirotecting  Power J/m  Williams.  262 

White-capped  waves  far  round  the  ocean Clarke.  673 

Mho  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys Tennyson.  605 

Whoe'er  she  be Craskaw.  101 

Who  caris  for  nothing  alone  is  free Winter.  889 

WhoisSilvia?     What  is  she ShakK]>eare.    23 

Who  is  the  hapi)y  warrior  ?     Who  is  he Woidxworth.  2S4 

Who  seeketh  finds:  what  shall  be  his  relief Shairp.  768 

Wlio  will  say  the  world  is  dying Kinysley.  765 

Who  will  tell  me  the  secret,  the  cause De  Kay.  933 

Whose  imp  art  thou,  with  dimi)led  cheek Miss  Baillie.  26G 

Why  are  you  wandering  here,  I  pray Kenney.  359 

Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death. ..Massiiiger.    48 

Why  does  your  brand  sac  drap  wi'  Idnde S3 

Why  doubt,  then,  the  glorious  truth  to  sing Yonny.  137 

Why  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid  spleen Ilaiine.  843 

Why  should  vain  mortals  tremble  at  the  sight  of Silcs.  223 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone Kcble.  438 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover Stu-kiing.  1C3 


W'hy  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing Mrs.  Sewall.  757 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie .Scott.  300 

Wild  rose  of  Alioway  '.  my  thanks llalleck.  478 

Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor Mary  llinoitt.  597 

Winds  of  the  north  I  restrain  your  icy  gales Darwin.  206 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods Wilde.  412 

Wings  have  we— and  as  far  as  we  can  go Wordsuorth.  294 

•  With  deep  aflection  and  recollection Maliony.  599 

With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn Wordsworth.  287 

With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled Wordsworth.  292 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn Leyden.  320 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  tret's Head.  782 

Without  your  showers Freneau.  244 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king Mrs.  Xortun.  C4S 

Would  that  thou  wert  more  strong Griffin.  604 

Would  you  be  young  again Baroness  yairne.  271 

Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say Jonson.    45 

Wile,  who  in  thy  deep  devotion Rockwell.  028 

With  all  thy  country's  blessings  on  thy  \K;\i\. .  Mrs.  Stockton.  549 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn Hood.  509 

With  thine  compared,  O  soveieign  Poesy Townshend.  588 

Within  a  thick  and  sjjreading  hawthorn-bush Clare.  452 

Within  the  garden  ofBeaucaire Stedman.  854 

W' ithout  haste,  without  rest C.C.  Cox.  737 

When  spring  comes  laughing  Dobson.  SyO 

M'hen  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark,  swelling  flood. Z>re»iHe«.  543 

When  I  attain  to  utier  forth  in  verse Mrs.  Browitiny.  070 

When  I  consider,  as  I'm  forced  to  do Weeks.  898 

When  the  vast  heaven  is  dark Fane.  S22 

When  the  old  flaming  Prophet Cartwriyht.  556 

Where  art  thou  loveliest,  O  Nature,  tell Barnes.  073 

W'here  is  IMiss  Myrtle,  can  any  one  tell Praed.  574 

\\  hen  I  was  a  boy — I'm  an  old  man  now Miss  Vandyne.  940 

Where  art  thou,  wood-dove  of  Hesperian  climes Hosiner.  731 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelling. , Gailayher.  651 

When  a'  ither  bairn ies  are  hushed Thorn.  409 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around..  .L.  M.  Davidson.  643 
When  first  I  looked  into  thy  glorious  eyes. .  .Mrs.  Whitman.  583 

W^hen  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height Drake.  472 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze Mary  Uowitt.  598 

When  V'ulcan  cleft  the  laboring  brain W.  R.  Hamilton.  613 

Wlience  dost  thou  come  to  me Percival.  483 

Who  is  it  knocks  this  stormy  uight Blood.  897 

Who  was  it  that  so  lately  said Trench.  641 

When  that  Phcebus  his  chair  of  gold  so  high Chancer.      1 

When  the  mild  weather  came E.  Sargent.  71G 

Where  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I  started 541 

With  diamond  dew  the  grass  was  wet Winter.  S69 

With  his  gnarled  old  arms H.  R.  Jackson.  770 

With  no  fond  sickly  thirst  for  fame Mrs.  E.  O.Smith.  619 

With  all  their  misery,  with  all  their  sin Gilbert.  871 

With  the  same  letter  heaven  and  home  begin V'ery.  712 

Woods,  waters,  have  a  charm  to  soothe  the  ear Simms.  013 

Worn  with  ihe  battle,  by  Stamford  town Cvllyer.  793 

Why  should  /  sing?   The  scenes  which  vowsciX..  M.Davidson.  645 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die Gosse.  926 

Ye  banks  and  braos  and  streams  around Bnrns.  25S 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon Bnrns.  261 

Ye  braves  of  the  Ancient  League McMaster.  S31 

Ye  crags  and  i)eaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again Knowles.  457 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers Gray.  184 

Ye  gentle  birds,  that  i)erch  aloof Ilayley.  2.-50 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England Parker.  .164 

Ye  glasse  was  at  my  lippe LeiyUt/m.  7S5 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell Doddridge.  171 

Ye  hasten  to  the  dead  I  what  seek  ye  there Shelley.  433 

Ye  heavy-hearted  mariners 11'.  K.  Chnnning.  744 

Ye  mariners  of  England Caoqibcll.  332 

Ye  orbs  that  tremble  through  infinity Toicnshend.  58^ 

Y'e  say  they  all  have  passed  away Mrs.  Sigonrmy.  419 

Ye  Sons  of  Columbia,  who  bravely  have  fought Paine.  318 

Y'e  stars,  which  are  the  i)oetry  of  heaven Byron.  395 

Ye  who  think  the  truth  ye  sow. 537 

Ye  who  would  save  your  features  florid II.  Smith.  353 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  beating  high Keble.  433 

Yes,  happy  friend,  the  cross  was  thine Wi.liams.  707 


958 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES,  ETC. 


VAOB 

Yes,  still  I  love  tliee  !    Time,  who  sets Dawen.  5b'J 

Yes,  visions  of  his  fiiliire  rest O.  II'.  U.  Pcabody.  5'J3 

Yet  I  conless  in  this  my  iiil'^iim.i^je Wither.  51 

Yet  Hope,  cast  back  on  loeliiii;,  argues  thus Sinnontln.  912 

"Yet  life,"' you  say,  "is  life" Wurdnwirrth.  294 

Yet  once  more,  oh  ye  laurels,  and  once  more Milton.  93 

Yet  one  Rmilc  more,  departing,  distant  sun Ilryant.  403 

Yon  car  of  Iiic>,  though  veiled  by  day G.  Lnnt.  621 

Yonder  is  a  little  drum,  hanging  on  the  wall JernAd.  5S4 

You  have  outrun  your  fortune Lytton.  OUO 


TAGS 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Ba wn Lover.  6(>7 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  niglit Wtitton,    39 

You  bid  me  try,  liluc-eycs,  to  write habmn.  896 

Your  lower  limbs  seemed  far  from  stout J.  Smith.  320 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be Coleridge.  31T 

Youth,  that  piirsuest  with  such  eager  pace Milnes.  059 

Youth,  thou  art  (led,  but  where  are  all  the  charms.//.  Co/cnyi/e.  497 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Kalisbon lirmoning.  710 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet'.s  name Tcnni/Mon.  GS2 

You've  wovcu  roses  rouud  my  way Mra.Onfjood.  7l»8 


THE  END. 


^„  INITIAI.  F^^  °ir.o  S 

^  i^sSESSED  FOR  ""^'^""thE  PENALTY 
Z'^slooTol  -%rJEN?s  ON  -E  FOURTH 
d.NCR^SETOjO^CEN^^^    ^^^^^,„     ,,V 

DAY     AND    TO    $'•«  ^^^^____ 

OVERDUE.  ' 


YD  278C3 


